Letters began to form in the chalk dust on the board, one at a time, as if written by an invisible finger.

Yo Jack

"Hi, Charlie."

The skeptic in Jack reflexively recoiled at the idea of communicating with a dead man—after all, Lyle had been an expert at faking that very thing—but his experiences in Menelaus Manor this past summer had opened his eyes. And now Lyle seemed used to, even comfortable with, being in touch with his dead brother.

He seemed to be listening, then he said, "He wants to know why you brought that chest."

"Well, my brother Tom and I—"

"—found it in a shipwreck off Bermuda. He knows. He wants to know why you brought it here."

"I need to know something, anything about what was in it. It's called—"

"—the Lilitongue of Gefreda."

"Right." This was good—very good. Looked like he was finally going to get some answers. "I need to know what it does—if anything."

Lyle didn't answer. Jack couldn't tell if he was waiting or listening. Finally…

"Charlie doesn't know. He says it comes from a different place and age when the rules were different."

Oh, shit. "The Otherness?"

"He doesn't know. He can't be sure."

"Can he at least tell me if it's harmful?"

"He says that's relative. If you want to escape your troubles, it will help you do that. But in a case like Vicky's, it's harmful."

Jack stiffened. "You know about Vicky?"

Lyle nodded. "Charlie does."

"Harmful how?"

"She'll be taken away from everyone she knows and loves, and will never return."

Jack felt his gut freeze.

"Taken where?"

"Charlie doesn't know."

"Is that what's going to happen to her?"

Charlie could see the future at times—at least he thought he could.

"She'd have to be here in person for him to tell you that, but even then… this Lilitongue is so unique, so alien… he's not sure he'd know."

Vicky… oh, God, Vicky… what am I going to do?

Giving in to a sudden, irresistible urge to move, he sprang to his feet and paced the room. The air felt thick, he couldn't seem to draw enough of it into his lungs, his fingertips tingled. He'd never felt it before but he had a pretty good idea what was happening.

Panic.

"Goddamn it, Charlie, there's gotta be something I can do!"

"There is," Lyle said. "Find The Compendium ofSrem."

Jack halted his pacing. "I've heard of that."

That was the book Herta had told him about, the one Dr. Buhmann had alluded to. But Herta hadn't been talking about the Lilitongue of Gefreda.

The Compendium ofSrem …

"That's got the answers?"

"Charlie doesn't know. He can't pierce its covers."

Then what good is he? Jack wanted to say, but bit it back.

"Well, maybe I can. Just tell me where the damn thing is and—"

"Charlie says you already know. In fact, you've seen it."

Jack stared at Lyle, blinking in confusion. What the—?

And then he realized what Charlie meant.

4

-65:55

"Are you sure you know where you're going?" Tom said.

Jack ground his teeth, thinking about what a jerk he'd been. But then, he hadn't heard the whole story until it was too late. If Tom had told him about the Lilitongue's supposedly magical powers, if he'd told him about the girl and the dog, Jack wouldn't have allowed Vicky within ten miles of that thing.

He glanced at his brother the shmegege and thought about a quick chop to his Adam's apple—not hard enough to crush his larynx, just enough to shut him up. But knowing how that mark was growing larger on Vicky's back, he wasn't sure he could pull the punch.

"Not exactly. So can the chatter and let me think."

On either side of the two-lane blacktop, evergreens stood tall among the bare branches of their deciduous neighbors. The dull, overcast sky threatened snow. He hoped it held off—prayed it held off. The last thing he needed was to get stuck with the shmegege in the mountains of upstate New York during a blizzard. Talk about a nightmare.

Jack had been to this area twice last month. But both times at night—once with a passenger who knew the way, and the other following someone—so he was feeling his way.

"I'm still not clear on this: We've come out to the middle of nowhere to sneak into a house you might not be able to find so that we can search for a book that might or might not be there?"

"I have it on good authority that it exists, and that it belongs to the owner of this place we're looking for."

Jack hadn't wanted to bring the shmegege along, but he didn't know if he'd need an extra pair of hands at the cabin—if he could find it. He'd told him about his meeting with Dr. Buhmann, but not about Charlie. He didn't want to have to explain his connection to the disgraced Luther Brady either.

Jack rounded a curve then and slowed his Crown Vic.

"What's wrong?"

"This looks familiar."

He eased ahead until he saw the uphill gravel driveway. On impulse he pulled in and climbed the grade.

"This the place?"

"No, but if it's the place I think it is, then we're almost there."

Halfway up the driveway he looked for traces of the explosion that had ripped a man apart last month, but found none. A cleanup squad—whether human or the carnivores among the local fauna, he couldn't say—had come through and left no trace.

As the house hove into view he slammed on the brakes. The tires skidded on the gravel.

"Oh, shit."

"Wow," Tom said, craning his neck for a better look through the windshield. "Somebody sure had their fun with this place."

Not exactly the traditional idea of fun: The front door stood open, its off-kilter storm door swayed back and forth, and someone had smashed every window in sight.

Tom snorted. "Vandals. The jerk who built the place probably thought he'd leave their kind behind when he came up here. But they're everywhere."

Jack hoped the destruction was due to garden-variety vandalism. Not a hell of a lot to do in these parts: Add drugs or booze to boredom and just about anything could happen. If that had been the case, fine. But he feared the destruction might have been motivated by something else.

Seized with a sudden urgency to find Brady's cabin, Jack put the Vic in reverse and started turning it around. Took him four moves before he could nose back into the driveway again.

"Jesus, what are you doing driving a tank like this? It's a cop car. Or a retirement-village car. And you're neither."

Jack could have told the shmegege that this black Crown Victoria was the exact match—right down to the license plates—of a car belonging to a big shot in the outfit's Brooklyn wing. But then he'd have to go into a long explanation of why he'd want something like this.

He turned back onto the blacktop and continued west. Now he had an idea of where he was going. He just hoped that Brady's cabin hadn't suffered the same fate.

A few miles farther on he found a similar driveway and turned into it. The rear wheels kicked up gravel as he spurred the car uphill. Hurrying wouldn't change things—if damage had been done, it was done.

When he saw the place he slowed to a stop.

"Shit!" He pounded on the steering wheel. "Shit! Shit! Shit!"

Only charred timbers remained of the north wall of Brady's woodsy A-frame. The rest of the house looked almost as bad—not an intact pane in sight.

Jack jumped out and hurried across the dead grass to the smashed front door. Tom tailed him.

The inside was consistent with the outside, maybe worse. Looked like someone had taken an ax to everything before starting the fire. Splintered furniture—some of it used as kindling, maybe—smashed framed photos, slashed paintings, books reduced to confetti. Rain washing in through the ruined roof had added to the damage.