I chopped at the shoot right above the root. Dust and insects flew, and I could hear more animals fleeing in the distance. My biceps were pumped and my shoulders throbbed. Finally, I was able to sever enough tendrils to pull back the clump and let us pass.

On the other side of the vine, things were different, as if we'd entered a new chamber of a great green palace. The air cooler, the trees all the same species.

Coast redwoods, great, repeating roan columns, spaced closely, their top growth a black fringe. Not the three-hundred-foot monsters of the north, but still huge at a third that height. Only a scatter of ferns grew in their shadows. The ground was gray as barbecue dust, mounded with leaves and bark shards. Through the fringe, the sun was a speck of mica.

The fringe.

Lace?

Lucy began weaving through the mammoth trunks.

Heading toward something.

Light.

A patch of day that enlarged as we ran toward it.

She stepped into it and spread her arms, as if gathering the heat and clarity.

We were in an open area, bounded by hillside and the same kind of mesquite I'd seen on the highway. Beyond the hills, higher mountains.

Before us, a field of high, feathery wild grass split by dozens of silver snakes.

Narrow streams. A mesh of them, thin and sinuous as map lines. The water sound diffuse now, delicate…

I followed Lucy as she made her way through grass, stepping in the soft ground between the streams.

Down to a mossy clearing. Centered in it, a pond, brackish, a hundred feet wide, its surface coated by a pea-colored scum of algae, bubbling in spots, skimmed by water boatmen. The globular leaves of hyacinth floated peacefully. Dragonflies took off and landed.

On the near bank was another cabin, identical to the others.

Rotted black, its roof a fuzz of lichen, a decaying door dangling from one hinge.

Something green running nearly the width of the door. I ran over.

Metal. A plaque, probably once bronze. Grooves. Engraving. I rubbed away grime until calligraphic letters showed themselves.

Inspiration

I pushed the door aside and entered. The floor was black, too, ripe as peat, oddly sweet-smelling. Through empty window casements I could see the flat green water of the pond.

These log walls were perforated with disease. Remnants of furniture in one corner: a small metal desk, completely rusted and legless, blotched with green and teeming with grubs and beetles. Something on the desktop. I flicked away insects and humus and revealed the black-lacquer keys of a manual typewriter. A bit more scraping produced a gold-leaf Royal logo.

Next to the desk, a leather chair had been reduced to a few curling scraps of dermis and a handful of hammered nailheads; on the ground, near the desk, three metal loops attached to a rusted spine.

Rings from a looseleaf notebook. Something else, copperish with a green patina.

I kneeled. Something crawled up my leg and I slapped it away.

The patina was moss. Not copper, gold.

A gold bullet-shaped tube with a white-gold clip.

The cap of a fountain pen.

Etched in the head: MBL.

I pocketed it and kicked at the loose, fragrant dirt. Nothing else in the cabin.

Lucy hadn't followed me in. Through the window hole, I saw her make her way to the water's edge and stare across the pond.

Two trees on the far bank.

Giant, lush, weeping willows, their surface roots worming into the pond.

Branches of knife-blade, golden-green leaves, looping to the ground, then bending and resuming in a relentless horizontal growth.

Sentries.

Diamonds of light shone through the wispy foliage.

A baby-blue network, ethereal as lace.

I ran out of the cabin.

Lucy's eyes were fixed on a spot between the trees, a bare, sunken area.

She took the shovel from me and began circling the pond clockwise. Awkward, almost hesitant, toeing along the bank, inches from the water's edge.

Her eyes closed and she slipped. Before I could catch her, one leg went into the water, up to the ankle. She pulled it out. Her jeans were soaked. She shook her leg and kept walking. Stopped in the bare spot, tears dripping down her cheeks.

Cradling the shovel like a baby.

Inspiration.

Lowell's private spot.

Burying Karen here… for company?

He needed company- the adulation of fans and disciples and, when that dried up, the worship of young women.

Send me someone good-looking.

Had other women been buried here?

My initial thought upon hearing the dream was that he'd molested Lucy. There'd been more than a nuance of sexuality in his approach to her just now: comments about her legs and her toilet training. Flaunting his infidelity with her aunt.

Yet I couldn't shake the feeling that with Lucy he was after something different.

Stick with me and I'll show you the world, kid.

Body failing, fame withered, he wanted a family.

He'd stopped coming here a long time ago.

No more inspiration.

Lucy stood up.

Without a word, she began digging.

44

She wouldn't let me help her.

The first foot of soil was forgiving, but after that she hit compressed clay and cried out in frustration. I wrested the shovel from her. Each second weighed on me as I excavated a hole six feet long and three feet deep, getting in the pit and pitching out dirt like a manic paid by the shovelful. My arms felt leaden and detached from my body.

No signs of any bones. The smallest chip and I'd yank her the hell out of here. Even without progress, I'd give it five more minutes.

She got in and said, "My turn," but when I shook my head she didn't argue. Tears had washed her face clean.

The sun was sinking and the pond had grayed. It had been over an hour since we'd come up, but the day seemed timeless.

Each shovelful mixed with the blood rush in my head.

I dug and dug, till my breath grew short and harsh. Then I heard something else.

Another voice- a woman's- from across the pond.

Both of us turned.

Nova was standing near Inspiration. A man had one arm around her waist. His other hand held a pistol to her head.

She looked frightened to death. The man's fingers touched one of her breasts and spidered their way up in a manner that couldn't be accidental.

I pushed Lucy down and ducked. The man's gun arm snapped, as if he was throwing the weapon.

The shot knocked loose a chunk of dirt a yard from my right hand. No marksman, but we had no cover.

Trapped.

I crouched low in the pit, keeping my hand on Lucy's back. Her mouth was open but her breathing was silent.

No sounds. I raised my head for a peek.

The man put the gun back to Nova's head and prodded her with one knee. The two of them slow-danced around the pond till they got within fifteen feet of us.

Her left cheek was scraped raw and her left eye was swelling. I ducked and peeked, ducked and peeked. Finally seeing his face.

His right hand gripped her narrow waist. Manicured nails. The jeans were pressed. His sweatshirt said Sausalito. He looked like an executive hanging loose.

Exactly what he was.

Christopher Graydon-Jones.

"You've made some nice progress," he said. "Pity we don't have more spades. Well, get to work. We'll need it a good deal deeper to fit all of you. Go on, will you?"

"She's still his daughter," I said. "When he called you, he didn't expect you to kill her."

"No, I suppose not." He gave a split-second smile that raised one corner of his mouth. "Actually, he had this tart call, and look what happened to her. Expectations are so seldom met."

Nova moved, and he kneed her hard in the back.