Part 26 (1/2)

He looked at his hands; the liver spots had disappeared, and his cracked nails had smoothed out again. His knuckles, grotesquely swollen last night, were their normal size, and the skin on his fingers was that of a man in his late forties.

Rising from the sofa, he crossed to the mirror over the fireplace and stared in relief at his own reflection. His face had smoothed out; only the small crow's-feet around the corners of his eyes remained. His eyes, dull and sunken only hours ago, looked perfectly normal, and when he spoke, there was no trace left of the crackling rasp that was all he'd been able to manage when he'd arrived at Phillips's house a few hours earlier. He breathed deeply, feeling the rush of air into his lungs, then released his breath in a long clear sigh. He turned, grinning. ”It worked. I feel great again.”

”Of course it worked,” Phillips replied. ”It's worked for twenty years-why wouldn't it work now?” Without waiting for a reply, he began issuing orders to the deputy. ”Jenny Sheffield is in the bathroom upstairs. You're going to use the radio in your car to call the hospital and tell them you found her in the ca.n.a.l and you're bringing her in.”

Duval shook his head. ”Wouldn't do that. I'd call for the medics. It's procedure.”

Phillips's lips curled in a thin smile. ”If she's already dead?”

The deputy stared at the doctor numbly. ”You killed her?”

The doctor tilted his head toward the stairs in the foyer. ”Why don't you go take a look, and tell me what you think.”

Duval hesitated, but left the library, and with Phillips following behind, mounted the stairs. When he came to the landing, he glanced uncertainly around.

”Second door on the left,” Phillips said.

Duval moved down the hall, hesitated, then opened the door to the bathroom. For a moment he saw nothing, but then his eyes gravitated to the tub.

It was filled, a layer of ice cubes floating on the surface. But beneath the translucent ice he could make out the form of a body.

Jenny's body, clad in jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt, her hair floating around her head in the form of a grotesque halo.

”Holy Jesus,” Duval whispered, gazing in shock at the face that peered up from beneath the water's surface. He dropped down to his knees and pushed the ice cubes aside.

She lay on her back, her empty eyes wide in a pale, bluish face. Duval blinked, and instinctively reached for the body, intending to lift it out of the tub.

”Not yet,” Warren Phillips snapped. ”Not until you know exactly what you're going to do.”

Duval, his eyes still fixed on the body in the tub, spoke numbly. ”The ca.n.a.l,” he repeated, the words coming slowly as he tried to grasp what Phillips had done. It was wrong-he'd brought Jenny Sheffield as the price of his shot. She wasn't supposed to be killed-Phillips needed her! ”I was on my way to work, and I found her in the ca.n.a.l. I don't need an ambulance-she's dead already.”

”That's right,” Phillips told him. ”And you take her to the morgue, just like you would any other body.”

Duval nodded.

”All right,” Phillips went on. ”We're ready.”

Duval reached into the icy water and lifted Jenny's limp body, cradling it in his arms as he stood up. Phillips held the door open, and Duval carried her out to the hallway, then down the stairs and through the back door. Outside, Phillips held the door open while Duval laid Jenny onto the backseat.

”Go,” Phillips said, his voice low, but leaving no room for disobedience. ”Keep your lights off, and get to the ca.n.a.l as fast as you can. Then make the call, turn on your lights and siren, and head for the hospital. And one more thing, Judd.”

Judd turned in the predawn darkness to face Phillips. ”Tell them to call me. Tell them who it is, and tell them to call me.”

Duval's brows creased into an uncertain frown. ”But she's dead,” he began. ”They'd call Hatfield.”

”They will, Judd. But I want them to call me, too. After all,” he added, a cold smile twisting his lips once more, ”I'm her doctor, right?”

Judd Duval, his mind still not fully comprehending what Phillips had done, nodded. A few seconds later, the lights of the squad car switched off, he disappeared into the darkness.

When the phone rang in Warren Phillips's house, he waited until the sixth ring before he picked up the extension by his bed. And when he spoke, his voice was groggy, as though he'd just been roused from a sound sleep.

”Phillips,” he mumbled.

”Dr. P?” Jolene Mayhew's voice was brittle with tension. ”Dr. P, it's Jolene. We need you down here right away! At the clinic!”

”Jolene?” Phillips repeated, as if not quite grasping who it was. ”What time is it? It must be the middle of-”

”It's almost dawn, Dr. P. It's Jenny Sheffield. Judd Duval just called. Dr. P, he found her in the ca.n.a.l. He says she's dead.”

”I'll be right there!” Phillips snapped, dropping the sleepiness from his voice, knowing that Jolene's words would have brought him wide awake instantly.

He hung up the phone, then quickly changed his clothes, pulling on khakis and a polo s.h.i.+rt, stuffing his bare feet into a pair of tennis shoes. Less than two minutes after Jolene's call, he was on his way, arriving at the hospital just as Judd Duval was helping Jolene and the night orderly load Jenny's body onto a gumey.

The ring of the Andersons' phone shattered the tense silence that hung over the living room of Carl Anderson's house. Mary Anderson and Barbara Sheffield glanced at each other. It wasn't until Michael, forbidden by his mother to join the men as they began hunting for Jenny, moved to the phone, that Barbara spoke. ”No!” she said, her voice sharp. ”Let Mary get it.”

Michael sank back onto the sofa where he'd been sitting with Kelly, and watched as Mary quickly crossed to the phone, picking up the receiver on the third ring. Her face paled as she listened, then she spoke. ”I'll bring Barbara right away. The men are still out looking...No, I'm not sure where. They were going to start by the ca.n.a.l...All right.” She slowly hung up the receiver, then turned to face Barbara, tears streaking her cheeks.

Barbara closed her eyes for a moment, steeling herself in preparation for the words she knew Mary was about to utter.

Her fault.

Whatever had happened-and she was certain it was bad-was her fault.

She'd known it almost from the instant she'd found Kelly's empty bed. In that first eternal moment of terror, she had heard her own words echoing in her mind.

Maybe Jenny and I should have gone looking for her.

Her own words.

As the words rang in her head, she'd known what had happened. Jenny hadn't been asleep at all. Instead, she'd crept out of bed and sneaked back onto the landing to listen.

She had heard what Barbara herself had said.

And gone looking for Kelly.

How long had she been gone?

Hours, certainly.

Craig had called Tim Kitteridge, finding the police chief at his desk, and explained what had happened. Then, while Kitteridge began reorganizing the plans he'd been making through the long night, Craig, Ted, and Carl had gone out once more. Craig had insisted that it would be all right, that this time, at least, they didn't have to worry about the swamp.

Even in broad daylight, and with her father in the boat with her, Jenny hated the swamp. Her child's imagination saw alligators and snakes everywhere; to her the swamp was a place where every living thing was a threat, and when her friends told her stories of other things that might live there-ogres and ghosts, zombies and witches-she sometimes lay awake all night, afraid even to sleep for fear of dreaming about the swamp.

”She'll stay by the ca.n.a.l,” Craig had insisted. ”You know how she is-I had to take her to Judd Duval's house myself last year and prove to her that Judd isn't a witch. She's probably hiding somewhere, three blocks away, too terrified of the dark even to come back here.”

Barbara had tried to believe her husband's words, but after he'd left with Ted and Carl, she'd sat silently, certain in her heart that something dreadful had happened to her daughter, and that it was her own words that had sent the little girl out into the night.

At last she forced herself to face Mary Anderson. ”What is it?” she asked. ”What's happened?”

Mary crossed to her, crouching down by the chair in which she sat, and took her hand. ”It was Tim Kitteridge,” she said. ”He just heard a call from Judd Duval. H-He's found Jenny.”