Phil Stubbs gazed up at the new sign that hung over the entrance to his tour headquarters. It had only been there a week, but despite his complaints at how much it had cost, the expenditure had already proved itself worthwhile. The lettering, done in the ornate style of circus posters, was in red edged with gold, and stood out brightly against a white background.
SEE SWAMP MONSTERS UP SO CLOSE YOU CAN ALMOST TOUCH THEM IF THEY DON’T KILL YOU FIRST!
When Michael had first suggested the sign, Stubbs laughed at the idea. “Seems to me like you’re tryin’ to turn this place into a tourist trap.”
“But isn’t that what it is?” Michael had asked, blurting the words out before he realized quite how they sounded. He’d reddened, but floundered on. “I mean, what about all the people who are afraid to go out in the swamp but still want to see the animals? How are they going to know what we have?”
Stubbs had thought about it, finally deciding the boy might be right. Since Michael’s signs had turned the animal cages into real displays, business had already picked up. But he’d balked again when Michael had shown him a sketch of the sign he had in mind. “Now come on,” he’d protested. “We don’t let anyone touch anything but the nutrias, and old Martha wouldn’t bite a thing.”
“But the sign only says you can ‘almost’ touch them,” Michael pointed out.
So Stubbs had given in. The day after the sign went up, business had immediately improved. People were coming in with their kids, and spending a couple of hours wandering around the cages, watching the animals. A lot of them, after getting a preview of what was in the swamp, signed up for the tour as well. Business was booming, and for the last couple of days Stubbs had even been considering adding an admission fee for the people who just wanted to see the animals.
All in all, he decided as he unlocked the office and started getting ready for the first batch of tourists who were already on their way down from Orlando, hiring Michael hadn’t been a bad move at all. The boy worked harder than anyone he’d ever seen, and always seemed to be coming up with new ideas.
And yet, despite how hard the boy worked, there was something about Michael Sheffield that made Stubbs a little bit nervous. Not that he didn’t like the kid — he did. It was just that over the last month, as he’d gotten to know Michael, he’d gotten the feeling that there was something about Michael that he didn’t understand, something that Michael kept carefully hidden.
He’d finally talked to Craig about it last week, but Michael’s father had assured him there was nothing to worry about. “Michael’s always been like that. Sort of a loner, if you know what I mean. I think he’d rather go off into the swamp by himself than do practically anything else.”
Stubbs hadn’t pushed the matter, but he’d found himself watching Michael a little more carefully. And finally he’d figured out what it was. Sometimes, around dusk, as the light began to fade and the long shadows of evening darkened the wilderness, Michael seemed to have periods when he lost track of what he was doing.
A few days ago, for instance, Phil had been toting up the accounts in the office, and looked up to see Michael washing one of the tour boats. For a few minutes there had been nothing extraordinary about the scene at all. Using a bucket and a mop, Michael had been swabbing down the long benches that ran, back to back, down the center of the boat. But suddenly something invisible to Stubbs seemed to catch the boy’s attention, and he simply stopped what he was doing, the mop clenched tight in his hands, his eyes staring into the tangle of growth across the bayou. Stubbs had followed Michael’s gaze but still seen nothing. As the seconds turned into minutes, he’d begun to wonder if Michael was all right. Leaving the office, he’d walked down to the dock. Just as he arrived, Michael had suddenly come to life again, his grip on the mop relaxing. “Michael? You okay?” Stubbs had asked.
Turning, Michael looked puzzled. “What?”
Stubbs had repeated the question. “I saw you staring off into the mangroves over there,” he went on, nodding in the direction of the island across from the dock. “Thought you must have seen something.”
That was when Michael’s eyes had changed, a veil dropping over them as if he was afraid Stubbs might see something he wanted to conceal. “I–I don’t know,” he’d said. “I guess I was just daydreaming.”
Stubbs had let the matter go, but nonetheless had kept his eyes open. He’d seen the same thing happen three or four times more. Michael would be in the midst of doing something — always as night was gathering — and suddenly he would simply freeze, his hands clenching, as if he was looking at something, or hearing something. A few minutes later it would be over, and Michael would go on with his work as if nothing had happened.
Phil Stubbs was beginning to worry about Michael. What was he doing, those nights when he worked late, hanging around the little complex where the tours were headquartered long after everyone else had left? Of course Stubbs knew how most of Michael’s time had been occupied — the evidence of his work was usually obvious the next morning. But was there something else? Something Michael might not even be aware of, that held him there each evening?
Stubbs finished counting the morning till, observed with satisfaction that all the tour boats for the day were fully reserved, and made a note to himself to keep track of the turn-aways. Perhaps it was time to buy yet another boat. His thoughts were disturbed by the sound of a little boy’s voice, shouting excitedly.
“It’s not either asleep, Mommy! It’s dead!”
Stubbs looked out the window to see a clump of tourists clustered around the nutria cages. They were buzzing amongst themselves, and several of them seemed to be pointing at one particular cage. Stubbs hurried out to see what was going on, elbowing his way through the crowd until he was in front of the cage where Martha lived with her litter of pups. The pups, as usual, were tumbling around, scrambling over each other as they struggled to get to the food dish.
Martha lay unmoving on the floor of the cage, just inside the door.
“Well, if you ask me,” he heard a heavyset woman whisper loudly to her companion, “it’s cruel to keep the animals caged up this way. Of course they die — they probably die every day.”
Ignoring the woman, Stubbs unlocked the cage, opened the door, and lifted the lifeless nutria out of the pen.
“Did something kill it?” the little boy who had yelled a few moments earlier demanded, his eyes staring accusingly up at Phil Stubbs.
“Nope,” Stubbs replied, returning the little boy’s gaze. “Martha here just got old, that’s all.”
“I’ll bet she starved to death,” the heavyset woman observed.
Well, that’s not something you’ll ever have to worry about, Stubbs said silently to himself as he took the nutria away. Returning to the office, he examined the animal.
What had happened to it?
He picked it up again, fingering it carefully, searching for a wound. When he set it down once more, the head flopped over at an unnatural angle. Frowning, he explored the creature’s neck with his fingers. Even to his unpracticed touch, he could tell the nutria’s neck had been broken.
An unbidden memory came to his mind of Michael, standing perfectly still, the mop clenched tightly in his fists.
If it hadn’t been a mop in his hands a few days ago, but instead one of the nutrias …
There was a rumbling noise outside, and a moment later Michael himself appeared, pulling his motorcycle to a stop outside the gates. Stepping outside, Stubbs beckoned him over to the office.
“Got something I want you to look at,” he said as Michael approached. He led Michael back into the office, then stepped aside so that the boy could see the dead nutria on the desk. “You know what might have happened to her?” he asked.
Michael stared at Martha’s limp body. He couldn’t explain what had happened, since he still wasn’t sure. And if he told the truth, he knew he would be fired. But he couldn’t lie, either. “I–I don’t know,” he stammered. “Last night, she didn’t look too good—”
Stubbs’s eyes fixed on him. “Her neck’s broken, Michael.”
Michael swallowed. “Oh, God. I thought she was going — I thought—” He fell silent, staring helplessly at Stubbs.
Stubbs’s anger eased in the face of Michael’s obvious torment. “Now just take it easy, boy. Tell me what happened.”
“But — But I don’t know what happened,” Michael stammered. “I was petting her, like I always do, and I heard a siren. And it scared me.” His eyes flicked around the room, as if he were searching for a way out. At last his gaze came back to Phil Stubbs. “I didn’t do anything to her,” he said. “At least I didn’t mean to. But after the police car went by, and I looked down at her again, she’d stopped moving.” He fell silent for a few seconds, his eyes fixing on the nutria. He took a deep breath. “I–I guess I must have killed her.”
Stubbs said nothing, frowning deeply as he tried to figure out what to do. His first impulse was to fire the boy. Yet Michael was so obviously miserable about what had happened that Stubbs was certain he hadn’t intended to hurt the little animal. Indeed, Michael always became angry with anyone who even teased the creatures in their cages. “Well, I don’t know,” Stubbs said at last. “But if you can’t even remember what happened, I guess I can’t say you did it on purpose.”
Michael stared abjectly at the floor. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Are — Are you going to fire me?”
Stubbs considered it. Once again he remembered those strange lapses when Michael seemed to lose himself. But he also remembered how much his business had improved since he’d hired the boy. “No,” he said, making up his mind. “But I think maybe you’d better take the rest of the day off — without pay — and think about keeping your mind on your work from here on out.” When Michael looked puzzled, Stubbs went on, “I’ve seen you daydreaming before, Michael. It’s like you’ve just gone somewhere else, like you’re in some kind of trance or something. So starting tomorrow, I don’t want you working after hours anymore. Can you understand that?”
Michael nodded, finally looking up. “Are you going to tell my dad?” he asked.
Stubbs hesitated. What if Craig Sheffield demanded proof of what Michael had done? Guys could be funny about their sons — never wanting to admit their own flesh and blood could be less than perfect. And Sheffield was a lawyer, and despite the fact that he was Stubbs’s own lawyer, that could lead to trouble. Besides, when you got right down to it, Michael was old enough to be responsible for himself. “Seems to me this is just between us,” he said. “So let’s just keep it that way, okay? Now get out of here, and make sure you’re on time tomorrow.”
Michael left the office, his head still down. Stubbs heard the motorcycle roar to life, and watched from the doorway until the bike disappeared around a bend in the road. Returning to his desk, he picked up the dead nutria. He stared at it for a moment, then shook his head and tossed it out the window into an open Dumpster a few yards away.
“Get Craig Sheffield upset over a lousy nutria?” he muttered to himself. “I may be dumb, but I’m not that dumb.”
• • •
Michael gunned the engine of the motorcycle, feeling an exhilarating burst of speed as the machine responded to his command. Leaning forward into the wind, he tried to put the scene with Phil Stubbs out his mind. But an image of the dead nutria lying on his boss’s desk stayed with him. This morning, on his way to work, he’d let himself hope that Martha would still be in her cage, munching on her food and looking after her pups. Maybe nothing had happened last night at all — maybe his memory of the limp animal he’d returned to the cage had been no more real than the strange image he’d seen in the mirror.
But as soon as Stubbs had called him to the office, he’d known the truth.
Somehow, last night, he’d killed the little creature.
But why couldn’t he remember doing it?
He slowed the motorcycle, banking it into a curve.
Well, at least he hadn’t been fired, and Stubbs wasn’t even going to tell his folks what had happened. He could imagine what his father would say if he’d lost the job — the motorcycle would be gone, and he’d probably be grounded for the rest of the summer as well.
But it wouldn’t happen again. From now on he’d keep his mind on what he was doing, and not let himself be distracted by anything.
But what about today? He couldn’t go home — if he did, he’d have to explain why he had the day off.
And he couldn’t spend the day in town, either. Even if his father didn’t see him, everyone else would, and his dad would be bound to hear about it sooner or later.
Maybe he’d just head out on the bike and spend the day riding. He had plenty of money — he might even head up to Orlando and go to Disney World. Except he’d been there last year and hadn’t liked it very much. Nothing had seemed real, and while Jennifer had run from one ride to another — screaming about everything — he’d wished he’d stayed home and spent the day by himself, poking around in the marshes.
Maybe that’s what he would do today. There was a place he knew about, a few miles out of town, where he could hide the bike. There weren’t any boats out there, but there were paths and trails. Yes, that’s what he’d do. Spend the day exploring. And he’d keep his mind on the time, so he wouldn’t be late getting home.
As he gunned the bike once more, a horn blared behind him. Startled, he automatically glanced into the rearview mirror, expecting to see a car overtaking him.
Instead, he saw the hideous visage of the ancient man, leering at him.
Stunned by the image in the mirror, he swerved the bike, realizing almost too late that the car behind him was now passing. As the car’s horn blasted a second time, Michael jerked the bike the other way. The motorcycle skittered toward the edge of the pavement; then, as the car disappeared around a bend, the cycle slid off the asphalt into the soft earthen bank of the drainage ditch that paralleled the road. The narrow tires began to sink into the mud as Michael struggled to pull the bike back onto the road. Throwing his weight onto the handlebars, he twisted the front wheel around. The bike remained mired in the mud. The rear end rose up, pulled free of the muck, then swung around, throwing Michael onto the ground, the toppled bike beside him.
• • •
The day before, Kelly Anderson had had only a glimpse of Villejeune from the car. Now she realized just how little there was to it. Only a few stores, a café, and the post office with a police station tucked in behind it. A block away she found the school she’d be going to in the fall, which didn’t look like much, either. There were only two buildings, one of which seemed to be a gym, and she didn’t see any sign of a swimming pool. Still, as she wandered around the village she decided she kind of liked it. It didn’t feel at all like Atlanta, but that was all right.
As she came around the corner, onto Ponce Avenue, she saw the kids.
There were four of them, two boys and two girls, and the moment she saw them, she felt her guard going up.
They looked like the kids she’d always avoided back home.
Hicks, that’s what they looked like.
Not one of them was wearing any interesting clothes, and the girls both wore their hair in styles Kelly wouldn’t have been caught dead in, like they’d just fallen out of some old beach blanket movie starring Annette Funicello.
She felt them watching her.
Maybe she should walk right up to them and demand to know what they were staring at.
Except that she already knew.
She’d put on three pairs of earrings that morning, and two sets of cuffs. And even though the weather was hot, she was wearing a black turtleneck shirt and a pair of black jeans that she’d sewn some sequins onto. Back in Atlanta the outfit had looked cool, and not really very weird, compared to what a lot of the kids wore.
But here in Villejeune she stuck out like a sore thumb.
Her first impulse was to go home, but to do that she’d have to walk right past the kids. Even if she crossed the street, it would still be obvious that she was avoiding them.
Making up her mind on the spur of the moment, she turned and went the other way, walking quickly, as if she knew exactly where she was going. Once she was out of the village, and away from the kids who were staring at her, she began to feel better again.
The road, built up like a causeway, wound through the swamp here, with deep ditches on each side. Everywhere she looked there seemed to be water, with only a few patches of soggy-looking land rising above the surface here and there. Dense thickets of mangrove stood above the water, and odd stumplike objects protruded from its surface, as if this had once been some kind of forest.
Birds were everywhere, bobbing on the surface of the water, wading in the shallows, and soaring overhead. Twice she saw alligators basking in the mud, but they seemed unaware of her presence, ignoring her as she passed.
As she moved farther from the town, a feeling of peace began coming over her. After a while she realized what it was. Back in Atlanta there had been the continuous noise of the city all around her: the hum of cars, trucks grinding as they shifted gears, rock music pouring out of boom boxes — a steady stream of sound that, though she’d never realty been aware of it, had simply always been there.
Here there was nothing but the songs of birds, the rustle of the wind in the cypress trees, and the splashing of fish and frogs in the water.
Then, from ahead, she heard the roar of a motorcycle approaching. A moment later there was the blast of an automobile horn, quickly followed by another, and then a car came roaring around the bend in the road, shooting past her so fast she barely had time to get off the pavement.
“Creep!” she shouted, glaring at the car as it raced away.
Silence. Where was the motorcycle?
Kelly stood still, listening.
What had happened?
Had the car hit the bike? But the driver would have stopped, wouldn’t he? And wouldn’t there have been a crash?
Then she knew what had happened. The car had almost run her down — it must have run the motorcycle right off the road.
She broke into a run, and found what she was looking for a few seconds later.
The motorcycle lay in the ditch; the body of a boy lay beside it. Kelly froze for a second, afraid that the person might be dead. If he was—
But before she had time even to finish the thought, the person by the bike moved, slowly sitting up. Kelly darted over to him. He looked up at her, and when their eyes met, Kelly’s stomach tightened.
She knew him.
But that was crazy — she’d never seen him before in her life.
And yet something inside her insisted she knew him.
“You’re from Atlanta, aren’t you?” she blurted.
Michael shook his head, his eyes still on the odd-looking girl who was standing a few feet away. He had the strangest feeling, as though she were someone he knew. But that was crazy, because from the way she looked, she couldn’t be from around here. None of the girls in Villejeune dressed the way she did, and there sure weren’t any with pink hair. “I’ve never been to Atlanta. I mean, I’ve been there, but just to the airport. We were going to Chicago once, and we changed planes there.”
Kelly frowned. It was really weird. He didn’t look like anyone she knew, and yet somehow she was certain they knew each other. And then she remembered the boy in the swamp last night.
She hadn’t gotten a good look at him, really. It had already been getting dark, and she’d only seen him for a second. “Were you out in the swamp last night?” she asked.
Michael frowned. How had she known? Had she seen him there? And if she had, why hadn’t he seen her?
Maybe he had.
Maybe it was one more thing he didn’t remember.
A chill crawled up his spine, and he shifted uneasily. “Were you?” he countered.
Kelly hesitated, then nodded. “I was walking along the canal near my grandfather’s house, and I saw someone. I thought it might have been you.”
Now it was Michael who hesitated, searching his mind for any hint that he might have seen the girl before.
There was nothing.
Except that there was something familiar about her.
It was her eyes. There was something in her eyes that he recognized. But what?
“I was out there,” he said at last. “But not by the canals. They’re on the other side of town.” But he might have been there. He was in a boat, and he might have gone anywhere.
Kelly gazed at the boy, feeling his eyes fixed on her, too. If he didn’t know her, then why was he looking at her that way? And then she remembered. He was dressed the same way as the kids she’d seen in town — a pair of khaki pants and plaid shirt, and even though his clothes were stained, and there was mud in his hair, she could tell he wasn’t any different from them at all.
He thought she was some kind of freak.
“How come you’re staring at me?” she demanded, summoning all the hostility she could muster.
Michael took a step back. “I–I keep feeling like I know you, too.”
Kelly hesitated — was he just trying to get to her? “Well, if it was you I saw, then you saw me, too,” she finally challenged.
“I guess maybe so,” Michael said uncertainly. Then, without thinking about it at all, he told her the truth of what had happened to him in the swamp.
Kelly stared at him. It was exactly what had happened to her last night! Maybe they had met, even though neither of them remembered it! Maybe they’d even talked to each other.
“M-My name’s Kelly Anderson,” she said, suddenly feeling shy.
Michael grinned crookedly. “Now I know who you are. My dad’s your grandfather’s lawyer. I’m Michael Sheffield.”
Together, the two of them pulled the bike back onto the road, and after checking it for damage, Michael tried to start it. On the third attempt the motor caught. Michael stole another look at Kelly. He’d never seen anyone who looked quite like her before, except on television.
Yet there was something about her that appealed to him, despite her pink hair and strange jewelry.
Something about her that was different from any of the other kids he knew, something in her eyes that set her apart.
That was familiar.
Then he knew what it was.
Despite her looks, he was certain that inside, behind the strange clothes and makeup, she was just like him.
Filled with those awful feelings of being somehow different from everyone else.
“Y-You want a ride?” he asked, expecting her to refuse.
But instead of refusing, she nodded. “I think I’d like that,” she said. “Where should we go?”
Something flickered in Michael’s eyes, then was gone. But when he spoke, Kelly had the feeling he wasn’t quite telling her the truth. “I have the day off,” he said. “Maybe we should get some food and have a picnic.” He turned the bike around and climbed on, then steadied it while Kelly mounted the buddy seat behind him.
“If we’re going to buy food, don’t we have to go back to town?” Kelly asked.
Michael said nothing, simply putting the bike in gear and pulling away.
But as they rode away from Villejeune, each of them was thinking the same thing.
I know this person. I’ve known this person all my life. This is the friend I’ve never met before.
Though neither of them understood it, both of them felt the instant bond that drew them together the moment they had met.
Somehow, they were connected.