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  He walked quickly to the front of the yard, his anger building. Robert was always such a dud—a damned, dumb dud! Robin smiled at that. He turned his head and glared at the bedroom window: "Damned, dumb dud!" he whispered.

  He turned left. He stopped after a couple of steps, momentarily disoriented. He looked at his house again, then at the Harris house next door, and across the street at a big yellow house (a grayish-cream color in the darkness) still in the final stages of construction. Where were the street lights? He turned around, looked across the little island—bordered by asphalt—on which his house, the Harris and Wentis houses, and several others not yet occupied, had been built. No street lights.

  Just the frigid, still darkness, and, here and there, in some of the houses, a bathroom light left on for the night. The Wentises' backyard spotlight had been turned off, but he didn't notice this.

  He squinted at the western horizon. The thick, dark line of woods a half mile off was barely discernible from a night sky that was clear and crowded with stars.

  He took another deep breath.

  Then, because he was eleven years old and healthy, and had seen something that had intrigued him—like a gift unopened—and because he hated his brother, but most of all because he was alive, and didn't need to think about it, he ran hard, breathing first through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, as he had been taught, and moving his arms with precision, and, with each step, pushing off with his toes, and all the while his eyes wide open, in wonderment, focused on the rapidly approaching, rapidly widening and broadening line of the forest in front of him.

  Adventurousness be damned! Shelly Harris thought. Especially on a night like tonight.

  She put her hand under the running bath water, found it was too hot, and turned the cold water faucet slightly.

  She heard her husband's voice above the sound of the water. She went to the bathroom door. "Did you say something?"

  Malcolm stuck his head out from their bedroom doorway. "Yes, I did. I wanted to know if you were downstairs just now."

  "Downstairs? No. Why?" She wrapped the blanket more tightly around her.

  "I heard something." He shrugged. "At least I thought I did." A pause. "Are you going to take a bath?"

  "Uh-huh. What do you mean?—you heard something."

  "Just a noise. It was nothing. Can I join you?"

  "What kind of noise?"

  He started toward her—naked—down the hallway. "Just a noise-noise, Shell. Now can I please—" He stopped, turned his head toward the stairway to his left; he looked puzzled.

  Shelly called, "What's the matter?"

  "There's someone downstairs," he answered quietly, incredulously. He held his hand up, as if to stop Shelly from leaving the bathroom, though she hadn't budged. "Stay there," he said, still quietly, but Shelly, the bath water running behind her, hadn't heard him.

  "Malcolm?" she called, above the rushing noise of the water. She stepped out of the bathroom. "I can't hear what—" She stopped. Her eyes widened.

  "Shelly?" said Malcolm. He followed her gaze to a spot about an arm's length away, on the stairs. "Shelly?" he said again, because he saw nothing on the stairs.

  And something brushed against him very quickly. Hair, he thought, and the suggestion of a small, warm hand on his rib cage.

  "What," he started, "in the name of heaven—"

  "Damned, dumb, dud!" he heard. Once. Then again, and again, decreasing in volume down the hallway toward Serena's bedroom.

  Malcolm saw the child then. At Serena's door. And the child's huge, pale blue eyes and exquisite mouth were blank, the body motionless, in soft profile, one hand on the doorknob and a dozen of the foot-long, strike-anywhere fireplace matches clutched tightly in the other.

  Shelly screamed then—a scream of panic and desperation for her baby's sake. And a moment later, Malcolm felt her brush past him, her touch much the same as the child's had been.

  And he watched, dumbfounded, unable to move, as she threw Serena's door open. He waited. Only moments. And she appeared again in the hallway, her daughter held tight in her arms. "She's okay, Malcolm. Thank God, oh thank God, she's okay!"

  "Where . . . is he?" Malcolm said. But Shelly's thoughts were for Serena only. "Where in the hell is he?"

  Chapter 19

  From The Penn Yann Post Gazette, November 6:

  SEARCH INTENSIFIED FOR MISSING ELEVEN-YEAR-OLD BOY

  Police Chief John Hastings has announced that the search for eleven-year-old Robin Graham, missing since early Monday morning from his home in Granada, the new and exclusive development ten miles north of Penn Yann, has been intensified. Says Hastings, "We have requested and have been granted National Guard assistance, and will now be focusing our search with this additional manpower in an approximately twenty-square-mile area around Granada, an area bounded by Tripp Road, Sullivan's Road, Route 43, and the Riley's Glen campsites."

  Robin's mother, Lorraine Graham, reported her son missing on Monday morning, November 4, and although the search has, according to Hastings, been "extremely exhaustive," no trace of the boy has yet been found. Asked if the child might have been kidnapped, Hastings replied that "no ransom note has yet been received. We are keeping our lines of communication open."

  According to Mrs. Graham, her son is probably wearing a brown suede jacket, with the name "Robin" sewn on the cuff, a red flannel shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers. Anyone having information regarding Robin's whereabouts is asked to contact Chief Hastings's office immediately. A reward of $5,000 has been posted for information leading to Robin's safe return.

  Chapter 20

  Norm Gellis looked up from his plate. "I got a theory, Marge." He pushed a forkful of meat loaf into his mouth. "About that little Graham kid."

  "Yes?" Marge said. She forced herself to smile, as if intrigued. "What kind of theory?"

  "A good one." He swallowed the meat loaf. "A good one," he repeated. He pointed with his fork at a bowl filled with baked potatoes. "Gimme one of those, would ya, Marge." She passed him the bowl, he took a potato, split it, lathered it up with margarine and sour cream. He looked critically at it. "There's a gang, Marge."

  "A gang?" Marge said, and smiled again, more easily.

  "That's right, Marge. A gang of kids. Country kids." He picked up the potato, held it in front of his mouth, angled it for the right position. "City kids have gangs, right? Why not"—he shoved the potato into his mouth—"country kids?" He nodded at the bowl of potatoes. "Gimme another one of those." She passed him the bowl.

  "I always thought country kids would have better things to do, Norm." She smiled. "You don't think so?"

  He harrumphed. "You tell me, Marge, what country kids got to do? Milk the cows? Naw—machines do all that Slop the hogs? Naw—they keep the hogs in those great big pens, Marge, and they feed 'em automatically. I saw that on the news the other night. Whatsa matter, you don't watch the news? Mow the hay, pick the corn? Are you kiddin'? Machines do all that, and that's good, Marge. That's progress. But there's just one little problem, you see, and that problem is the country kids ain't got nothin' to do. Just like city kids ain't got nothin' to do. So, just like the city kids, the country kids get into these gangs."

  "Gangs, Norm?"

  "That's right. Like Hell's Angels, only minus the motorcycles, 'cuz they can't afford 'em." He grinned proudly. "And the way I see it, that's the problem we got out here, now, Marge." He poked the top of the table with his forefinger, for emphasis. "We got these country kids in a gang and they're fixin' to terrorize us. It's already started. Hell, it started a month ago, when that kid broke in here. And now this Graham boy turns up missing. And how about that kid who broke in here again, just a couple days ago?! How about him? And if you listen close, Marge, real close, to what some of the people are sayin' around here, you know it's happenin' to more than just us and that poor Graham woman. I heard that somethin' very strange happened at one of those new people's houses the other night." He paused to give Marge time to abso
rb what he was telling her. "So," he continued, "you know what I think, Marge? I think it's a kind of initiation, like a school initiation. That's why that kid we saw was naked. It's an initiation. I had one once. I belonged to this little club—you know, just a kid's club. And for our initiation we were sat down in front of two bottles, beer bottles. The quart size. And one, Marge, one had beer, okay. But the other one didn't." He grinned at her, as if to say, You know what the other one had in it, don't you? "And, anyway, we had to choose one of these bottles, and if we chose the wrong one, hey, that was too bad, 'cuz we had to drink the contents of the bottle we chose. Piss or beer, it didn't matter." He chuckled, remembering. "I chose the piss, wouldn'tcha know it." He chuckled again. "And that's what we got here, Marge. Some kind of initiation. Only it's gotten way outa hand. That's why they grabbed this Graham kid. Maybe he was parta the gang and he chickened out. Maybe he was nobody, just some kid they wanted to grab so they could make him part of the initiation proceedings. And if it has gotten that outa hand, Marge, then we're all in big trouble." He paused for some comment from Marge. She said nothing. She was smiling blankly. "Are you listening to me, Marge?"

  "Yes, Norm."

  "You agree with what I'm sayin'?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "Good, 'cuz I've come to the conclusion that steps have to be taken."

  "Steps?"

  "To meet these kids on their own ground, Marge.

  To squash 'em good and hard, if that's what they're aside for."

  Lorraine Graham liked the buoyant feeling of separation that the Valium gave her. It was almost enough. She could almost forget the squads of pink-faced National Guardsmen, and the dogs, and the questions: "Would your son have any reason for leaving?" . . . "Has he run away before?" . . . "Has there been some squabble in the family?" . . . "Could we talk to your husband, please? . . . "I'm sorry, he's dead." . . . "Could your son be reacting to your husband's death, somehow?" . . . "Did he have a favorite place to go—a kid's hangout? . . . "No, we haven't lived here that long." . . . "Could you give us the names of some of his friends?" . . . "We haven't lived here that long. He and Robert stay pretty much to themselves."

  Damn them all! This was a time for grief, didn't they know that? Robin was gone. Forever. He had walked out of the house in the middle of the night and had been swallowed up. Didn't they know that?!

  "Mom?" It was Robert.

  She lifted her head from the back of the easy chair, focused on him, said nothing.

  "Mom?" he repeated.

  "Yes?" she said quietly.

  "They found Robin's jacket, Mom. Out in the woods, they wanted me to tell you."

  She let her head fall back. "His jacket?"

  "Yeah, Mom—the one he was wearing. The denim one."

  She let her eyes close. "Oh. Yes. Are they going to keep it—do they need it for evidence or something?"

  "They didn't say they needed it, Mom. You want me to ask? I'll go back and ask if you want."

  "Yes. Please. Go and ask."

  "You okay, Mom?"

  She said nothing.

  "Mom, are you okay? You want me to get you something? I can make you some coffee, Mom. Or some tea."

  Still nothing. She kept her eyes closed.

  "Mom, are you okay?"

  She opened her eyes; she focused on the ceiling. "Yes, Robin, I'm okay. Now please go and ask them about the jacket."

  "I'm Robert, Mom."

  "Just do as I say and go ask them if they're going to keep the jacket."

  He hesitated, uncertain. At last he whispered, "Okay, Mom," and left hurriedly.

  Lorraine closed her eyes again. Yes, she thought—Robin had surely been swallowed up. By this place around her; by the open sky, by the black, cold nights, by the quiet. It was fanciful, but it was true. Her favorite son had been swallowed up. Just like Stan had been swallowed up. Whole. And her mother, too.

  Lorraine fingered the bottle of Valium on the table near her chair. She opened the bottle, put one of the pills on her tongue, and let her saliva work at it a moment.

  Chapter 21

  Janice McIntyre thought, W.C. Fields. The man at the door was the spitting image of W.C. Fields.

  "Mrs. McIntyre?" he said.

  "Yes, I'm Janice McIntyre." But, maybe on second thought—no. This man was too muscular, too weathered. "Can I help you?"

  He lowered his head slightly, as if embarrassed. "We've never been introduced, Mrs. McIntyre, but we did talk on the phone the other day." He thrust his hand out awkwardly. Janice took it. "I'm John Marsh." He let go of her hand. "I'd like to talk to you."

  She hesitated, momentarily uncertain, remembering his abrupt manner on the phone.

  He nodded to indicate the confusion of National Guardsmen and sheriffs' deputies and the hubbub of voices and shouted commands and two-way radios in Granada that day. "I had a devil of a time getting in here."

  "I'm sure you did, Mr. Marsh." Still uncertain.

  "They ain't found that boy yet?"

  "Not yet." She opened the door wide, stepped away from it. "Please, Mr. Marsh—come in."

  He stared disconsolately at his cup of black coffee, then at Janice, seated across from him on the couch.

  "Can I get you something else, Mr. Marsh? We have some fresh doughnuts."

  "No thanks. Coffee's fine." He sipped it then, pointedly, set it down on the coffee table in front of the couch. The muscles on his face tightened, he took a deep breath, and said, his voice low, as if sharing some long-held secret, "Rachel Griffin was tall—maybe five foot nine or ten—and she was pretty. Not beautiful. Not like some Hollywood actress. But pretty. Nice to look at. And she wore her hair long, down to the middle of her back, far's I can remember. It was dark hair, almost black, but not quite." He paused just long enough to pick up his cup of coffee, as if that physical effort could steady him. "Is that who you seen around here, Mrs. McIntyre? You seen Rachel Griffin around here?"

  Janice answered immediately, "Yes, that's who I've seen, Mr. Marsh."

  "When?"

  Janice closed her eyes for a moment; she felt her pulse quicken. "I've seen her twice. The last time was just a few days ago, and then, once before, during the first week of October." Her words came to her quickly, in a rush—perhaps, she thought, because she had someone to say them to, at last. "I think she's trying to tell me something, Mr. Marsh. Something about this house, about Granada. Maybe something about myself. I wish I knew. And I wish I knew something more about her than that she lived her last few months here, and that she died that way. In a fire. Because I think that's an awful way to die. I think it would be an awful way to die"—she smiled quickly, self-consciously—"Mr. Marsh. I wouldn't choose it, if I were given the choice." She realized she was on the verge of babbling. "So I want you to tell me more, if you can. I want you to tell me what kind of person she was and why she was living out here, for God's sake. It had to have been hell for her. I want you to help me to know her." She stopped suddenly, as if she had wound down. She felt a nervous smile play along her lips, and wished that Marsh would say something. She reached for her own cup of coffee, saw that her hand was shaking, clasped it in her other hand; she folded both hands in her lap. "Mr. Marsh, do you think I'm imagining things?"

  He answered without hesitation. "I wouldn'ta come here if I thought that, Mrs. McIntyre."

  The tension she had felt since his arrival dissipated suddenly. She sighed, lowered her head, closed her eyes.

  "And no," Marsh went on. Janice raised her head slowly, opened her eyes. "It wasn't hell for her, Mrs. McIntyre. At least not at the beginning. The both of them—Paul and her—seemed to settle in pretty good here. They got the house cleaned up—" Janice looked questioningly at him. "Vandals had got into it, Mrs. McIntyre. It was a mess. I remember Paul Griffin blamed me a little for that. I was supposed to keep an eye on the house 'til they got here from New York. And I did keep an eye on it. Every day. And to this moment I can't figure out—" He paused; his voice had lowered considerably
, he realized. He was talking more to himself than to Janice McIntyre. "'Scuse me, Mrs. McIntyre. Going off into daydreams has got to be a habit of mine in my old age." Janice smiled slightly. Marsh continued, "I'd say Rachel and Paul were happy, considerin' all the problems. He wanted to be a farmer, you know. That was his dream. 'Course this land is too acid, now, and there ain't no top soil left no more . . . and Rachel—I think she just wanted to live here with him, come hell or high water."

  "They had no children, Mr. Marsh?"

  He hesitated a moment before answering; then, "There was some talk about a child out here. A man named Thompson did some work for 'em—fixed up some of their windows—and he swore to his dyin' day that when he came out here he heard children in the house. And around it. I heard things myself, if the truth be told. But that was before Rachel and Paul moved in."

  "I'd say," Janice cut in, "that this man, Thompson, was right."

  "Yer talkie' 'bout that pitiful little skeleton they found here, ain'tcha?"

  She looked confusedly at him. "How did you . . . I mean, there's been nothing in the papers, Mr. Reynolds made sure of that—"

  "Penn Yann's a small town, Mrs. McIntyre." He paused, as if that fact was explanation enough. "And I'll tell you somethin' else," he went on. "That skeleton's givin' the 'experts' a lotta trouble. I hear they can't even tell what sex it is, and that's supposed to be easy. And I hear they can't tell for sure whether it's a little Indian child—maybe Onondaga or Oneida Indian—or maybe a black child, or a white child, and they think it was layin' out here in the ground for a long, long time, but they don't know for sure—" He stopped. Janice's eyes were watering. He closed his mouth tightly, shook his head in self-condemnation. "Lord, I'm sorry, Mrs. McIntyre—"

  She held her hand up. "No, forgive me, Mr. Marsh—there was no way you could have known. You see—" And she went on to tell him, painfully, and at length—as if, somehow, the telling was therapy for her—about Jodie. When she had finished, she quickly steered the conversation back to where it had begun: "What kind of woman was she?—Rachel, I mean. That's what I need to know, Mr. Marsh. That's what I desperately need to know."