Part 31 (1/2)

”Dad?” he called out. ”Dad, it's me!”

He glanced toward the closed door of the office at the far end of the trailer, then turned the other way, toward the small kitchen where he and his father usually sat conferring with the site supervisor over c.o.kes, feeling more relaxed around the Formica table than they did around the desk in the office.

”Dad?” Ted called again as he stepped into the kitchen, half expecting to find his father already at the table, poring over drawings, checking specifications against lists of supplies on hand.

The kitchen was empty.

He gazed out the window, over the golf course that was in the first phases of construction.

Nothing.

He turned away from the window, moving back through the trailer toward the closed office door.

Hearing his son's heavy tread, Carl Anderson realized it had been a mistake coming here. He should have simply driven on past the site and kept going until he'd come to a motel.

He could have checked into one of those anonymous tourist courts along the highway, staying out of sight for a few hours until the shot Phillips had given him did its work.

But it was early, and the site had been deserted, and he'd decided to stop for a few minutes to leave some instructions for Ted.

And now Ted was here.

”G-Go away, Ted. I need to be alone right now.”

He heard the sound of his voice, rasping, rattling in his throat like that of an old man.

”Dad?” Ted called through the door. ”What is it?”

”Nothing! Will you just get the-”

The door opened and he saw Ted step in, then stop short, staring at him.

”Jesus, Dad,” Ted whispered. He hardly recognized the old man as his father. Carl's strong features were all but hidden under the slack skin of his face, and his frame had taken on a stooped and shrunken look. Carl's eyes, burning deep in their sockets, were fixed on Ted, and as the younger man gazed at the ancient figure, he had the feeling he was facing the countenance of death.

”I told you not to come in here,” Carl rasped.

”Dad, we've got to get you to the hospital-”

”No!” Carl barked, stepping behind the desk.

”Dad, you're sick-”

”I saw Phillips this morning. I'll be all right.” The fingers of his right hand curled around the handle of the drawer, and he pulled it open. Glancing down, he saw the familiar shape of the b.u.t.t of the gun he kept there. ”Go away, Ted. Just leave me alone.”

Ted shook his head. ”I can't do that, Dad. Whatever's in those shots, it's not working.”

”He's running out,” Carl said without thinking.

Ted's eyes bored into him. ”So they're not vitamins,” he said. ”What are they, Dad?”

Carl's jaw tightened. ”It's something he makes himself.”

”Then he'll make more,” Ted said, his voice taking on a note of desperation. ”Whatever it is, he can make more, can't he? Dad, what is it? What's wrong wrong with you? If we don't get you to the hospital, you're going to die!” with you? If we don't get you to the hospital, you're going to die!”

He took a step toward his father, but stopped short when Carl's hand suddenly came up from behind the desk, holding a gun.

”I want you to leave, Ted,” Carl rasped coldly. ”I want you to get out of here and forget about what you've seen. I'll be gone for a few hours, and when I get back I'll be fine.”

Ted shook his head in disbelief. ”You're dying, Dad,” he whispered, ”No, G.o.dd.a.m.n it!” Carl roared, his son's words triggering a fury in him that overcame the fear that had all but paralyzed him since he'd left Phillips's house. ”I'm not dying! I'm not ever going to die!”

He raised the gun, grasping it with both hands now, pointing it at Ted. Though his hands trembled violently, he was so close to his son that he knew he couldn't miss.

Ted knew it, too. His hands came up slowly and he backed toward the door. ”Take it easy, Dad,” he said. ”If you don't want to go to the hospital, I won't make you.”

”Just leave me alone,” Carl rasped. ”Get out of here.”

Ted had reached the doorway. A moment later Carl saw him dart out of the trailer toward his car. But instead of going to the Chrysler, Ted jerked open the door of the truck and pulled the keys from the ignition where Carl habitually left them. Pocketing them, he got into his own car and drove away.

Carl stood where he was, his mind racing.

The men would be arriving soon, and Ted would be coming back, too.

Ted thought he'd gone crazy, and when he came back, he'd bring help.

Shoving the gun into his belt, Carl, too, left the trailer. The shot Phillips had given him was working now; his legs felt much stronger, and the pain in his joints was fading quickly.

He started away from the trailer, walking rapidly, toward the ca.n.a.l.

They wouldn't find him, Carl had decided. Not Ted, nor whomever he brought with him. By the time Ted got back, he would be long gone.

He came to the edge of the ca.n.a.l and clambered down the bank, sliding into the water, his feet coming to rest on the mud bottom.

He started across, pulling the gun from his belt as the water rose to his waist. A few seconds later he was across and scrambling up the other bank.

He would find what Phillips needed, find a child somewhere in the swamp.

If he didn't, he would die.

And Carl Anderson had no intention of dying.

24.

It was a hot morning, and Kelly had momentarily wondered whether to wait until this afternoon, when Michael was done working, to go talk to him. But the image of her grandfather's sepulchral face loomed vividly in her mind. And so, after breakfast, she'd left the house for Phil Stubbs's place. She'd pa.s.sed through the village, and seen Buddy Hawkins and some of his friends cl.u.s.tered on the sidewalk in front of Arlette's cafe. She'd sensed them watching her, even imagined she heard them whispering among themselves, but had ignored them. Resisting the impulse to cross the street, she'd simply walked past, saying nothing.

As she left the village behind and started along the road through the marshlands, with the sun beating down and the humidity closing around her like a suffocating shroud, Kelly found herself wis.h.i.+ng she'd stayed within the air-conditioned walls of her grandfather's house. But then she walked through the open gates of the swamp tour's headquarters and paused for a moment, enjoying the relative cool beneath the spreading trees. In the shade of the pines and cypress, she felt better, and looked around, searching for Michael. She spotted him standing by the alligator pit, surrounded by a cl.u.s.ter of tourists. She moved to join the group, watching as Michael tossed a dead chicken into the enclosure.

The 'gators, already alert, closed in on the chicken, one of them s.n.a.t.c.hing it out of the air even before it landed. As its great jaws snapped closed on the bird, crus.h.i.+ng it instantly into a shapeless pulp, Kelly remembered the 'gator that had come so close to killing her in the swamp, and felt her skin crawl. As Michael tossed two more chickens to the waiting reptiles, she turned away, toward the nutria cages. A moment later Michael was beside her.