'Camilla?' I said.

She glanced up, distracted.

'What really happened, that night in the woods?'

I think I had been expecting, if not surprise, at least a show of it. But she didn't blink. 'Well, I don't remember an awful lot,' she said slowly. 'And what I do remember is almost impossible to describe. It's all much less clear than it was even a few months ago. I suppose I should have tried to write it down or something.'

'But what do you remember?'

It was a moment before she answered. 'Well, I'm sure you've heard it all from Henry,' she said. 'It seems a bit silly to even say it aloud. I remember a pack of dogs. Snakes twining around my arms. Trees on fire, pines bursting into flames like enormous torches. There was a fifth person with us for part of the time.'

'A fifth person?'

'It wasn't always a person.'

'I don't know what you mean.'

'You know what the Greeks called Dionysus. no Xveidri^. The Many-Formed One. Sometimes it was a man, sometimes a woman. And sometimes something else. I – I'll tell you something that I do remember,' she said abruptly.

'What?' I said, hopeful at last for some passionate, back-clawing detail.

'That dead man. Lying on the ground. His stomach was torn open and steam was coming out of it.'

'His stomach"!'

'It was a cold night. I'll never forget the smell of it, either. Like when my uncle used to cut up deer. Ask Francis. He remembers, too.'

I was too horrified to say anything. She reached for the teapot and poured a bit more into her cup. 'Do you know,' she said, 'why I think we're having such bad luck this time around?'

'What?'

'Because it's terrible luck to leave a body unburied. That farmer they found straightaway, you know. But remember poor I Palinurus in the Aeneid~› He lingered around and haunted them ^^^ for the longest time. I'm afraid that none of us are going to have ^B a good night's sleep until Bunny's in the ground.'

That's nonsense.'

She laughed. 'In the fourth century b. c., the sailing of the entire Attic fleet was delayed just because a soldier sneezed.'

'You've been talking too much to Henry.'

She was silent for a moment. Then she said: 'Do you know what Henry made us do, a couple of days after that thing in the woods?'

'What?'

'He made us kill a piglet.'

I was not shocked so much by this statement as by the eerie calm with which she delivered it. 'Oh, my God,' I said.

'We cut its throat. Then we took turns holding it over each other, so it bled on our heads and hands. It was awful. I nearly got sick.'

It seemed to me that the wisdom of deliberately covering oneself with blood – even pig blood – immediately after committing a murder was questionable, but all I said was: 'Why did he want to do that?'

'Murder is pollution. The murderer defiles everyone he comes into contact with. And the only way to purify blood is through blood. We let the pig bleed on us. Then we went inside and washed it off. After that, we were okay.'

'Are you trying to tell me,' I said, 'that '

'Oh, don't worry,' she said hastily. 'I don't think he plans on doing anything like that this time.'

'Why? Didn't it work?'

She failed to catch the sarcasm of this. 'Oh, no,' she said. 'I think it worked, all right.'

'Then why not do it again?'

'Because I think Henry has got the idea that it might upset you.'

There was the fumble of a key in the lock, and a few moments later Charles plunged through the door. He shouldered his coat off and let it fall in a heap on the rug.

'Hello, hello,' he sang, lurching inside and shedding his jacket in the same fashion. He had not come into the living room, but made an abrupt turn into the hallway which led to bedrooms and bath. A door opened, then another. 'Milly, my girl,' I heard him call. 'Where are you, honey?'

'Oh, dear,' said Camilla. Out loud, she said: 'We're in here, Charles.'

Charles reappeared. His tie was now loosened and his hair was wild. 'Camilla,' he said, leaning against the doorframe, 'Camilla,' and then he saw me.

'You,' he said, not too politely. 'What are you doing here?'

'We're just having some tea,' said Camilla. 'Would you like some?'

'No.' He turned and disappeared into the hall again. 'Too late.

Going to bed.'

A door slammed. Camilla and I looked at each other. I stood up.

'Well,' I said, 'better be heading home.'

There were still search parties, but the number of participating townspeople had shrunk dramatically, and almost no students remained at all. The operation had turned tight, secretive, professional.

I heard the police had brought in a psychic, a fingerprint expert, a special team of bloodhounds trained at Dannemora.

Perhaps because I imagined that I was tainted with a secret pollution, imperceptible to most but perhaps discernible to the nose of a dog (in movies, the dog is always the first to know the suave and unsuspected vampire for what it is), the thought of the bloodhounds made me superstitious and I tried to stay as far away from dogs as I could, all dogs, even the dopey Labrador mutts who belonged to the ceramics teacher and were always r running around with their tongues hanging out, looking for a j IB game of Frisbee. Henry – imagining, perhaps, some trembling Kassandra gibbering prophecies to a chorus of policemen – was far more concerned about the psychic. 'If they're going to find us out,' he said, with glum certainty, 'that's how it's going to happen.'

'Certainly you don't believe in that stuff.'

He gave me a look of indescribable contempt.

'You amaze me,' he said. 'You think nothing exists if you can't see it.'

The psychic was a young mother from upstate New York. An electrical shock from some jumper cables had put her into a coma from which she emerged, three weeks later, able to 'know' things by handling an object or touching a stranger's hand. The police had used her successfully in a number of missing-person cases. Once she had found the body of a strangled child by merely pointing to an area on a surveyor's map. Henry, who was so superstitious that he sometimes left a saucer of milk outside his door to appease any malevolent spirits who might happen to wander by, watched her, fascinated, as she walked alone on the edge of campus – thick glasses, suburban car coat, red hair tied up in a polka-dot scarf.

'It's unfortunate,' he said. 'I don't dare risk meeting her. But I should like to talk to her very much.'

The majority of our classmates, however, were thrown into an uproar by the information – accurate or not, I still don't know – that the Drug Enforcement Agency had brought in agents and was conducting an undercover investigation. Theophile Gautier, writing about the effect of Vigny's Chatterton on the youth of Paris, said that in the nineteenth-century night one could practically hear the crack of the solitary pistols: here, now, in Hampden, the night was alive with the flushing of toilets. Pillheads, cokeheads staggered around glassy-eyed, dazed at their sudden losses. Someone flushed so much pot down one of the toilets in the sculpture studio they had to get somebody in from the Water Department to dig up the septic tank.

About four-thirty on Monday afternoon, Charles showed up at my room. 'Hello,' he said. 'Want to get something to eat?'

'Where's Camilla?'

'Somewhere, I don't know,' he said, his pale glance skittering across my room. 'Do you want to come?'

'Well… sure,' I said.

He brightened. 'Good. I've got a taxi downstairs.'

The taxi driver – a florid man named Junior who'd driven Bunny and me into town that first fall afternoon, and who in three days would be driving Bunny back to Connecticut for the last time, this time in a hearse – looked back at us in the rear-view mirror as we pulled out onto College Drive. 'You boys going to the Brassiere?' he said.