Strangewood

by Christopher Golden

Copyright 1999 by Christopher Golden

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, dialog, and situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the author.

Cover Art by Lynne Hansen

Book Design by Lynne Hansen

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PRAISE FOR STRANGEWOOD

"If Clive Barker had gone Through the Looking Glass, he might have come up with something as imaginative and compelling as Strangewood." — Kevin J. Anderson, author of Dune: House Harkonnen

"Strangewood the novel is a daring and thoroughly engrossing blend of wonder and adventure, terror and tenderness. Strangewood the place is what Oz might have been if L. Frank Baum had grown up on a steady diet of Stephen King." — F. Paul Wilson, author of The Keep

"A fascinating read." — Cemetery Dance Magazine

DEDICATION

For Connie.

Without you, the sun would never rise.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction by Christopher Golden

Foreword by Graham Joyce

Strangewood

Afterword by Bentley Little

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Connect With Christopher Golden Online

Other Works by Christopher Golden

INTRODUCTION BY CHRISTOPHER GOLDEN

By now you all know the number one question writers most dread hearing . . . which is consequently the number one question we are asked.

Where do we get our ideas?

There are two types of people who ask this question: those who’d like to find out where the ideas come from so they can go there and pick up a few, and those who think I’m absolutely insane because of the weird shit I write.

Most of the time, I push the question off. The truth is, most ideas are bits of inspiration and information I’ve cobbled together over the course of months or years, things that are completely unrelated but which end up revealing themselves as connected, if only I’d work a little harder at filling in the blanks. These are ideas that are built, not found.

Recently, I’ve actually dreamed a couple of book ideas, but I don’t talk about that much because I think it pisses people off. It means I didn’t work for them. That’s not precisely true — dreams don’t make a lot of sense and so they have to have the blanks filled in as well — but still, it makes it sound easy.

Then there’s the “eureka” idea. I’ve had three of those revelatory moments thus far in my career and I’ve been very pleased with the results each time. Strangewood came about that way.

I had recently been to a convention where Clive Barker was urging the writers in the audience not to restrict their own imaginations. He felt that the worst thing a writer could do was to have an idea and then rein it back, tell themselves it was too wild.

The timing of this was vital.

Shortly after I returned from that convention I was being interviewed for a magazine by my friend and later colleague Hank Wagner. My son, Nicholas, was perhaps three at the time, and what we’ll call a Winnie-the-Pooh aficionado. Which is to say we had more than two dozen Pooh video tapes that we watched round the clock.

I love Winnie-the-Pooh. Always have. I read the original Milne to my kids when they were very small. But good God, there’s only so much of anything one man can take. I told Hank that I had watched so much Pooh that I’d reached the point where I’d love to see armed warriors on horseback ride down into the Hundred Acre Wood, skin the little bastards, and nail their pelts to trees.

Strangewood was born in that moment. The whole thing. Certainly there were details that came later, some of them intrinsic to what I perceive as the success of the story. Also, as I wrote, I was greatly influenced by a wonderful short story I had read years before called “The Power of the Mandarin,” by the cartoonist, writer and gentleman, Gahan Wilson.

But for all intents and purposes, that was it. The light bulb. The eureka idea.

So for those of you who ask that question, you now have an answer, at least where this story is concerned.

What a relief to find that the mad imagery that had come into my head at that moment was vivid enough not only to propel me through the book, but to carry others along with me. I asked a handful of writers I knew to have a look at it, some of them friends and others friendly acquaintances, and I waited with trepidation for their replies. You can not possibly imagine the relief and elation I felt when the feedback began to arrive from authors who had always had my deep and abiding respect: Peter Straub, F. Paul Wilson, Graham Joyce, Kevin J. Anderson and others lent their voices in support. I felt blessed and, also, like the luckiest bastard on Earth. I thought I ought to hurry up and get the book out before they changed their minds.

Upon publication, readers embraced the book as well. The old adage about not being able to please everyone is true, of course, but by and large those who ventured into Strangewood with me that first time around seemed to have been more deeply affected by it than the readers of anything else I had ever written. I received countless e-mails asking for more adventures in Strangewood . . . and who knows? Perhaps, one day. In fact, there’s a story in my head already, a sort of eureka junior, and I even have a title . . . but that’s for another time.

Unfortunately, word didn’t get out quickly enough, or widely enough and as so often happens, Strangewood slipped out of print. But the e-mails kept coming. People continued to ask about it. And my editor, Laura Anne Gilman, continued to champion this odd little story.

So here we are, back again, hopefully for a much longer run this time.

I’ve often referred to Strangewood as the book with which I “grew up” as a writer. Sort of ironic, I think, given that it concerns children’s literature and the sorts of characters that populate the landscapes of such works. Nevertheless, I still think of it that way. The dark fantasy novels I’d previously written were about action and ideas. Don’t get me wrong, there’s something to be said for that. The Shadow Saga will always be near and dear to my heart and I intend to keep visiting that world. But I found with Strangewood that I had other types of stories in me.

Instead of action and ideas, Strangewood is about characters and situations. While working on it, I began to think of it — and to refer to it — as a domestic dark fantasy. To me, that meant that it was about the people first, about an ordinary group of people with ordinary problems. In this case, about Thomas and Emily Randall, recently divorced, and their troubled son Nathan. It was about extraordinary things happening to these ordinary people, and the consequences that resulted from that. It was about fatherhood and divorce, about creation and neglect, and about how we have to negotiate emotionally when love falters.

See, and you thought it was just about talking crows and pissed off saber-toothed tiger men.

Strangewood remains my favorite of all my books.

I hope you enjoy your journey there.

Forgive me, please, if I also hope that you don’t emerge entirely unscathed.

Christopher Golden

Bradford, Massachusetts

FOREWORD BY GRAHAM JOYCE

In the traditions of the Fantastic, the motif of the Woods looms large. Christopher Golden’s Strangewood emerges, trailing clouds of glory, from those very traditions. The Woods is a place of archetypal force. The writer who invokes the power of the greenwoods knows that the stakes are high and the list of antecedents long. In fact it would take a book on its own to chart the treatment of the theme and the antecedents are too rich to catalogue here.

In fact I ought to write it, though I know I won’t because it would take too long. But if I did I could talk about how fairy tale tradition locates so many of its glorious stories — Hansel and Gretel, Babes In The Wood, Red Riding Hood, just to name three — in the Woods for very particular reasons. Or why A Midsummer Nights Dream by ol’ Will Whatsisname has to be located in the Forest of Arden; or about Kipling’s Man-Cub, just like Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Tarzan, being raised in the jungle by animals.

In their brilliant cataloguing of Fantasy motifs the encyclopaediasts Clute & Grant generated the phrase Into the woods to denote the process of transformation or passage into a new world signaled by entering woods and forests. It is very often that, but it’s actually even more specific, and certainly more than the usual fantasy portal to transformation. For the Woods is a very literal place of both dark and light. Of beaten pathways and uncharted zones. Of twists and turns. A place where you may encounter strange allies or enemies masquerading as friends. It is the primal locus of fear and wonder. In other words, in the fiction of the Fantastic, the Woods is so often the psychic correlative to the condition of Childhood.

The Woods stands in for the budding consciousness of the child, the individuation of character, and the ultimate emergence from the woods represents the passage out of childhood. Or to put it another way, the passage out of unconsciousness and into self-consciousness. For example, CS Lewis launches the children of his Narnia sequence into the woods before having them emerge as heroes. But — and it’s a big but — the protagonists do not have to be children. More recently and in works more complex, varied (and dare I say superior to Lewis), Charles De Lint (Greenmantle), Rob Holdstock (Mythago Wood) and Ramsey Campbell (The Darkest part of The Woods) — just to name a few — explore the awe-inducing presence of the Greenwood and its role in the human psyche.

Christopher Golden takes this rich tradition and braids it beautifully with another pattern recognisable to the connoisseur of the Fantastic concern: that of the artist (in this case a writer) haunted by his own creations, Stephen King’s The Dark Half and Peter Straub’s more recent In The Night Room being too very fine examples of the species. All writers work with antecedent forms. What separates the mere copyist from the creator (and Christopher Golden along with all the authors mentioned above is a superb creator from antecedent form) is the originality of vision that makes a story worth recasting in a persuasive new form.

In the case of Strangewood, what Christopher Golden does is to complicate all of the above by positing the question of the relationship between Childhood, Creativity and the Imagination. These are indeed haunting themes for all writers, especially authors of the Fantastic. There is, after all, a relationship between vulnerability and the imagination. What can be more vulnerable than the image of a small child in the woods? And what can be more clever than that device by which Christopher Golden brilliantly contrives to have not only the child, Nathan, at risk in the woods; but also to render the adult hero of the narrative, Thomas, as simultaneously the responsible father and the original child, the “Our Boy” of Strangewood.

It’s a master-stroke of story-telling, and one which elevates Strangewood, pushing it into that prized place in which the story is mysteriously larger than itself.

So there is in Strangewood an exploration of the complex relationship between a writer’s family dynamics, childhood, imagination, creativity and children. All of this is offered in a fascinating double narrative, where Strangewood reaches out, root and branch, to impact upon the world of its creator.

Thomas, the protagonist of the story, is an author who suffers an extreme responsibility for the things he has created in the children’s novels he writes. A terrible revenge is visited on his own child. The novel links a disintegrated marriage, which of course threatens the happiness of the child Nathan, with the internal collapse of the Fantasy world — Strangewood — created by the author Thomas. The question is whether the crisis is precipitated by the flawed nature of Thomas, or by the crisis of his marriage; but whichever it is, in this case “the sins of the father are visited on their sons.”

Unlike most modern Fantasy that constructs either a hermetically-sealed universe or enters another universe via a portal concealed in this world, Christopher Golden locates his story in both the contemporary and the Fantastic world and gives equal weight to both. Because his real interest, his real subject, is the imagination, the true portal, the primal mentalistic woods that demark the land between the contemporary world and the Fantastic world.

What talent or distress is it, exactly, that divides writers and their ilk from the rest of the population? Why do they seek such extended recourse to the depths of the forest or to the rear of the flickering cave? Certainly Christopher Golden knows that the human psyche in a state of distress can construct almost any solution to its problems. Nothing is too wild or incredible, and, as you are about to find out from this book, those close to the furnace of the imagination can smell the ash and flame of the root and branch of Strangewood.

Graham Joyce

Achill Island, August 2006

PROLOGUE

"Is it true? Is it really true?" shouted The Boy, as he stared up into the green-blue sky above Strangewood.

"Yes, oh yes," replied Fiddlestick the dragon, and he swooped and soared and looped and spun in figure eights above them, making The Boy and all of his Friends very dizzy indeed.

"I should have known!" The Boy cried. "I should have known this very morning! It's an absotively gorgeous day, too warm for autumn — and it is autumn now, you know! Too warm for autumn, and I should have known today was going to be something special! A day like no other!"

The Boy watched Fiddlestick a moment longer, but it was difficult to watch the dragon for long without getting a crick in his neck, being as how the dragon was up in the air and such. Then The Boy whooped and laughed, and did one of the cartwheels he was forever trying to teach Brownie the Grizzly, without any luck.

Brownie laughed and tried a cartwheel anyway and fell into a big, brown pile of giggling fur.

They were all laughing and dancing in the small clearing behind Grumbler's cottage, which had been a sad place for a while, but was now a happy place again.

There was a ringling jingling jangling noise, and The Boy looked up happily to watch as Mr. Tinklebum appeared from the Winding Way and ding-dong rang-ran into the clearing.

"He's right, Our Boy! Fiddlestick is right! Word has been passed along by Clapper and Trumpet and so many others, along the Winding Way all the way from the Land of Bells and Whistles! They've been seen, they've been seen, coming down the Up-River. The Forest Rangers have confirmed it!"

Mr. Tinklebum ran up to The Boy, his bell bottom tolling with joy at every step. Laughing Boy yelped his hyena laugh, and Brownie danced, and they could all hear the sing-song, scritch-scratch, wind chime melody of Fiddlestick's tiny wings, beating the tune of flying music.

Gourdon Squashhead was the last to arrive. His autumn job was to watch over the Big Old Orchard, to keep it safe from the Crow Brothers, Dave and Barry. When The Boy saw Gourdon today, he cried out in pleasant surprise, because Gourdon was not alone!

The Crow Brothers had arrived with Gourdon himself.

"Oh, indeed, this is a special day when the Crow Brothers and Strangewood's only scarecrow can put aside their grudges," The Boy said. "We shall have a big party, now. A welcome home, please don't go again party. A we've missed you terribly party. A house re-warming party! Yes! Yes indeed!"

All of The Boy's Friends cried out in agreement. They were excited at the prospect of a party, but what an occasion! To have their old friends returning at last!

A moment later, as The Boy danced with Brownie, Fiddlestick cried out from above.

"They're here, they're here!" he shouted down, and the music of his wings picked up in tempo and volume.

"Quiet up there, I can't hear myself think!" Gourdon yelled at Fiddlestick.

"That will be enough of that, sir scarecrow," The Boy chided him. "We're all a bit excited, don't you know?"

The Winding Way crinch-crunched from the shadowed forest, and The Boy became nervous at first. Then he realized what the sound was: big, booted feet and hoof-hands on dry autumn leaves.

"Helloooooooo!" The Boy shouted. "Grumbler? Feathertop? We're here, all of us, waiting for you at Grumbler's cottage! Hellooooooo!"

Out from the shadows between the trees stepped a cranky looking dwarf wearing a green felt fedora. By his side was a happy little pony whose head was tufted by a sprig spurt splotch of lime green feathers.

"Grumbler!" The Boy cried with pleasure, rushing toward the dwarf. "Feathertop!" he shouted gleefully, opening his arms wide.

"You've finally come home!" The Boy said excitedly. "You've both finally come home to the Wood!"

Grumbler the dwarf stopped at the edge of the clearing. With his eyes narrowed and his mouth in a twist they all remembered well, Grumbler looked past The Boy at the cottage he'd once lived in. He glanced around at the others, who smiled and sang and danced a jig for him. Grumbler looked at Feathertop, who whinnied and looked back at Grumbler.

"I'm so glad you've come home," The Boy said, calmer now, but just as happy.

"Well," Grumbler replied, his voice a bit deeper than The Boy remembered. And much colder.

"It isn't as though we had much of a choice . . .”

—an excerpt from Fly Away to Strangewood

by TJ Randall. The last, unfinished Strangewood story.

CHAPTER 1

There was no fanfare to announce the moment when Thomas Randall's life began to change. No dramatic storm, no sudden enlightenment or shift of fortune.

It simply happened, much like the mundane act of turning a light on, yet without even the sudden illumination to mark the event. And Thomas himself did not even notice that anything had changed.

But everything had changed.

The waitress clinked a sweating bottle of Dixie Crimson Voodoo onto Thomas Randall's table at Live Bait, where he waited for his agent to arrive for their late lunch meeting. According to her name tag, the waitress was named Beverly. She was an extraordinary black woman with chocolate skin and a metal bolt through her tongue that flashed when she thanked him for her tip. Something so sexy about that.

Then again, all the waitresses at Live Bait — and waiters too, for that matter — were sparklingly good-looking. There was a myth about New York, and Los Angeles as well, that every waitress was an actress or a model. One particularly sluttish woman in L.A. had even proudly introduced herself to Thomas as an "AMW."

Naive fool, he'd asked, "What's an AMW?"

She'd bestowed upon him a particularly condescending smile and chirped in Clueless tones, "Actress, model . . . whatever!" Then she'd laughed, a self-conscious cackle that tossed her hair back and made her breasts heave just enough to confirm their impossible roundness. Impossible, that was L.A., all right.

Which was why, after the first animated film from Disney, entitled simply Adventures in Strangewood, Thomas had moved his family back to Westchester County, New York. Mission accomplished.

On the other hand, he didn't really have a family anymore.

Thomas wiped several beads of condensation off the neck of his Crimson Voodoo. He loved that ale mainly because he loved New Orleans, where it was made. Part of him wanted to live in New Orleans, but it was just too damn hot down there, and too exotically alien. Manhattan was his town. Dangerous, yes, but since he lived in Westchester, Manhattan's dangers seemed more exotic than risky. Thomas also preferred the Northeast because, simply put, he needed seasons, a sense of time passing.

"Can I get you another?" Beverly asked.

"Hmm?" Thomas replied, then looked down to see the bottle of Crimson Voodoo nearly empty.

"All this heat," he observed, and waved a hand over the bottle. "It must have evaporated."

They grinned at one another, and Thomas agreed that, yes, he would have another beer. He was thirty-two, divorced from Emily less than six months, and the father of one son, Nathan, who was five. Beverly the waitress was barely old enough to drink — if that — sexy as all get out, and flirting with him. It wasn't any serious flirting. Thomas wasn't an idiot. But it was a pleasant kind of energy passing between them, and he enjoyed it just for that.

The second bottle of Crimson Voodoo replaced the first. Beverly put it down precisely where the other had sat, as if the small ring of condensation were a bulls-eye. Thomas moved the bottle. Maybe just his way of keeping count, marking the passing of the first dead soldier. For a moment, he watched Beverly move, admired her athletic build, the black shorts and sneakers, the white socks and tee, even the dirty little green apron. She was curiously unadorned for a New York woman, particularly one who wanted to be a model or an actress.

He observed her. Writers are like stalkers in that way, he thought self-consciously, and not for the first time. He was watching her too closely, too carefully. And so he forced himself to look away.

His gaze drifted around the small restaurant area, perhaps a dozen unsteady tables in use by employees. That's how Thomas always thought of them. They weren't his employees of course, or the restaurants, but they were somebody's. Manhattan at one P.M. on a weekday was little more than one huge business lunch. Find a hip yet cheap place to eat, all the better.

Live Bait fit the bill. The little Cajun restaurant was at Twenty-Third Street and Madison, a neighborhood with more than its share of publishing houses. A trendy spot for editors, agents, and writers to run into one another, by accident or design.

Past a bar crowded with people drinking lunch, and probably not there on business, was a wide glass picture window ornamented with reversed neon beer signs. Reversed to Thomas, of course. They were perfectly readable from the steaming, sun-drenched sidewalk of Twenty- Third Street.

Thomas watched people walking by, ties loosened, jackets off. Those who didn't have such dress codes wore as little as legally possible. One woman walking her dog had on a bikini top and what seemed to be a silk scarf instead of a skirt. Thomas didn't even blink, and only the tourists turned to see her as she walked by. It was Manhattan, after all.

It was a hot Friday in July and not even the lightest breeze stirred the stagnant air in the canyons of New York City. When the sun dropped behind the Flatiron Building, long, cool shadows would insinuate themselves across the sidewalks, stretching fingers into the street itself.

For now, there was only the glare.

Then, blocking the glare, a silhouette, a shape, a woman.

"I hope you haven't been waiting long."

Thomas blinked several times, forced his eyes to adjust. The silhouette resolved into his agent, Francesca Cavallaro. Attractive, yet diminutive, she was possessed of an immutable resolve and an air of confidence that gave her a much larger presence than her size would warrant.

She had fire, Thomas always thought. He'd liked that in her from the first. It had served both of them well.

"Nope, waited for you before ordering," Thomas revealed. "But I know what I want. The jambalaya is excellent here, you should try it."

"I'm in the mood for fish, actually," Francesca said. "If they have blackened catfish, I'm sold."

"You may be in luck," he told her as she picked up a menu. Then, after a moment, "I don't want to rush you, but we're going to have to be fairly quick. I've got to pick Nathan up from school."

Francesca's blue eyes rose over the top of the menu to regard him tenderly. She had long hair, dyed an almost natural red, and blue eyes that reminded Thomas of a marble he'd had as a boy; just one, and he'd lost it the spring he'd turned seven. But he never forgot.

"How's that going, anyway?" she asked.

"Seems to be working out," Thomas replied. "I get my work done during the week, and play with Nathan on the weekend. The best of both worlds, actually, considering how Emily and I get along these days. Which is to say, not at all."

This answer seemed to satisfy Francesca, for she glanced idly around in search of the waitress.

"How's the new one coming? What's it called?"

"Fly Away to Strangewood," he reminded her. "It's the one where Grumbler and Feathertop finally come home."

Francesca brightened with that.

"God, TJ," she said. "The kids have been screaming for that for about three years, right? That'll make you a mint."

"Us," Thomas reminded her, brushing his fingers through his thick scrub of short dark hair. "It'll make us a mint. And please, Frankie, don't call me TJ. You know I hate that."

"Sorry," she lied. Then the waitress came, and when he glanced at her tag, Thomas realized he'd forgotten her name. In the space of less than five minutes, it had been lost to him. He chided himself, and the failings of the human mind, and ordered his jambalaya.

"Another Voodoo?" the waitress asked.

"Just Coke this time," he requested. "With a lime."

As Francesca ordered, Thomas slid down a bit in his chair. It was as rickety as the table. He wore fresh blue jeans and new sneakers, a well-made short-sleeve shirt with three buttons at the neck. He was comfortable. Anytime he began to have misgivings about the things he felt he'd given up creatively, the spark, the heart of his work, Thomas reminded himself how fortunate he was.

It was a hell of a way to make a living. And besides, he had created Strangewood, beloved by children the world over. How bad could that be?

The question was bittersweet for him, actually. He made a lot of money, had a limited amount of notoriety, and a property that would most certainly outlive him, and possibly his children as well. But the more popular Strangewood became, the more languages it was translated into, the more merchandise produced, the less it belonged to Thomas. The less it was his vision.

Like this thing with Grumbler and Feathertop. When he'd written them out of the series in Leaving Strangewood, he'd meant for them to be gone forever. He'd wanted to spend time developing some of the other characters in more detail. But the backlash from kids and their parents — not to mention film and television executives with an interest in the series — was so severe that he was practically forced to bring them back.

The books had changed in other ways, too. The central figure of the entire Strangewood series, The Boy, had always been a cypher, a six- or seven-year-old boy exploring a small wood behind his home which, to him, contained fantastic otherworlds and extraordinary creatures, both friendly and not-so-friendly. But more than anything else, The Boy was merely the reader's window into Strangewood.

Once upon a time, The Boy had been Thomas. But several years earlier, while Thomas was writing At the Heart of Strangewood, that had changed. The Boy had walked out his back door, his mother, as always, calling for him not to stray too far. He had followed the Scratchy Path, lined with pricker bushes, deep into Strangewood's heart, where Grumbler's little cottage always had a fire burning in the hearth.

As usual, trouble was already brewing. Brownie the Grizzly had promised to help the scarecrow, Gourdon Squashhead, implement the latest in his never-ending series of schemes to keep the Crow Brothers out of the cornfield. But Brownie was lazy, always yawning, and had nodded off midmorning. Gourdon's corn had gone undefended, and the Crow Brothers had made off with dozens of ears.

When The Boy arrived, everyone was out behind Grumbler's cottage, not far from the cornfield, arguing about Brownie's responsibility, or lack thereof. Well, everyone but Fiddlestick — who was still in his cave — and some of the nastier residents of Strangewood.

Feathertop and Grumbler were firmly on Gourdon's side. The hyena, whom everybody called Laughing Boy and who always spoke of himself in the third person, thought it was all very funny. But he felt bad for Brownie, who, he said, "couldn't help his sleepiness any more than Laughing Boy can help laughing." Mr. Tinklebum wasn't the smartest bell-bottom in Strangewood, but he also thought it was an honest mistake.

They all looked to The Boy for judgment, of course.

While he was making up his mind, Bob Longtooth and Cragskull, a nasty pair who were thieves and scoundrels and just generally made life in Strangewood unpleasant whenever possible, moved into Grumbler's home and claimed it as their own.

After The Boy had decided that Brownie should try to be more conscientious and should help Gourdon out in the field for the next few days by way of apology, they were all to retire to Grumbler's for tea. Grumbler, made excellent tea, despite his grumpy disposition.

But Grumbler's cottage was "gone." In its place, though it looked precisely the same, was an apparently brand new dwelling owned by Bob Longtooth and Cragskull. There followed a series of amusingly failed attempts to find Grumbler's old house or take over this "new" one. After which, of course, The Boy inspired the others to prevail by using their wits and convincing the villains that they'd actually taken the wrong house.

That was when it happened.

During the writing of this scene, Thomas had realized, for the first time in more than ten years, that he didn't know what The Boy was going to say next. Hence, The Boy was no longer Thomas Randall. And Thomas didn't know who he was. Maybe Nathan? Maybe nobody anymore.

Nobody. That was the thing that disturbed him the most. If The Boy was a nobody, a noncharacter, how could Thomas even begin to understand the rest of Strangewood? He'd gone on, continuing to write adventure after adventure, to fulfill contracts and expectations. But something was missing. Even if no one else could tell, Thomas could tell. Something vital seemed gone forever from Strangewood.

In his more somber moods, Thomas wondered if this distance from his creation was caused by his age. Had he finally done what he'd vowed he would never do? Had he grown up, forgotten what it was like to be a child?

He'd always known his way in Strangewood before, as well as anyone who truly lived there. But now he was just a visitor. Like going back to your hometown after twenty years away, and discovering that everything has changed.

It made his heart ache.

But life went on.

"Well?" Francesca asked, and Thomas looked up to see her staring at him expectantly.

"I'm sorry?" he replied, then shook his head. "Wow. Sorry, Frankie. I've just got a lot on my mind these days. Being a divorced father is even more complicated than being a married father."

"You're doing a great job, Thomas," Francesca assured him. But it didn't really help. She only knew what he told her and couldn't possibly be in any position to really judge whether or not he was being a good father. But he was trying, and that had to count for something.

"What were you saying before?" he asked her.

"I was just curious when you were going to ask me about the negotiations with Disney," she explained. "That was the reason for lunch today to begin with, wasn't it?"

Thomas grimaced. "I'm afraid to ask."

Francesca sipped at an iced tea that the waitress had somehow slipped onto the table while Thomas wasn't paying attention. She paused, inhaled, as if constructing her next few sentences with care and well in advance. He'd never known if it was genuine, or simply a tactic to make her seem contemplative. It worked, though. He supposed that was what mattered.

"They want to greenlight Strangewood as a Saturday morning show for two years on ABC, then strip it weekday afternoons starting the third season," she answered. "I told them you weren't interested if you couldn't get Nelson DeCastro as the voice of Grumbler."

Thomas waited and widened his eyes as a signal for her to continue. Finally, he was forced to ask.

"And they said . . . ?"

"They said they can't afford Nelson for this show," she confessed. "I argued with them, told them our demographics again, the surveys, and testing numbers. They wouldn't budge. They want Billy Carroll, from that new Fox sitcom, what's it called?"

Thomas sighed, scratched the back of his head, sighed again. He took a sip of his Coke.

"Thomas?" Francesca prodded.

"'Crap' is what it's called, Frankie!" he said vehemently, his voice loud enough to draw attention from several tables. "That guy isn't funny enough, isn't cranky enough, isn't old enough . . . shit, the guy's never even done voice-over before!"

Francesca said nothing. Their lunch came, Thomas picked at it idly. Finally he looked up at Francesca, apology in his brown eyes. Again he ran a hand through his short scrub of dark hair, the first gray beginning to creep in at his temples.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly. "It's just, you know I didn't want to use Grumbler in the first place. Hell, I don't even like the little shit. But when I hear him in my head, it's Nelson DeCastro, you know? God, I don't even know why I do this anymore. I should finish that mystery."

"The one you've been writing for eleven years," Francesca said in a mildly sarcastic voice. "I thought you loved Strangewood?"

Thomas ignored her, sipped his Coke again. He looked at the crowd surfing the bar, chatting, flirting, drinking. When they came here, they left their work behind. Most of them, anyway. But some jobs couldn't be left behind. Thoughts and ideas lingered, plots begged to be fleshed out and followed wherever you went. The bar patrons were fortunate from a certain perspective. But he wouldn't have traded places with them for the world. They didn't even know what they were missing, what it was like to tell stories. To entertain.

That was all he ever wanted: to entertain. In particular, to entertain children with tales of Strangewood, a place he'd dreamt of all his life.

His gaze drifted out the window, where the shadows had finally overtaken the sidewalk.

"Did they give us everything else we asked for?" Thomas asked.

"They didn't even blink," Francesca assured him.

"The money?"

"Not a problem," she confirmed.

Thomas watched the people passing on the street, hurrying back now from late lunches, or going to meetings across the street or across town. He didn't even glance at Francesca as he said, "Do the deal." Thomas reached for his Coke, looked down a moment at the caramel liquid, the ice cubes, and pulped slice of lime. He faced his disappointment, reminded himself of his good fortune, and moved on.

As he lifted the glass to his lips, Thomas looked back toward the front of the restaurant, past the bar, and out the window, where he could see several people passing by.

One of them was a dwarf in a green felt fedora.

The glass clinked against his teeth and stopped there, frozen. He put it down slowly.

"Thomas, what is it?" Francesca asked with concern.

He was already standing, pushing his chair back.

"Give me a second, will you?" Thomas mumbled, feeling rather ridiculous but unable to restrain himself. "Be right back."

As he strode past the bar, his gait quickened. He shoved through the glass door and stood staring west, head darting left and right as he tried to see past the people flowing along the sidewalk. His lack of motion disturbed the human tides all around him, and so he started off in the same direction he'd seen . . . the direction his quarry had been walking.

Grumbler.

Thomas sped up, moving around people now, and stopped again at the corner of Broadway. Self-conscious, feeling more than a little bit foolish, he glanced north and south, then peered west one last time. Of a smart-mouth dwarf with a penchant for green felt fedoras, there was no sign.

Not that he'd actually believed he'd seen Grumbler. He'd been in therapy before, but that was de rigeur for creative types, not because he was psychotic. But still, even from the glimpse he'd gotten of the man who'd walked past the restaurant, the resemblance was intriguing. In that flash, and wearing a green felt fedora which implied that others had made the comparison, he'd looked more like the Grumbler in Thomas's head than any artist's rendition ever had.

It had been kind of eerie, actually.

But as he walked back into Live Bait, to see Francesca staring at him expectantly, the possibilities that had occurred to him the moment he'd seen the man walk by began to play themselves out. If a vertically challenged pedestrian with a sense of humor could make the man who created Grumbler take a second look . . .

"I just had a brainstorm," he said, picking up his Coke glass once more.

"Is that what you call it?" she asked archly. "I would've thought you'd seen your car about to be towed or something."

Thomas smiled, mind working. "What about live-action?" he asked. "Why haven't we ever really discussed the possibility? I mean, I know what they'll say, 'Oh, Willow had a dwarf in it, and that tanked!' But Grumbler's just one character."

A man rising from his seat behind Thomas bumped his chair and didn't bother to apologize. Thomas barely looked at him, engrossed in his own thoughts. Francesca was contemplating, looking at Thomas over steepled fingers.

"I know what you're going to say," he preempted. "'It's too expensive.' But with the digital computer tech these days, it wouldn't cost that much. No more than animation, probably."

"They never did Winnie the Pooh live-action," Francesca finally said, allowing a thick strand of red hair to fall across her left eye. She didn't brush it away. Too focused.

"Not true. They did it once, but very cheaply, and very badly. Nobody ever really invested in it, but that's because the Pooh characters are supposed to be stuffed animals, which makes suspension of disbelief even harder than usual," Thomas countered. "This is different. All the creatures in Strangewood are intended to be flesh and blood. It's magical, but it's a real place."

Francesca looked away, then. Her eyes scanned the restaurant for nothing in particular. Thomas had known her too long, and this particular reaction meant she had something to say that she didn't think he'd want to hear.

"What?" he asked. "I don't understand why this idea isn't working for you."

It was several moments before she faced him once more. She chewed her lower lip in a way that might have been sexy if there were any physical attraction between them. Instead, it only frustrated him because she was holding back.

"Frankie, what?" he pleaded.

"I'll pitch it if you want," she relented. "But I don't know if anyone will go for it."

"For God's sake, why the hell not?" he asked, incredulous. "It's the most popular series of children's books in decades. Why wouldn't somebody pick it up?"

"They may," she explained. "But — and again, this is just me — I think that Strangewood in live-action might actually be kind of frightening to some kids, and I worry that the studios will feel the same."

"Frightening?" Thomas repeated. "You're joking! Well, obviously you're not joking. This isn't your kind of humor. But, still . . . what's scary about Strangewood?"

"There are a lot of scary things about Strangewood," she insisted. "That's half the fun, and half the reason it's so popular. But live-action is too . . . I don't know, too real. But, look, I'll pitch whatever you want."

Thomas was kind of cranky, now. He understood what Francesca was saying; had to admit to himself that she was right. There was an air of menace to almost everything that happened in Strangewood. Grumbler, for example, was so well-loved was because he was a bully, a potentially dangerous character, no matter how loveable. He carried a pair of Colt Peacemakers in armpit holsters. In the books he'd threatened the life of Mr. Tinklebum at least a dozen times. And the way Thomas wrote him, Grumbler had meant it.

But still . . .

"Look, just put out some feelers, all right?" he concluded. "With Disney snapping up the animation rights, it's going to be a hot property. Even without Nelson DeCastro."

"You're the creator," Francesca replied.

For some reason, the response struck him as amusing, and Thomas grinned. "Yeah," he said, "that'll be my epitaph."

* * * * *

The afternoon sunlight glowed orange off the glass and steel as Thomas piloted his Volvo sedan along the Saw Mill Parkway. Nathan was in kindergarten at St. Bridget's in Tarrytown, where he still lived with his mother. Thomas had moved to Ardsley, only a few miles away, right after the separation. Just close enough, and just far enough.

On Fridays, Nathan was in the afterschool program so that Thomas could have a full workday before picking him up. Most weeks, when he didn't have to be in Manhattan for a meeting as he'd had to today, he showed up around three o'clock anyway.

Now it was going on five, and traffic on the Saw Mill was snarled. Sister Margaret would wait, of course. She was a lovely old woman, not even the slightest whisper of Sister Teresa, the ancient, belittling crone who'd taught Thomas when he'd attended junior high at St. Bridget's.

The school was as boring and nondescript a hunk of real estate as ever graced the real estate rolls of Roman Catholicism. St. Bridget's church, in and of itself, was a gorgeous edifice, with a towering spire and an enormous oval stained glass crucifixion scene above the altar. But the rectory across the street, and the school next to that, might as well have been military bunkers.

When Thomas pulled the Volvo into the lot behind St. Bridget's, it was twenty minutes past five o'clock. Sister Margaret was on the rear steps watching Nathan clap erasers, a beatific smile on her face. As Thomas slammed the car door, she shot him a stern glance. It occurred to him that nuns just weren't as imposing now that contemporary thinking had allowed most of them to wear civilian clothes rather than the traditional black-and-white habit. Still, Sister Margaret was forbidding enough without the penguin outfit. If you didn't know how sweet she was.

"Hi, Daddy!" Nathan cried happily, all smiles, though he squinted through a cloud of chalk dust. "I just have to finish with these erasers, and then we can go!"

"You got it, buddy," Thomas replied, chuckling to himself. Nathan was a conscientious little boy. Truly a good kid. His eyes were ice blue — Paul Newman blue, Emily had always said — and his hair a sandy blond that could go either way, lighter or darker, as he grew. Bright, healthy, handsome, gregarious. That was Nathan. The Randalls — back when Thomas and Emily could still be collectively referred to as the Randalls — had been extremely fortunate.

But even the joy of Nathan's presence only delayed the inevitable. Thoughts of Emily brought to mind one of Thomas's favorite songs from the seventies. It was the Manhattans, he thought. "Some people are made for each other, some people can love one another for life. How 'bout us?"

He'd always believed wholeheartedly in such romantic drivel. At least until real life had intruded on radio daydreams. It had been quite a blow to him. The truth of the answer — which of course was "no" — hurt him deeply.

Entropy. Love fades. Nothing gold can stay. Time flies.

Depressing shit, all of it. But at the end of the day, he had a successful career, and he had Nathan. So in spite of the heartaches, Thomas was a relatively happy man.

"My apologies, Sister," he said as he mounted the school steps, remembering quite well the respect drummed into him over the years he'd spent at St. Bridget's.

"I'll forgive you this time, Thomas," the nun warned, though the smile had already returned to her face. "But only because you're usually so early."

"Thanks, Sister M. You're the best," Thomas said.

He turned to call to Nathan, but paused as Sister Margaret's hand rested lightly on his shoulder.

"Thomas?" she asked, and he regarded her again, puzzled by her tone.

"Is everything all right between you and Emily, these days?" the nun asked, then flushed slightly. "I mean, other than the obvious. Has there been any additional stress or . . . or hostility, that Nathan might have noticed?"

There was genuine concern in her soft inquiry, and so Thomas was unwilling to brush the Sister's questions away as he might have with anyone else prying into his personal life.

"Please understand, my interest is only in Nathan's welfare," she continued, obviously worried that she might have offended him.

"I understand perfectly, Sister," he replied. "But other than the stresses of the divorce itself, I don't know of anything . . . I mean, Emily and I have been working hard at making it all as easy as we can on Nathan. Has something been bothering him?"

Sister Margaret frowned, then raised her eyebrows and sighed.

"It isn't any one thing, Thomas," she admitted. "He just seems very distracted the past few days. I asked him if anything was bothering him and he did say he was sad, but that's not too unusual in a child of divorce."

Thomas noticed that, unlike many other members of the clergy he'd known, Sister Margaret didn't make the word "divorce" sound filthy. He was grateful to her for that.

"I suppose it's nothing," she said finally.

"I'll have a talk with him," Thomas decided. "Thanks for your concern, Sister."

"He's a wonderful boy, with an extraordinary imagination," Sister Margaret enthused. "I suppose that's not very surprising for a child whose father created Strangewood, but it's still an admirable quality."

A sly grin stole across Thomas's face.

"Did I say something funny, Mr. Randall?" Sister Margaret asked, with feigned consternation.

"I was just thinking about my tenure at St. Bridget's," Thomas replied. "In the old days, the nuns would try to stifle my imagination as much as possible. I was drawing and writing things down all the time. They thought I was strange, a discipline problem, simply because I wasn't as serious as the other kids."

"That was the old school of thought," Sister Margaret agreed. "These days, we encourage wild imaginations. The creative impulse serves the child and perhaps, later, the world. It's a gift from God."

"Daddy, can we go now?" Nathan asked, exasperated. The boy had stood off to one side when he'd finished clapping erasers, but his admittedly limited patience had run out.

"Sure, buddy," his father said. "Say good-bye to Sister Margaret, and we'll go for that pizza I promised you."

"Pepperoni?" Nathan cried.

"You bet," Thomas answered.

Nathan whooped, waved good-bye to Sister Margaret, and ran for the passenger door of his father's Volvo. Thomas reached into his pocket and retrieved the keys. He depressed the tiny button on his keychain which deactivated the car's alarm system, and called a thank you to the nun even as she disappeared back into the school.

Thomas opened his door, instructed Nathan to put on his seat belt, and took another look at the school before sliding into his own seat. It was an old building, faded granite and cement. He'd always thought it tediously boring. But for the first time, he noticed an elegant simplicity to the school, to the name carved above the door and the crucifix that hung there.

The parking lot was also the playground, where he and his classmates took recess all those years ago. With the sound of the breeze rustling the leaves of the mighty oaks that still stood at the edge of the lot, and the warm late-afternoon sun beating down on the tar, and the birdsong so familiar as to almost disappear . . . it took him back. Just for a moment.

He wanted desperately for Nathan to have all the pleasure he'd had in those years. All of it, and more.

"So, how you doing, Nathan?" he asked as he started up the Volvo.

The boy didn't respond.

"Nathan?" Thomas prodded, as he glanced both ways on Broadway before turning left and heading south toward Ardsley.

Still no answer.

Thomas glanced over to see that Nathan was staring intently at a spot about his own eye level, next to him on the seat, whispering almost imperceptibly.

Ah, Thomas thought. Crabapple.

CHAPTER 2

Thomas "TJ" Randall was an army brat. His father had been transferred often enough — from Massachusetts to Texas, California to Virginia — that he and his older sister, Tricia, never spent more that two years in the same school. At least not until their father died, and even then, not for some years. Eventually, Ruth Randall had moved her children back to her hometown of North Tarrytown, New York. Thomas was in the seventh grade at the time.

Since then, it had been the only place he'd ever thought of as home.

His mother died a month before his college graduation, and Tricia had long since moved to Los Angeles, where she found work as a production assistant for a small television production company. She had come back, to the place Thomas called home, only twice — for her mother's funeral, and for Nathan's christening. They spoke perhaps half a dozen times a year.

Thomas loved his sister. He just didn't know her very well. Nor had he made much of an effort to correct that situation. Writing was a solitary profession, save for those friends he made in the business — with whom he spoke almost exclusively on the phone or by E-mail — and his agent. Perhaps that was part of the reason he had such a difficult time letting go of Emily entirely. She was the only person left in his life who really, truly knew him.

In his darker moments, Thomas wondered what it said about him that they could no longer live together.

Still, as long as he had his work, and he had Nathan, Thomas was content. There were a great many things he wished he could change about his life, but he had always assumed everyone had such issues. Yet, despite the lonely times, life was a pleasure. All he had to do, in those dark moments, was look into the eyes of his son.

North Tarrytown had recently won the battle to rename itself Sleepy Hollow, since local legend claimed that Washington Irving invented his tales of the Headless Horseman, Rip Van Winkle, and other fabulous characters there. Thomas had even attended Sleepy Hollow High, which had proudly worn its own name long before the town followed suit.

Thomas drove along Broadway through Sleepy Hollow and then Tarrytown proper, glancing from time to time at the Tappan Zee Bridge, stretching out across the Hudson River in the wan afternoon sunlight. Up the hill to his left was Marymount College, where his mother had gone to school.

Squinting against the late-day glare, Thomas snatched his sunglasses from the dashboard and slipped them on. He glanced back over at his son and saw that Nathan was still silently chatting away in some muttered jabberwocky lingo to nobody in particular.

At least, that was how it appeared. Thomas Randall knew better. He knew just who his son was speaking to.

Crabapple was Nathan's imaginary friend. From what Thomas and Emily had been able to gather, the invisible amigo was an often cranky little redheaded boy, two or three years older than Nathan. Crabapple had first appeared not long after Thomas and Emily decided to separate. Imaginary friends were not uncommon for children of his age, and even less so in cases where domestic stress was involved. Or so the therapist, Dr. Morrissey, had said.

"Nathan," he said again.

The boy did not respond.

"Nathan!" he said, a bit sharply, and put a hand on his son's shoulder. Finally, Nathan turned to face him.

"We almost there, Daddy?" Nathan asked, as if the drive were taking forever.

"You know where we are. We'll be there in five minutes," Thomas replied, then smiled. "Does Crabapple want pepperoni pizza too?"

Nathan began to grin, the way he always did before accusing his father of being "a silly man." But the grin quickly faded, and Nathan began to frown.

"Crabapple isn't hungry," Nathan asserted. "But I am!"

"Good, more for the two of us," Thomas said. "Why doesn't Crabapple want to eat?"

"He's just being a silly, Daddy," Nathan said. "He's scared."

"Scared?" Thomas asked, and it was his turn to frown. He wondered if this was the source of Nathan's distraction. He knew Sister Margaret would only have broached the subject if Nathan had indeed been acting strangely. And she already knew about Crabapple, so it wasn't only that.

"What does Crabapple have to be afraid of?" Thomas asked. "Nobody can see or hear him except for you. And you'd never hurt him."

Five year old logic. Thomas always did his best to reason with Nathan, but it was just too far back to remember. Five years old. What's in your mind at that age? He couldn't recall.

"I'm not the only one who can see him, Daddy," Nathan said gravely. "Crabapple's afraid they're going to hurt him, or take him away forever."

Suddenly, Thomas found himself profoundly regretting that he and Emily hadn't continued to bring Nathan to Dr. Morrissey. Obviously, the child had deep-rooted anxieties as a result of the divorce. Guilt reared its ugly head, but Thomas pushed it away. Nathan was better off not listening to his parents fight all the time.

But sometimes the guilt overcame reason. It made him feel a little sick to even consider that he might have caused his own child such pain and sadness.

"Nobody's going to hurt Crabapple, buddy," he promised Nathan, forcing a smile. "Nobody's going to take him away from you."

"Crabapple doesn't believe you, Daddy!" Nathan cried, and now he was growing even more agitated. Though he'd at first seemed dubious about the imaginary opinions of his imaginary friend, they now seemed to have him frantic.

"They're going to take him away and hurt him, maybe kill him dead, Daddy!" Nathan insisted.

Then the tears came.

Thomas pulled over to the side of the road and flipped on the hazard lights even as he unlatched his seat belt. He reached out, unlatched Nathan’s seat belt, and pulled his son to him in a crushing embrace, cursing himself all the while. He knew it wasn't his fault. It was just life. But knowing and feeling were two different things; and what he felt was just the tiniest bit of self-loathing.

"Ssshhh, Nathan, it's okay," he whispered. "Daddy's here. I won't let anyone hurt you . . . or Crabapple."

"You can't stop them, Daddy," Nathan whimpered. "Crabapple says they're going to get him no matter what."

"Who's they, buddy?" Thomas asked his son, confounded by the boy's insistence. "Who's going to hurt him?"

"All of them. Feathertop and Grumbler and Bob Longtooth and the Wood Nymphs. The Jackal Lantern's going to hurt Crabapple, Daddy. They all want to hurt him," Nathan roared in tears.

Thomas could only stare. Strangewood. Nathan was talking about the characters in Strangewood, the characters Thomas — as TJ Randall — had written about most of his adult life. The characters who had provided a comfortable life for the Randall family all along.

"Why . . . why would they do that?" Thomas asked, not even wondering at the absurdity of the question.

"Crabapple says it's cause he's out here with me and they're . . . they're still in Strangewood," Nathan said, his voice hitching, but his tears beginning to subside.

"But, come on, Nathan," Thomas pleaded with his son, trying to reason with him. "You know that the characters in Strangewood aren't for real. Daddy made them all up. And even if they were real, why, Grumbler and Feathertop would never be friends with Bob Longtooth and the others."

There, he thought. Five-year-old logic.

And it seemed to work, for Nathan brightened up a bit right away.

"Crabapple's just being a silly," Thomas said. "Why, who wouldn't want pepperoni pizza?"

"Silly," Nathan agreed, staring at the empty space where Crabapple was supposed to be.

The boy didn't talk to his invisible friend the rest of the way to the Pizza Palace. By the time they were eating, the conversation had moved on to sandboxes and swingsets and why chocolate milk was God's greatest invention.

But the incident stayed with Thomas. He vowed to himself that he would speak to Emily about it Sunday when he dropped Nathan off. He thought a return visit to Dr. Morrissey was in order.

By the time he'd finished cooking Nathan pancakes on Saturday morning, Thomas's mind had returned to the deal with Disney, and the possibility of developing Strangewood for live-action. The threat to Crabapple's life and well being had been forgotten.

Nathan was happy, maple syrup smeared across his chin. The sun warmed the kitchen, despite the cool breeze that blew in through the window over the sink. It was a beautiful day. Nathan jabbered on about Jonny Quest, Scooby Doo, and some of his other favorites on that time machine of animation called the Cartoon Network. Thomas was as content as he'd been at any time in recent memory. Happy that he could share his son's love of certain cartoons. Such simple things.

As they talked, and made silly faces, over breakfast, Thomas congratulated himself once again for having the foresight to rent a house rather than an apartment. Nathan had his own room and had to actually walk down stairs to have breakfast. Somehow, that seemed important. It made it seem like his real home, instead of just his Dad's house, where he spent weekends.

It was a nice place, too. Thomas had been fortunate to find it, and at an affordable price. After all, despite the money he was making, the cost of supporting separate households for himself and Emily — she had a decent job as HR Director at Sentinel Software, but not enough to pay the mortgage and the bills and daycare — not to mention the cost of raising Nathan . . . well, he'd gotten a deal on the house. It was a traditional Colonial, only a few years old. There were three bedrooms upstairs, one of which Thomas used as his office. Downstairs, he had transformed what might have been a dining room into a library. Other than that, there was just a living room and a kitchen. And bathrooms, of course, one on each floor.

The black and white house was in nice shape, but didn't have much character. It was too new, and Thomas didn't pay a lot of attention to decorating it other than to bury it in his books and videos. He hadn't read comic books in years, but he still had the collection he'd accumulated up through college and looked forward to the time when Nathan might actually have an interest. If he liked comics at all. With the Internet and CD-Rom, kids weren't spending time reading much of anything.

Including books.

Sure, kids loved Strangewood once they were exposed to it. But Thomas found that his — TJ Randall's — audience was actually parents, rather than their children. Much to his pleasure, Nathan was already a voracious consumer of books and stories.

An errant breeze blew extra strong through the kitchen.

"Daddy, can I have some more juice?" Nathan asked.

Thomas fetched it for him, then began to clean up the breakfast dishes. When he was finished, he took a shower while Nathan watched ancient Superman cartoons.

"It's going to be a great day, buddy," he announced as he toweled dry. "What do you say we go to the zoo?"

Even Superman was no match for the Bronx Zoo. Nathan cheered and did a little dance that had been his trademark since the age of two. Thomas felt his heart surge, and he smiled so wide he thought his slightly dry lips would crack.

"Let's go!" Nathan cried.

Thomas gave him the thumbs up. "Cool!" he said, and Nathan mimicked the gesture and the word.

Later, as they ate cotton candy and watched the monkeys play tricks on one another, Thomas surprised himself by wishing Emily were with them. An unexpected and unwelcome sadness began to intrude upon the perfection of the day, to taint it somehow.

"See your friends, Nathan?" he asked, shaking off the feeling. "Monkeys, just like Mommy always calls you."

Nathan looked at him strangely. "Mommy doesn't call me a monkey, Dad," the boy said, as if his father were hallucinating.

Thomas grimaced. He almost argued, then realized that he hadn't actually heard Emily call Nathan her "little monkey" in quite some time. It was possible enough time had passed that the boy had simply forgotten. The sadness threatened to sweep in full force, but Thomas pushed it away. They were making new happy memories now. That was what life was all about. The present. Not the future or the past. Children grew up so terribly fast, and Thomas wanted to make the most of every day he had with his son.

Nathan was much too old for naps, but he fell asleep briefly on the way home from the zoo. It had been an exhausting day, and Thomas felt as if he could drop off as well. But someone had to drive the car. As they pulled into the driveway of the house in Ardsley, he noticed that Nathan clutched a long, green feather in his hands and wondered where the boy had gotten it. It must have come, he decided, from the parrot house at the zoo, though Thomas couldn't recall having seen any bird with such vibrant green plumage. It was so bright it looked artificial, like something painted.

When Thomas turned off the engine, Nathan stirred and the feather disappeared down between the car seat and the passenger door.

"We're home, Nathan," he said. "What do you want for dinner?"

"Pepperoni pizza," Nathan predictably replied.

"Again? I don't think so. How about homemade fishsticks and French fries?" Thomas asked.

Nathan mumbled his assent, still sleepy. Thomas smiled, knowing he'd be up late with the boy now that Nathan had taken a nap. Which was fine with him. He'd already planned to introduce Nathan to the wonderful world of the Planet of the Apes film series this weekend. He only hoped his son wouldn't have nightmares.

"Daddy! Daaaaadddddyyyy!"

Thomas's eyes flickered open a moment before he realized he was actually awake. Even then, whatever had woken him was still part of the dream world he'd just left. There were cobwebs in his brain, and they had to be shaken loose before any actual thinking could be accomplished.

Nathan's next scream brought him to his senses.

"Daddddddyyy!" his son cried from across the hall.

There was a hitching, plaintive quality to Nathan's voice, which Thomas remembered from before the divorce, when Nathan was smaller and more prone to waking during the night. The boy was lonely and frightened. He'd had a bad dream.

"Damn you, Roddy McDowall," Thomas grumbled and whipped back the covers.

"I'm coming, buddy," he called. "You're okay!"

In his underwear and a T-shirt, Thomas hurried across the hall to Nathan's room. Something moved by his feet, gossamer and green, disturbed by his passing. A green feather? The same one he'd thought Nathan had left in the car.

When he pushed open the door to Nathan's room, the feather was forgotten. The eerie incandescence of the boy's night-light cast a gas-lamp pallor across Nathan's NFL bedspread. The shadows pooled in the folds of the bedclothes, on the pillows, and on Nathan himself where he huddled against the headboard. Tears on his cheeks, Nathan stared in abject horror at the pooling darkness. For just a moment, as Thomas tried to look more closely at what had so terrified his son, the shadows didn't look like shadows anymore.

Instead, they seemed to have transformed into indigo bloodstains, soaking through the sheets and spread, splashing the walls . . . splashing Nathan. Thomas recoiled, blinked several times, and stammered his son's name.

"Nath . . . Nathan?" he asked, and by the time the word was out, the shadows were only shadows again, and Thomas realized they had never been anything more. He wondered if, perhaps, he too should be more careful what he watched on television before bedtime. Or maybe it was just the guilt catching up to him.

"Daddy!" Nathan cried. "Oh, Daddy, save me!"

He rushed to his son's side, took the boy in his embrace and sat down hard on the edge of the bed. Nathan sobbed and buried his face in his father's shoulder, and Thomas held him tightly, whispering comfort and love in his ear.

"It was just a bad dream, honey," he promised, though he'd given up calling Nathan "honey" two years earlier, fearing the endearment too feminine for a boy. "Just a bad dream, and Daddy's here now. I won't let anybody hurt you."

Nathan continued to weep, arms clamped around his father as if he might be pulled from the warmth of Thomas's embrace at any moment. It was all Thomas could do not to cry as well. Regardless of what the boy might have dreamt about, he could not help feeling partially responsible.

Nothing Thomas said seemed to calm him, and finally, he tore Nathan away from him, held the boy at arm's length and stared into his frightened eyes.

"Hey, hey, come on, now," Thomas chided. "Nathan, buddy, you've had nightmares before. It's okay, Daddy's here now. What did you dream about?"

"Didn't you see the blood, Daddy?" Nathan cried, his father's soothing words only seeming to cause him more anxiety.

The question gave Thomas a start, but he pushed aside the memory of what he had thought he'd seen in the shadows moments earlier. There was nothing in Nathan's room but Nathan, and the phantoms always created by a night-light and a little boy's imagination. And the pain of a part-time family.

"There was no blood, Nathan," he insisted. "Whatever you dreamed, it was only a nightmare. Not real. You know that, buddy. You're a big boy. Now, tell Daddy about your dream, and I'll show you that it wasn't real."

Nathan stared at him doubtfully for a moment, sniffling. Then his eyes wandered around the room as he remembered the dream, and the wailing began again.

"They came after me, Daddy," Nathan cried. "They came after me, wanted to take me while I was asleep. But Crabapple stopped them, Dad. He stopped them from getting to me . . . and they killed him!"

A terrible feeling of dread began to roil in Thomas Randall's belly. It reminded him, in the kind of awkward observational moment that had become familiar to him over the years, of the feeling he would get when he knew without a doubt that he was going to be sick, and just as surely knew he could do nothing to prevent it.

"Nobody could kill Crabapple, Nathan," Thomas insisted, tilting his head to look his son in the eye. "Crabapple isn't real. I'm sorry to say it, but he isn't. He's just in your imagination, and I've a feeling you know that already, don't you? He's no more real than the characters I created for Strangewood."

"No!" Nathan shouted, getting angry now. "Crabapple saved me and they killed him, Daddy! I saw them. They killed Crabapple!"

"I don't . . . who's they, Nathan?" Thomas asked, finally, though he suspected he knew the answer. "Who killed Crabapple?"

Nathan froze and stared at Thomas. The terror was gone, replaced by grief and shock. All too real emotions for a flesh and blood child to feel over the dreamworld murder of an imaginary friend.

"Nathan?" Thomas prodded, his heart already aching.

"It was them, Dad," Nathan whispered, a chilly calm having descended over the boy. "They were after me. They wanted to take me away, from you, and from Mom. Mostly from you, though, I think. But Crabapple . . .

"It was Feathertop and Grumbler," the boy said, and then the tears returned, and Nathan buried his face in his father's shoulder once more, and cried until he fell back to sleep.

All that time, Thomas didn't say another word. There was no more comfort he could summon, so stunned was he by his son's nightmares. He'd had no idea that the divorce had affected Nathan as profoundly as it obviously had. So much so, that his nightmares now consisted of what he must perceive as his father's imaginary friends slaying his own. But what was worse was Nathan's insistence that the creatures of Strangewood had been after him, had wanted to do harm to him.

For several minutes he could only sit and stare at his beautiful son and stroke his hair, overwrought by the horrible things his divorce had done to Nathan's imagination.

It seemed clear that Nathan's nightmares and daydreams had something very specific to do with some kind of resentment against Thomas. The vulnerable part of Thomas Randall didn't really want to hear what Dr. Morrissey had to say. But he was a father, and whatever it took, he wanted to secure the health and happiness of his only child.

Thomas lay Nathan back down in his bed and kissed the boy's forehead. He pulled the spread over his son and walked back across the hall to his own room without even glancing down to see if the green feather was still there.

It took a long while before Thomas was able to get back to sleep. Even then, he rested fitfully, with nightmares of his own, all of which he had forgotten mere seconds after rising with the dawn on Sunday morning.

CHAPTER 3

It felt like cheating. That was the bitch of it. No matter how many times Emily told herself that Thomas wasn't her husband anymore, it still felt like cheating.

The early morning sun slashed across the bed, a world of light and shadow where she curled under a burgundy cotton sheet. Her legs were warm in the sun, her left foot jutting out from the covers. But her upper body, her face burrowed into her two thick pillows, was pleasantly cool in the shadow that was all that remained of the dark.

All that remained, except for Joe Hayes, the man she'd accepted into her bed last night. Into the bed where she and Thomas had conceived their only child, had made the baby boy they both loved so much.

It felt like cheating.

Emily kept her eyes closed for a time, long minutes after she'd come fully awake. She didn't want to know, didn't want to think. She enjoyed the cool morning breeze on her face, the warmth on her legs, and the mere sensation of a presence next to her in bed. The weight of a man there.

Finally, Emily turned, sheets rustling, and was relieved to see that Joe was still sleeping. She watched him, the rise and fall of his chest, the benevolent expression on his face, an innocence that belied the power men had to crush a woman's soul without a single malicious intention. That was the worst thing about them, Emily thought. So often, they wreaked havoc, left destruction in their wake, all with only the best of intentions. They just didn't think the same way.

Well, maybe there were more similarities than Emily liked to admit. After all, she'd ended up in bed with him. Joe was kind and sincere, intelligent and funny; maybe a little arrogant, but she liked that in small doses. Those things had been what convinced her that last night was the night to consummate their budding relationship. But what attracted her to him in the first place? What made her flirt with him that night the girls from work dragged her out to "meet men?"

He was really good looking, and he didn't seem to know it.

And, yes, he was fully seven years her junior, and there was something intoxicatingly unattainable about a man his age. Well, at least he'd seemed unattainable the night they'd met. Apparently not.

Suddenly overwhelmed by her attraction to him, Emily leaned forward, the sheet slipping down to reveal her nakedness — and when was the last time she'd slept naked? — and kissed Joe hard on the mouth. His eyes flickered open instantly and he was returning her kiss seemingly before he was fully awake. His arms came up and encircled her and she moved on top of him in a languorous crawl. His body tensed a moment, a physical query as to her motivations. But it wasn't sex she wanted just then; it was intimacy.

She found it, and was delighted that Joe was able to give it so well. He kissed her passionately, fingers twirling in her hair as her breasts pressed against his chest. Then the kiss ended, and the lovers pressed noses and grins together, and then parted, Emily almost falling away from him onto the bed.

Suddenly, and happily, it didn't feel like cheating anymore. It felt like the best decision she'd made in a long, long time.

"Good morning," Joe said huskily, sleep still in his voice.

"Yeah," Emily agreed. "It is. Although if you'd gotten up before me and made breakfast, it would have been even better."

"Do I look like a houseboy to you?" he asked with a smirk.

"Well . . .” she teased, and he slapped her ass lightly. Lightly enough that it felt good. "Oooh," she cooed, "do it again."

"Forget it," Joe said, feigning insult. "You don't deserve my spankings."

"Don't I?" she flirted.

They were quiet then, just looking at one another.

"I'm glad I didn't take off last night," he said.

An alarm went off in Emily's head.

"You were going to leave last night?" she asked, not bothering to hide her hurt and annoyance.

"I don't usually like to stick around till morning," he replied matter-of-factly. "It's crossing a line, when sex comes into things, and you never know if a woman's going to regret it in the morning. It can be really uncomfortable, and sometimes it's better to leave, and see how things shake out later."

"So why didn't you leave?" Emily asked, guarding her emotions better now.

"Isn't that obvious. I didn't want to go. Is that okay?" Joe asked hopefully.

"That's very much more than okay," she replied.

"So you don't regret it?" he asked.

The question lay there between them for a few seconds, and Emily flashed on the nuns walking around her eighth grade school dance telling the girls and boys to leave room between them for the Holy Spirit. She almost chuckled, but stopped herself. Joe would probably misinterpret that. And she found herself wanting to be very careful what she said next.

"Em?" he prodded, brow furrowed, and sat up on his knees in bed to look at her.

She liked that it all seemed so important to him. It had been so long since she was with a man other than Thomas, since she'd even been in the race, that she'd been terrified. She remembered the mind-bending gender games of her singlehood, and not at all fondly. Being with Joe was a relief. She'd lucked out.

So far.

"No," she said finally, and with a gravity that seemed to alter even the temperature of the room. "I don't regret last night, or that you're still here this morning. It feels . . . frighteningly good just to lay here with you."

"I can hear that 'but' coming a mile away," Joe said grimly.

"But," Emily said, and smiled wanly, "I'm a lady with a lot of baggage, you know? Thomas is going to be a part of my life as long as I live, even if I want to kill him sometimes. He wasn't just my husband, he was my best friend as well. And he's the father of my son. He's going to be around, whether I'm pissed at him or still love him a little, a state that changes from day to day, that's not going to involve you. That's a part of me you can't ever touch."

Emily stared at him.

"Well, you're not beating your chest and doing a Tarzan yell, and you're not running for the door, so I guess that's a good sign," she said after a moment.

But it was Joe's turn to be quiet now. His eyes flicked back and forth, looking for something in her face that she wasn't sure he'd find. Then he looked down at the bed and took a breath. The sun had stretched across the entire bed now, and the way he held his head, his gray eyes were in shadow. He rasped his knuckles across the scraggle of overnight beard on his chin.

When he finally looked at her, Emily felt, for a dangerous heartbeat, that she could love Joe Hayes if he played his cards right. Dangerous because she'd never been very good at card games.

"Emily, sweetie, listen," Joe said. "We're still in chapter one of this thing, whatever it might become. Me? I want to see where the story goes. What happened in the last book doesn't interest me outside of what it contributed to making you the amazing woman I believe you are."

Emily smiled broadly, wrapped the sheet around herself and got up from the bed, leaving Joe naked behind her.

"Whew," she said, without turning. "I'm trying to play it cool, here, Mr. English Professor, but that's about the smoothest line I've ever heard. I hope it isn't just a line, though, Joe. See, my world is pretty much Nathan Randall right now. That little boy is my entire heart and soul, and the idea of letting somebody else in, somebody whose presence is likely to have an effect on him one way or another . . .”

"It's no line, Em," Joe said confidently. "And it's up to you to decide how much of our relationship Nathan sees, or even knows about. It's your play all the way."

"Well, when you put it that way . . .” Emily let her words trail off and turned to face him. She let the sheet fall to the floor and stood before him, naked in the sunlight, overcome with the eroticism of it. She hadn't stood so naked, so vulnerable in front of anyone for years. There was a fear in it, and a freedom as well. And she revelled in it.

Emily took two steps and leaped onto the bed, bouncing and laughing as she wrestled with Joe. He kissed her, caressed her face, and they made love until it was too late for breakfast and too early for lunch.

* * * * *

After breakfast that Sunday morning, Nathan escaped into the backyard to play in the big sandbox his father had surprised him with on a visit several weeks earlier. It was shaped like a dragon. More precisely, it was a big plastic version of Fiddlestick, the skinny, fussy little dragon from Strangewood, who made music like a monstrous cricket, rubbing his wings together to create a melody.

Fiddlestick was lime green, with darker wings and bright orange scales on his belly. But the sandbox Fiddlestick didn't have an orange belly. His belly was a big hole full of dirt. The plastic dragon lay on his back, improbably small wings spread on the ground, and Nathan Randall played on his sand-filled stomach.

Thomas watched his son through the window above the sink as he did the breakfast dishes. All seemed well this morning, without a trace of the previous evening's nightmares. The boy hadn't mentioned Crabapple once, and yet Thomas couldn't shake the feeling that something was going on inside Nathan's head.

Maybe the nightmare had just been Nathan's subconscious getting rid of Crabapple. No more need for an imaginary friend, or something. Thomas wanted to believe that. It would ease his own conscience a great deal. But it struck him as odd that Nathan hadn't brought it up. He'd been horrified, terrified, the night before, and Thomas couldn't blame him. To come up with that dream, that Crabapple had been . . . well, murdered. In a moment of levity, he might blame it on the boy watching too much television, but it had to be more than that.

Sister Margaret had been right. They never should have had Nathan stop seeing Dr. Morrissey. He'd seemed to be handling the divorce all right, even the doctor had said so. But that was what both Emily and Thomas had wanted to believe as well. His son was a perfect, healthy, funny, imaginative little boy. With all that could go wrong during and after pregnancy, with all the pitfalls to avoid during the first few years, they had been so fortunate.

So blessed.

Then, because they couldn't bear to live together anymore, Thomas and Emily had shattered that perfection. It tore Thomas apart even to think it, but since last night he had been unable to stop the voice in his head that said he and Emily had tainted Nathan in some way.

Maybe forever.

Forever was a mighty long time.

Suddenly, he realized he was near tears. Jesus, he thought. Get a hold of yourself. People got divorced every single day. Most of their kids grew up happy and healthy. Maybe there were things they lost, but some of them — arguments, hostility, watching their parents cry — were no loss at all.

"Maybe I'm the one who needs a shrink," he said to himself.

An unhappy thought, but Thomas couldn't avoid it. No more than he could avoid the guilt that Nathan's nightmare had brought on. Despite the pain and anger it might enkindle — like poking a beehive with a stick — Thomas resolved to speak to Emily about counseling when he dropped Nathan off that afternoon.

As he washed the last of the dishes, the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hi, it's Francesca."

"On a Sunday?" Thomas asked. "Who died?"

"Nobody died. I know it isn't work hours, but it is important," she said. "Got a call last night from Jorge at Fox, in response to a none too subtle query I made about Strangewood in live-action."

"And?" Thomas asked, excited already. For Francesca to do any business on the weekend broke one of her cardinal rules. Bad news would have waited for Monday, so it had to be really, really good news.

"How do you feel about an L.A. trip?" she asked.

L.A.? Not now, he thought. No way. Nathan had to come first.

"When?"

"Tomorrow, 10:15 out of Kennedy," Francesca replied confidently. "I've already booked our flight."

"Whoa, camel," Thomas said. "What's the deal? They're interested, or are we on a fishing trip?"

Francesca sighed, her happy demeanor giving way to an almost reproachful tone.

"They love the idea of live-action, TJ," Francesca said, and for once he didn't correct her, just waited for the 'but.' "But . . . they need a little persuading. Jorge just doesn't have the imagination to see how certain of the more fantastical elements would be done convincingly in live action."

It was Thomas's turn to sigh now, and he did so loudly, and rolled his eyes.

"The whole damn thing is fantasy, Frankie," he barked. "What do they want to do, make them all human with some lame makeup effects?"

No answer.

"Forget it," Thomas said. "It's all the way or nothing."

"Well, shit, Thomas, how long did it take for them to even consider doing Lord of the Rings in live-action? The world you've created is filled with impossible things," she said. "Give Jorge a break here. They want to deal, but you've got to give them some leeway."

"Fuck leeway," Thomas said. "I don't 'got' to do anything. Just ask them if they've ever seen The Neverending Story and remind them that movie was about a thousand years ago. Don't these people pay attention to tech advancements in their own industry?"

"Look, they like the idea, okay?" Francesca said. "We've just got to convince them it can be done, to show them what your vision is for the thing. And Jorge did have some points, honestly. I mean, let's say for instance you want to do the scene where Bob Longtooth attacks Mr. Tinklebum in the Land of Bells and Whistles, or the one where the Jackal Lantern enslaves the Forest Rangers for an attack on Strangewood . . . how the hell do you do those things credibly in live-action?"

Thomas was silent then. They were good examples, that was for sure. Creating a convincing Mr. Tinklebum was going to be difficult enough. The little guy was essentially a big colorful bell with arms and legs and a face, whose ringing matched his moods. And the Land of Bells and Whistles, the faraway part of Strangewood that he was from, would require some form of animation for sure. But computer animation could handle that. ILM and Pixel and Digital Domain had done much harder jobs.

"It'll be expensive, that's their concern," Thomas said, more to himself than to Francesca.

"Not their only concern," she argued. "Look, if you don't want to go, fine, but this was your idea."

Again, he didn't respond right away. His mind was stuck on the scene in which the evil Jackal Lantern, a thin, rangy doglike creature that stood on its rear paws and had a jack-o'-lantern for a head, hypnotized the Forest Rangers, a brigade of heroic walking trees, into attacking Feathertop and Laughing Boy and the others.

Even with the current tech, that was going to be difficult to pull off.

For a moment, he was tempted to say no. Strangewood was his baby, and he was extremely protective of that world and its characters. He had first conceived of most of them when he was only Nathan’s age, his imagination giving him another whole universe to explore, a lifetime's worth.

But he would dearly have loved to see his characters come alive, in a way that words on a page or animation on a screen could never accomplish. And he had Nathan to think of; not just now, but forever. Not to mention that perpetuating the future value of Strangewood as an intellectual property was half his job these days. This would up the profile of the material even further.

"I'll meet you at the airport," he said finally, reluctantly, feeling the guilt swirling around him, sucking him down. Now was the worst possible time for this to happen, but he wanted it so very badly. And more importantly, he needed to do it for the future.

That was helping Nathan too, wasn't it?

"You will?" Francesca asked, obviously expecting more of an argument. "Great! I'll E-mail Jorge and let him know to expect us. I really think this is going to take you to the next plateau, Thomas."

Thomas glanced out the window over the sink as Francesca continued to talk. Nathan had apparently wandered away from the sandbox, though he'd been told time and again to stay where his father could see him. At five, he was pretty good at following orders.

But the minds of children tended to wander, and their feet seemed always to follow.

Francesca started saying something about Strangewood mutating from current hot trend to timeless classic, but Thomas wasn't listening anymore. He went to the sliding glass door and scanned the backyard. No sign of Nathan.

He was gone.

"Frankie, I've gotta go," he said numbly. "See you in the morning."

"What? . . . oh, sure. I've got to go, too. My sister is having a . . ." she might have kept talking, but Thomas hung up the portable phone and opened the slider, growing more alarmed by the moment. His heart raced wildly, slamming against his rib cage, and he found himself barely able to catch a breath. It wasn't logical. It wasn't rational.

But there was no fear like the fear of losing a child. Nothing like it in the world, so primal and unreasoning. "You can't truly know love until you have been in love," he'd once told Emily. "And you can't truly know fear until you become a parent."

Nathan could be anywhere, Thomas knew. Even though he'd been told a million times to stay in sight of the slider, he could have wandered off. Children's minds wandered and their feet followed. It was only natural. But in the tiny dark corner of his mind — a corner already rife with guilt and fear where Nathan was concerned — a tiny image formed; an image of Nathan being picked up and carried away by a stranger.

Of Nathan following a ball into the street in front of an oncoming truck.

It was ridiculous, and he pushed it away, and he'd deny even to himself that he felt it — but in his mind, there was a picture of Nathan dead.

"Nathan!" he shouted, not panicked yet. No one would have heard that in his voice. Not unless they knew him very well. He hurried onto the deck, glancing around, then tromped down the four wooden steps.

"Nathan!" he called again. The boy was probably just around the side of the house, he told himself. No need to run around screaming like a fool, giving the neighbors a show.

"Nathan!" he yelled again, a bit more frantic.

His foot slipped on the grass. Slipped on something. Thomas kept walking but wiped his foot on the grass, thinking one of the neighbors' dogs had visited his yard again. He happened to glance down and saw that what he'd stepped in wasn't a pile of dog shit, but somebody else's muddy footprints. Mud? Or some kind of clay, Thomas thought, given the weird color and consistency of the . . .

"Nathan!" he shouted again, this time not worrying about looking like a fool. The muddy footprints came from the woods behind his house, then disappeared around the side, only to reappear and trail back into the woods again. "Oh, Jesus, Nathan!"

Bile rose in his throat and he almost threw up. His eyes burned and watered as tears of despair and terror tried to force themselves out. Thomas held it all in. He was a rational man, and he would not give in to some frenzied lunacy just because some local teenager or transient had splashed around in a mud puddle and then tromped across his lawn.

But in his mind's eye . . . the pictures.

He rounded the corner, fighting his fear, and almost fell on his face when he saw Nathan. Relief flooded over him at first, and he wanted to weep with the pleasure of it as he watched his little boy stretching his legs, carefully following in the muddy footsteps, getting the weird sticky clay on his sneakers. He looked as if he were walking a tightrope.

Then relief gave way to anger, and Thomas strode forward angrily.

"Nathan!" he snapped, and this time the boy did respond, probably to the stern tone in his father's voice. He spun to face Thomas, and Nathan lost his balance, and fell over onto the grass.

"What's wrong with you?" Thomas barked. "Didn't you hear me calling for you? Are you deaf? God you scared the hell out of me!"

Thomas regretted the words even as they left his mouth. Just raising his voice, using that accusatory tone, hurt Nathan. He could see it from the way the boy winced at first, then looked around, trying to find something else to focus on. It was the last thing he needed, Thomas knew. And just one more wound, one more stain on his son's innocence that Thomas would pay penance on for the rest of his life.

"I . . .” he stammered and knelt down to hold Nathan's skinny shoulders in his hands. "I'm sorry, buddy, but Daddy's told you not to leave the back yard when I'm not out here with you. And then I called for you, and you didn't answer, and I was afraid. I was so afraid for you."

Nathan still wouldn't meet his eyes; he'd always hated to look at either of his parents when they were angry.

"Sorry, Daddy," he said softly. "I didn't mean to make you afraid."

"That's okay, Nathan," Thomas said, voice quavering with emotion. "I just love you, and I don't want anything to happen to you. Please don't wander off where I can't see you, okay?"

"Okay," Nathan nodded, then rolled to his feet, stood, and started following the tracks again.

"Did you see anyone back here, in the yard?" Thomas asked, concerned once more by the obvious evidence of a trespasser.

"I didn't see him, Daddy, but he was looking in the window," Nathan answered, without turning around. "If I saw him, I'd run and find you anyway. You're the only one who could make him go away."

Thomas felt cold, despite the sun overhead. How many times had he heard a noise in the night and leaped from the bed he'd shared with Emily to search the house. He'd been ever-vigilant, protecting his family. Of course, there'd never been anyone there. Just house noises, same as everyone heard. But the fear of anything actually happening . . . those pictures in his head . . .

"What do you mean he was looking in the window?" Thomas asked. "If you didn't see him, how do you know that?"

Nathan laughed a little boy's laugh.

"You're silly, Daddy," he said. "The TV room window, over there," he added, and pointed further along the tracks.

Thomas walked briskly to the window where the muddy tracks led. There were some bees on the window, and he found that odd. They just milled about, flying off and landing again. Weird to see them clumped in one spot like that.

There was mud on the window too, where the trespasser had pressed his face. Mouth. Nose. Eyes. Bees crawling on the impression of the face, the muddy features staring back at Thomas Randall.

He knew that face. And then the other thing that Nathan had said came back to him. "You're the only one who could make him go away."

Not mud, of course. He smelled it now, should have smelled it when he first came outside. The bees loved it. Peanut butter.

It was the face of the Peanut Butter General.

Which was, of course, patently impossible. But that didn't mean the fear in him, the danger itself, wasn't real. Thomas grabbed Nathan up and hauled him into the house. They'd get cleaned up and then go to the park or the mall until it was time to bring him back to his mother's house.

Then Thomas would start to make a few phone calls: the cops, Francesca. Tomorrow morning, his publisher and editor. Somebody was playing a very sick kind of joke on him. But it wasn't funny. If he had some kind of bizarre . . . stalker, or something, he wanted to start trying to figure out who it might be. At least get the cops interested in driving past the house while he was in L.A.

* * * * *

"Joe, you've got to go," Emily said for the third time.

It wasn't a casual announcement this time, but an instruction.

"It's not even four o'clock," Joe observed, frowning. "Nathan won't be home until five thirty, right? What's your rush?"

"I just . . .” she began, then bit her lip. "Why are you making this difficult? You said you weren't going to do this."

"I don't want to intrude on the rest of your life," he said, "I just feel like you're too paranoid about it. It's not like we're all going to explode if we should accidentally cross paths. I'm not in any hurry to meet your ex-husband, but I also don't know why you're throwing me out an hour and a half before he's supposed to arrive. You said yourself he's always late."

Emily glared at him.

"It's my life," she said finally. "Mine. My choices. I want you to go now. If that's a problem for you, then maybe you shouldn't even be here in the first place."

Joe froze, seemed to hold his breath a moment, surprised at the vehemence in her tone. He shouldn't have been, she thought. After being so open and fair-minded, at least in theory, about separating their relationship from her "family" life, she hadn't expected him to act so selfishly.

"Look," she said, "I don't want you to think I don't want you here, or that you're somehow second best, but I have to think of Nathan first. Always."

Joe nodded. "I know that," he said. "And I know you're probably nervous and it would make you a whole lot more comfortable if I just go now. So I will. Go, I mean. I just hate being hidden like I'm something to be ashamed of."

"That's not it and you know it!" Emily said, hurt.

"I do know it, Em," he said. "I do. But us fragile male egos need to be reassured sometimes too, okay?"

He went to her, touched her shoulder, and she turned into his touch and took him into a full embrace.

"Okay," she said, holding herself against him, her head on his broad chest. "Okay."

Then she pushed him away, a smile on her face, and drawled, "Now get out of here before I throw you out on your ass. I've got dinner to cook and I don't need you hanging all over me while I do it."

"I think you do," Joe said, also smiling, "but I won't argue about it."

He kissed her, and a moment later, the door closed behind him. Joe left Emily with a smile on her face, but in her heart, she was terribly anxious. She knew it was important, for all of them, that she tell Thomas she was seeing someone. Emily suspected that somewhere inside him, Thomas didn't really believe it was over, that he held out some fantasy of their reconciliation.

It wasn't going to happen. Her dating again might be the best thing for Thomas, in the long run. For them both, as far as moving on with their lives was concerned.

How it would impact Nathan was something else entirely. Emily didn't plan to let Nathan know about Joe right away, not until she was fairly confident he would be around a while. But she had to tell Thomas. The last few years had been difficult for them, but she still cared for her ex-husband deeply. He deserved to hear it from her before someone else told him they'd seen her out with another man.

Yeah, she had to tell him.

But thinking about that conversation was starting to give her a splitting headache.

CHAPTER 4

"Why didn't you tell me all this when you first got here?" Emily asked in an accusatory tone that was all too familiar to both of them.

"Geez, Emily, I don't know," he said with a sarcasm he couldn't control, another symptom of the relationship disease that had led to their divorce. "Maybe it was because we had to do all the fun awkward stuff first."

Thomas glanced over at Nathan, who was teaching himself architecture using green beans and mashed potatoes, then back at his ex-wife. She got the point.

"Nathan, why don't you go get ready for bed, okay? Daddy and I will come in and kiss you good night in a few minutes," she promised.

The boy brightened at her words, so familiar. Thomas winced. Daddy and I, it was almost unfair to make it sound so much like a real family, he thought. To all of them. But that was going to be life from now on. He wondered if he would ever get used to it, or if he ever should.

"Sure, Mommy," Nathan said with a smile.

He pushed off his chair, grinned at them both, and said, "Daddy, water my garden okay?"

Thomas was already agreeing before he realized that Nathan was talking about his bean and potato construction. It wasn't architecture at all, but a bean orchard or something.

"Sure, buddy," he said, and poked Nathan in the belly. "Now go on, pajamas and brush your teeth."

He looked over at Nathan's dish again and smiled to himself. Imagination was an extraordinary thing. It was impossible to know what children were thinking, and almost always amazing when they told you.

"I'm worried, Thomas," Emily said when Nathan was gone. "I'm not going to overreact or anything, but please keep me up to date. Maybe you should take Nathan away next weekend or something?"

Thomas thought about it. He didn't like the idea of running away from whoever was harassing him, but giving his stalker — or whatever — a week off might disappoint them enough to spoil their fun.

"I'll think about it," he answered. "Play it by ear."

They were silent again, together. And Thomas had a moment to remember a time when silence between them never felt as though it were pushing them apart. Quite the opposite in fact. But silence now was heavy with the weight of pain and mistrust.

It was always that way between them now. Whenever they saw one another, particularly when he brought Nathan home on Sundays, there was the awkwardness of their greeting, the guarded quality of their inquiries into each other's welfare. It had been getting better, but Thomas suspected it would never completely disappear. Still, tonight the tension was worse than usual. There was something on Emily's mind. He wished she would just tell him what it was and relieve them both of the anxiety it created.

Of course, there was something on his mind as well, even more than the maybe-stalker.

"Sounds like you had a nice weekend, all things considered," she said finally.

"Well, besides being spied on by the Peanut Butter General," he said with a laugh, "yeah, not a bad weekend at all. We had fun. But . . . look, Emily, obviously you've got something to say, and I want to hear it," he added, tired of the silence. "But there's something I want to talk to you about as well."

He told her about what Sister Margaret had said, about Nathan acting strangely, and that he thought it might have to do with their divorce. He told her about Crabapple, and Nathan's nightmare, and finally, that he thought they should put their little boy, their only child, back in counseling.

Emily looked at Thomas, and he could see it coming the way he'd always been able to. She began to cry. Not loud sobbing heaves, but a gentle, sorrowful weeping.

Thomas held his ex-wife, whom he still loved dearly and imagined he always would. After a moment or two, she sniffled a bit, pulled away, and studied him as if she were verifying that he was, indeed, Thomas Randall, a man she'd loved once and whose son she had borne. She was searching for something. Maybe the past, Thomas thought.

"I hate that we've done this to him," she said finally.

"We can't turn back the clock, Emily," Thomas said. “The only thing we can do is love him the best we can, and work together to see that he always knows it."

"So, counseling?" she asked.

"Dr. Morrissey, again, I think," Thomas replied. “She already knows the situation, so . . .”

Emily nodded.

"There's more to this conversation, though, isn't there?" Thomas asked. "You had something on your mind."

"Oh, Thomas, I don't know if . . .” Emily began, but he cut her off.

"We don't have to play games with each other, Emily," Thomas told her. "We've got too much at stake to do that. What is it? You seeing someone?"

Emily blanched, wide-eyed, and looked at him a moment before looking away.

So there it was. His wife . . . ex-wife had herself a new boyfriend. Thomas wanted to say, Good for you, Emily. Have a life. Start again. Be happy. He really did.

But he couldn't.

"Well, I guess we're sending Nathan back to counseling at just the right time, then, aren't we?" Thomas said before he could stop himself. "I'm sure that's just what he needs, his mother running around with some guy."

She glared at him.

"Jesus, Emily, the corpse isn't even cool yet. And the boy's only five years old, for God's sake, give him a break!" Thomas said, wishing he could just shut up but overwhelmed by the pressure on his temples, the shortness of breath, the ice cube in his gut.

He loved her. And he could see in her eyes that he'd hurt her. Again. They'd hurt each other a lot, and saving Nathan from that was the whole point of the divorce.

"You done?" she growled.

Thomas looked away and sighed, ashamed of himself, but unwilling to let go of the pain.

"Nathan doesn't know I'm seeing anyone, and he won't until I think the time is right. I'd give my life for that kid, just like I know you would. But I have to build a future for myself, too. You should be doing the same," Emily said sternly. "Now, if you are done, why don't you fuck off home and see if you can't find the asshole who smeared peanut butter on your window," she added.

Emily rose from her chair and went to the sink to angrily bang pots and dishes around. Thomas waited for the sound of a dish breaking, but none did. It always amazed him, when she did that, that the dishes didn't shatter.

"Why don't you go kiss your son good night?" she said gruffly, without turning. "Tell him I'll be right in."

Thomas slid his chair back and rose slowly. He walked over to where Emily stood, still with her back to him. He kissed her on the top of the head and whispered an apology, which she ignored. Thomas knew she felt guilty, and he'd used her guilt and her love for Nathan against her. His apology was genuine.

Leaving her to the dishes, he walked down the hallway of the large raised ranch home and into his son's bedroom.

"Okay, buster, time for kisses from Daddy!" he announced as he crossed the threshold.

Nathan wasn't there. Thomas raised an eyebrow. Faintly, in the back of his mind, he recalled his alarm in the backyard that morning. But the thought was gone as soon as it came. They were at home now. Nathan had nothing to fear here, especially with both his parents right down the hall.

Must be in the bathroom, Thomas thought. As he stepped into the hall, he heard the water running in the sink. Thomas smiled. Nathan was a good kid. Brushed his teeth all by himself, morning and night. Sure, he could be bratty and selfish and cranky, but all kids were those things once in a while. In so many other ways, the important ways, Nathan was every parent's dream child.

"Okay, buddy, I've got to go," he said as he pushed open the bathroom door.

Nathan wore mismatched pajamas, Mickey Mouse on top and airplanes on the bottoms. He stood on a small stool Thomas had bought for him when he was three, and Nathan held his toothpaste-foamed toothbrush to his front teeth, lips curled back in a bizarre rictus. Toothpaste dripped down his chin. Water ran in the sink.

But Nathan wasn't brushing.

The boy stared into the mirror, unblinking, tooth-brushing hand frozen in place.

"Nathan?" Thomas asked weakly.

His son didn't turn, didn't respond — his eyes didn't even flicker over to glance at Thomas. Shock became horror. Curiosity became desperate fear, triphammer-slamming into his chest.

Thomas moved quickly to his son and grabbed Nathan by the shoulders, shaking him, gently at first. Any other day, he might have waited to see what the joke was. But he knew there was no fakery involved just by looking at the boy.

"Nathan!" he shouted and turned his son's body so he could stare into Nathan's eyes, get his attention.

He could hear, dimly, somewhere in another world, the voice of his ex-wife, Nathan's mother, shouting to him, asking what was wrong. He could hear her running down the hall toward the bathroom. But Thomas wasn't really registering those things. All he could focus on in that moment was the saliva and toothpaste running down his son's chin in a greenish white rivulet of foamy drool.

"Jesus!" Emily cried behind him. "What's wrong with him?"

She cried her son's name and went to him; pulled him from his father's grasp. Emily called to Nathan again and again, each plaintive query more helpless than the last. After a few moments, she noticed Thomas again, and turned to roar at him in blind panic.

"What the fuck's the matter with you?" she cried. "Call an ambulance for God's sake! He's gone into shock or something!"

As he sprinted to the phone, Thomas felt numb, as if it had been he who had gone into some kind of shock.

After he'd hung up the phone, he could barely recall having spoken to someone at 911. He hoped he'd said the right things, but couldn't really remember. He couldn't get Nathan's eyes out of his mind. The look in his eyes. Or, more accurately, the lack of any discernible consciousness there. His eyes had looked . . . vacant. The lights were on; nobody home.

Somehow, his son was gone.

* * * * *

Nathan drifted for a long time. Floated along, as though he were lying on a raft on a gently rolling river. Several times, he heard sounds, grunts and labored breathing and the chirping of birds. There was a smell, too. Like smoke.

His eyelids began to flutter.

Nathan woke up in the dark, thrashing against rough cloth that had been tied around his wrists and ankles. He screamed for his parents, Mommy and Daddy both, because even though they weren't together, they'd been together when he went in to brush his teeth. Before . . .

Before this.

"Mommmmaaaaaaaa!" he screamed, and tears sprang to his eyes, sliding down his cheeks quickly to make room for more.

He struggled against his bonds and banged his head with a clang against the metal whatever-it-was that he was laying in. Metal, smooth and cool. He sniffled, looked up at the dark sky where huge orange stars glittered, at tall trees, brown and withered, stooped as if to look at him passing beneath. They looked like they were in pain, those trees.

Somewhere, Nathan smelled a fire burning.

He screamed for his mother again.

"Ssssshut up, you little brat," a low voice growled.

Nathan craned his neck to look behind the metal container inside of which he was being sped along under the stars. In the dark, green eyes twinkled. Cat eyes. Orange starlight gleamed off long, razor sharp tusks.

"You're not real," Nathan whispered.

Instantly, he stopped moving, and his metal carriage — a wheelbarrow, he realized — clanked to the ground. The green eyes moved closer, and Nathan could really see him now, the huge saber-toothed tiger man he'd always feared in his father's stories. But not clever and soft, like in the stories. Cruel, instead of clever. Filthy and matted, instead of soft.

Nathan closed his eyes and began to cry harder. Trying to push it away. It wasn't real. He knew it wasn't because his Daddy had always told him, promised him, that the stories weren't real. Just made up for kids, for boys and girls like him.

"Hear that, Cragssssskull?" Bob Longtooth said in the dark beyond Nathan's compressed eyelids. "The brat ssssays we're not real."

A long, warm, furry paw lay across Nathan's face, and he whimpered and peed his pants, something he hadn't done in more than a year. A sharp claw scratched him, quickly, in the face, and he screamed, shrieking horribly.

"Kid could drive Christ off the cross," a low voice muttered nearby, the sound of thunder rumbling.

But Nathan wasn't listening. Nathan was screaming. He opened his eyes, breath coming in hitching gasps, as the wheelbarrow was lifted again and started to move.

"Boo!" Bob Longtooth roared, and Nathan's shrieking ratcheted up another notch. "Real enough for ya, brat?"

Then both of them were laughing again, and Nathan continued to scream, turning in the wheelbarrow to face away from Bob Longtooth. He could see Cragskull now, an inhumanly broad-shouldered, ugly man, shorter than Nathan's mother. His beard and hair long and dirty, his head split above the left eye and a foul-smelling steam coming from within.

Cragskull was always mean in the books, but he was stupid too. Stupid made him funny. But Nathan didn't think he was funny anymore. The boy whimpered, tears streamed down his face, and he kept moving around in the wheelbarrow until his feet were down the end near where Bob Longtooth was pushing. He sat up a bit, and his eyes darted around, taking in everything he saw.

It was Strangewood, all right. But it wasn't the Strangewood from his Daddy's books. Nathan thought they were on the Winding Way, a magical road that twisted all through the landscape of Strangewood. And it might have been . . . should have been . . . the Big Old Orchard, where huge apples trees grew, every one of them good for climbing and swinging. The giant apples were redder than licorice and juicier than any other apple ever dreamed of being. Something to brag about, in a world where apples probably did dream.

But it wasn't the Big Old Orchard. Not really. It looked like it might have been, a long time ago. But not anymore. The trees were twisted and dark, too scary to climb. Dangerous, even. And there were no more apples except for withered things all over the ground on either side of the Winding Way.

Nathan was just a boy, but he knew the smell of rotting fruit. And of shit. He could smell both from where he sat, though there was only a light breeze, and he tried hard not to breathe through his nose.

He wiped the tears from his eyes, still whimpering low in his chest without even realizing he was doing it. But Longtooth and Cragskull didn't seem like they were going to hurt him, as long as he kept his mouth shut. Not that it mattered; he was too scared to say anything else. Too scared to do anything except look around, in terror and in sadness.

It was like Strangewood was dead. As though somebody had killed it. If they kept going along the Winding Way, they would eventually come to the Land of Bells and Whistles, and then the Up-River, and Nathan didn't want to even think what might have happened to all the people who lived in those places.

Unless — well, there was always the possibility that he'd find someone who could save him from Bob and Cragskull. He looked around hopefully, scanning the ruined orchard for some sign that help might be coming.

"Don't even think about it, sssssson," Bob Longtooth hissed. "You belong to usssss, now. The bosssss has plansssss for you."

Nathan ignored the saber-toothed man as best he could . . . which wasn't all that well considering how frightened of Bob he was. He scanned the woods, listened to the orange-starred night, hoping for some sign that help was on the way.

That was when the screams started. There was a horrible, keening wail off to the right, deep in the deadwood of the Big Old Orchard. And Nathan smelled the sharp tangy scent of fresh oranges.

"Oh . . .” he said. "Oh . . . no, please . . ."

Cragskull clamped a hand hard on Nathan's mouth and held a knife to his throat. When he spoke, his gruff voice was a whisper so low Nathan could barely make out the words.

"They're not on our side," Cragskull whispered, and Nathan wanted to scream even more then. The creatures screaming in the forest might actually be able to help him, to save him from these others.

"They're not on your sssside either, brat," Longtooth added quietly, then they were all silent until the scent of oranges had gone away.

"The Orange Pealers aren't on anybody's side in this," Cragskull agreed. "They're just vicious little savages who smell good."

After a moment, Bob Longtooth picked up the wheelbarrow and started off once more. He and Cragskull were trying to be very quiet, and Nathan had the urge to shout again, but didn't. He wasn't even six years old, but he knew enough to be afraid of anything that the monsters themselves were afraid of.

They stared at him from time to time, and Nathan would only look away. He didn't like to look at them, didn't want to think about where they were or what had happened to this place. He was big enough to know that Strangewood wasn't real. At least, that's what his Daddy told him and his Daddy never lied. But maybe, he thought, just maybe Daddy didn't really know.

Nathan started to cry again at that thought; that and the smell of his pee soaking his pants, already starting to dry. If Daddy didn't know, then Daddy wouldn't be able to come and find him. Not ever.

And if Daddy couldn't find him in Strangewood, then nobody could.

"What the hell is he crying for, Bob?" Cragskull sneered. "I'd just started to like this quiet, and the kid's got to go and ruin it. I'm gonna crack his head like a walnut and suck his brains out like I'm at a cauliflower pie-eating contest."

"Bossss wouldn't like it, Crag," Longtooth grumbled. "You'd better not."

"You're really no fun," Cragskull said, but then didn't say anything else about eating Nathan's brain, or vegetable pies.

They talked about him like he wasn't there, which was okay with Nathan. He didn't want to be there and kept closing his eyes hoping he'd wake up at home, or teleport himself from here to someplace else, like he'd seen on just about every cartoon he'd ever watched, except maybe Scooby Doo.

There was another turn in the Winding Way, and suddenly, the sky brightened. He had a moment to hope the sun might come out, but then he heard the crackling. Smelled the heavy smoke. A fire was burning, and it was a big one.

Quickly, he reversed his position in the wheelbarrow again, and his belly felt sick when he saw the flames, roaring above a tiny village that once was round and brightly colored. The fire was all colors, too, the colors of the homes and shops and people . . . even the Melody Mill was burning, its balconies and ornate iron and woodwork blazing.

It was the Land of Bells and Whistles, and except for the roar of the fire, it was completely silent.

"Wow!" Longtooth whispered, stroking his whiskers and licking his long tusks.

"Ain't that a hoot!" Cragskull whooped with delight.

Heart drumming in his chest, Nathan realized the two creatures weren't paying attention to him for the moment. He had to go, and so he rolled on his side right out of the wheelbarrow.

"Hey!" Cragskull shouted angrily, his voice rising to a growl of fury.

But Nathan was already running as fast as his little boy legs could carry him, back down the Winding Way in the direction they'd come from. He didn't even remember what was back there, except maybe for Fiddlestick's cave, Grumbler's cottage, and the homes of some of the others. But it was enough that it was the opposite direction than Longtooth and Cragskull wanted him to go in.

"I've got him!" Longtooth snarled, and Nathan felt a tug on the back of his pajamas.

He kept running, heard Bob Longtooth curse behind him. His feetie pajamas slapped hard dirt and the tears kept rolling, but he wasn't going to stop. Nathan screamed loud and long, as if it would protect him somehow

"Brat!" Longtooth screamed.

"I'll kill you for making this such a pain in the ass!" Cragskull added, and Nathan almost slowed down when he heard that terrible, rumbling laugh. It took his strength away for a second.

But he didn't stop. He ran on. Rounded a corner and prayed that he would be able to find someone. He kept screaming for help, screaming for his father who would never find him here, and if his father couldn’t then nobody ever would.

He felt the hot breath of the saber-toothed man behind him, and then he heard Bob Longtooth roar and felt claws rip into his back and Nathan Randall nearly passed out from the pain and the shock.

Nathan lay on his belly in the dirt, praying to God that his mommy and daddy would come now. Come and take him home. Home wasn't really there anymore, not one home for all of them, but his room was still there. His room, where he was safe.

"I . . . want . . . my . . . Mom!" he huffed hysterically through pained sobs.

"Awwww," Cragskull said throatily behind him, above where Longtooth had pinned Nathan to the dirt, the dirt he could taste in his mouth. "Poor baby, wants his mommy! Come on, Bob, let him up."

Bob Longtooth whipped Nathan up quickly, claws on the boy's scalp and cheek, and shoved his face at Cragskull's horrible stinking, smoking head. Cragskull moved so that his crooked and rotting nose was close enough to Nathan that he could have . . . could have licked it, and Cragskull laughed again.

"We want your mommy, too, brat," Cragskull said. "If we can get our hands on that bitch, something that ain't as easy as it sounds, well, we'll just rip her fucking heart out and eat it, if it's all the same to you. This shit is almost as much her fault as it is anyone's."

That did it, pushed Nathan past the edge of hysteria so that he wasn't thinking anymore. Was barely breathing. The tears were gone, now, leaving only the screaming and the feeling that he was going to throw up if he didn't stop — and he couldn't stop.

And now he smelled oranges.

"Put the child down," said a wet and sticky voice that sounded close by his ear. "Put Nathan down and move away, you rogues. That's an order."

Longtooth dropped him to the dirt, and he and Cragskull stared up the hill behind Nathan. Painfully, his back still bleeding, Nathan rolled over and looked up the dirt path, the Winding Way, to see the horrible, melting form, the crumbling features and smoldering cinder eyes of the Peanut Butter General.

The General looked just like an old-time soldier in uniform, only covered in peanut butter and bees. When he opened his mouth, there were strings of peanut butter spun like spiderwebs from lip to lip.

Around his feet, chittering away, were four or five of the Orange Pealers, vicious little monsters like oranges with legs and huge needle-fanged mouths. The mouths opened, and the Pealers started to scream.

"We . . . we got him . . . fair an' square," Cragskull shouted bravely.

The Pealers screamed louder and started down the hill.

"The boy . . .” said the sticky voice of the General, ". . . is mine."

* * * * *

"Oh, God," Thomas said, staring down at the prone form of his only child on the hospital bed, machines beeping nearby telling him his boy was still alive.

"Nathan."

The hospital staff had wheeled him into the room on a gurney, and his arms and legs had been splayed about as though there weren't a spark of life in him. The nurse had stripped Nathan, then put him in hospital pajamas. She'd had a bit of trouble tying the top behind his back, but eventually managed. Emily and Thomas had offered to help, but everything seemed to be happening around them, as though they were an obstacle, rather than the parents of the limp, lifeless little boy lying in that bed.

"Nathan," Thomas whispered.

Emily had been called out of the room. Apparently, she had a phone call. He could only assume it was the new boyfriend, whose name she hadn't even had the courtesy to tell him.

She should be here, he thought angrily. The rest of the world could wait. He didn't want to begrudge her a new life, but her real life, her child, needed her now. Her love life shouldn't even be on the priority list.

Thomas blinked.

Something . . . odd, in the air. Something . . . a smell.

He smelled oranges.

The scent grew and grew until it permeated the whole room. Eventually, it had grown so strong that he couldn't help but be distracted by it. He moved about the room, trying to figure out where the smell was coming from, where it was the strongest. It baffled him, and finally, he gave up and moved back toward Nathan.

That's when he realized that the scent was coming from his son. Nathan smelled powerfully of oranges. Thomas was taken aback, deeply troubled by this peculiar phenomenon. He reached over the bed to press the button that would call the nurse.

There was a scritch-scratch at the window. Thomas spun, mind racing, and saw a flash of green and orange outside. But they were five stories up! Who could be . . . a pigeon or something, right? Then he heard flapping. Didn't he? Didn't he hear flapping, like a pigeon would make flying away?

Yes.

And then music. Wind chimes. And the sound of someone playing a violin. A fiddle.

Or maybe just the music of a little dragon's wings.

CHAPTER 5

A long sigh escaped Emily Randall's lips. She had stopped crying, but the wet tracks of tears remained on her cheeks, the slight tang of salt in the air. With all her might, she held on to Joe Hayes, closed her eyes, and savored the feeling of his strong arms around her. No matter how hard she tried, Emily couldn't draw him close enough.

Her heart was pushing him away.

Emily opened her eyes, looked up into Joe's. "You shouldn't be here," she said.

"I had to come, Em," he said, and looked at her with such concern and barely disguised pity that she immediately felt both grateful to know a man of such goodness and caring, and distrustful of such emotion from any man.

It didn't matter. He didn't belong. She had called him, just to tell him what was going on, to hear his voice, and frankly, because that was what one did. He was in her life. She loved him, at least a little. So she had called to tell him what had happened, told him she'd see him the next day, or evening.

But she hadn't expected him to come to the hospital. Joe had asked one of the nurses to tell her that she had a phone call, and when she left Nathan's room and went to the nurses' station, Joe had been there. She'd smiled and wept and held him and spoken with him in soft tones. But throughout their conversation, she felt a chill seep deeper and deeper into her flesh and muscle and bone.

She ought to have been thrilled that he'd come down. Instead, Emily was put off by his presumption. The little boy, her little boy, lying in the dingy, ammonia-reeking room down the hall, was the center of her life. Every fiber of her being, the blood that flowed in her veins . . . the air she breathed, she breathed for Nathan. He needed her, and there was nothing she could do to help him, and the pain of that helplessness was the most savage agony she had ever experienced.

Now, as she looked into Joe's stormy gray eyes, as he waited for her to explain her words, Emily herself only just began to understand them.

Joe was an innocent bystander. None of this had anything to do with him. He cared for her, without question, but he could not even begin to imagine how she suffered right now. It was as though she were on display behind glass somewhere, explicit in her pain, and he merely a casual observer, like a tourist at a museum, able to recognize the beautiful color in the art, but completely incapable of understanding the art itself.

He didn't belong there. She loved him, cared for him, but didn't want to be with him at that moment. She wanted . . . she needed to be with Thomas. Only Thomas could understand.

Emily squinted, bit her upper lip, and shook her head, unable to meet Joe's gaze.

"I'm sorry, Joe," she said, then grew angry at herself for apologizing. "It isn't you. But you have to understand that . . ."

"Sssshhh," he whispered, putting a finger to her lips, his kind eyes wide and clear. "You don't have to explain. I know that all of this — between us — is just starting. Whatever we're going to have, that's for later. Right now you have to worry about Nathan, and about yourself. That much I do understand."

A pair of fortyish nurses whispered to one another as a phone rang unanswered nearby. Emily could smell the wonderful scent of lilacs from a floral arrangement that sat on a pale blue countertop. But no matter how many flowers the loved ones — for that's what they always were, the loved ones — brought in, no matter how many cleaning products were used to scour every surface, hospitals always smelled like death to Emily.

Well, perhaps not death so much as dying.

She hated that disinfectant smell. The thought that Nathan would have to spend the night here, to stay here until the doctors could determine what was wrong with him . . . she felt the bile rise in the back of her throat.

So softly she barely heard him, Joe spoke her name.

"Sorry," she said, though she wasn't quite certain if she was sorry for closing him out or for drifting off like that. Maybe both. She felt as though she spent far too much of her life apologizing. To others. To herself.

An orderly wheeled a new patient by, a girl of no more than thirteen, whose face and arms were cut and bruised and stitched, and told the story of a car accident or similar tragedy. The girl's eyes were open, but she didn't seem to be looking at anything. There was a small gold chain around her wrist with a little fish or dolphin dangling from it. Emily imagined it was a token of someone's affection, a parent or other relative, or maybe a boyfriend, if the girl was old enough to have one.

Then again, what was old enough, these days?

"You'd better get back in there, hmm?" Joe asked. "I know you're distracted. You should be with Nathan now."

"Yeah, I really should," she agreed, but couldn't seem to move.

"If you need me, just to talk, or to do errands, go by the house for any reason, you know you can call anytime," Joe reminded her.

Emily nodded.

When he bent to kiss her, his lips passed lightly over her own numb mouth as if they realized they weren't welcome.

"Thanks for coming," she said, dimly aware she was even speaking, her mind full of lilacs and nurses and stitches and the smell of dying.

When she blinked again and looked up, she expected Joe to be gone. She'd zoned out again, and instantly was feeling guilty about it. But he wasn't gone, just a step or two away. Burnt blond hair, with a tinge of almost red. Those gray eyes that in the sun could turn green or blue. A college professor at twenty-six, intelligent and ambitious. He lifted her chin with two fingers, gently, and leaned over to give a her a kiss that she would notice.

She noticed, and she closed her eyes and kissed him back.

"Thank you," she said again, whispering into his mouth, and meaning it this time. She was glad he had come and was just as happy that he was leaving. "I'll call you in the morning," she promised.

"Call when you can," he said to her, brows knit with concern.

Joe turned and moved down the hall and Emily watched him go with a lover's pause. Then she turned, steeling herself once more for the sight of Nathan lying so still in that bed and anticipating a return to the unexpected comfort she had felt in the presence of Nathan's father. At least, with Thomas there, she wasn't alone in her anguish.

Emily glanced up at the door to Nathan's room.

Thomas stood, frozen halfway across the threshold, staring at her.

"So that's him, huh?"

With a sad tilt of her head, blonde hair tumbling over her shoulder, she opened her mouth to respond, to tell Thomas what she was feeling. Then she only sighed, gave a barely perceptible shake of her head, and pushed past him into Nathan's hospital room.

"I know you go for younger guys, Em, but he's pushing it a bit, isn't he?" Thomas asked bitterly.

Ignoring the swirl of color in a mural on the wall behind her, Emily sank down into a chair at the edge of her son's bed. When she finally replied to her ex-husband, she couldn't bring herself to face him — not from shame, but surrender.

"I know you want this right now, Thomas," Emily said weakly. "Maybe you need it, I don't know, to distract you. Whatever. When Nathan . . . when Nathan wakes up, I'll be happy to waste my time telling you that what I do with my life is none of your business."

Finally, she did turn to regard him, saw that some of the anger and righteousness had left his face, his stance.

"I just don't have the strength right now," she concluded.

Emily turned away and reached out for Nathan, caressed his pale cheek with the backs of her fingers, ran them through his always unruly hair, wished he would look at her. Smile. Laugh. Anything to let her know that he was still in there.

Slowly, she lay her head on Nathan's chest, listened to the beating of his heart and felt the rise and fall of his breathing beneath her cheek. The tears came freely now. Though she hadn't heard or sensed his approach, Emily didn't respond at all when Thomas placed his familiar hands on her back in a gesture of comfort.

At least, that was how he'd obviously meant it. Instead, the warmth of those hands, and her memory of them, only made her feel more alone. The communion she'd hoped to have with Thomas, the sharing of their joint pain, seemed now to have been a foolish hope.

She'd never felt more alone.

"I should go call Francesca," Thomas said, his voice cracking. He cleared it loudly. "Tell her to cancel my trip to L.A. tomorrow. I'd like to stay in here tonight with you and Nathan, if that's all right."

Out in the hall, there was a great clatter as an orderly fumbled with a pair of meal trays and they crashed to the tile floor. Emily didn't even start at the noise.

"That's fine," she said, and then had a hint of amusement that never reached her face. "Your stalker will be so disappointed."

It wasn't until she heard the quick intake of breath from above her, and felt the pressure of Thomas's right hand on her shoulder increase, that she gave any thought to what she had said. Wide-eyed, she turned to him and gazed at his darting, contemplative eyes. But Emily knew those eyes weren't seeing anything at that moment. Thomas was thinking.

"You don't suppose . . ." she began.

"It's crazy," he admitted, "but it isn't impossible."

Thomas reached over to the small nightstand by the bed and picked up the phone. He pressed nine for an outside line and then called information.

"I need the main number for the Tarrytown police," he said, his voice tight and curt.

While he waited for the number, Thomas glanced at Emily, nodded toward the long cable with the tiny button on the end. "Buzz for the nurse," he said. "We've got to have him tested for poison . . . something."

His fingers curled into her own, and she gripped them tightly, held his hand. Together they waited.

* * * * *

It rained Monday morning; a storm more common in spring than midsummer, and even then, it would have been unusual. At sunrise, it had been warm and only a little cloudy, with very little wind. By nine o'clock, that had changed. The wind had picked up quickly, dark clouds sweeping across the sky, and the temperature had begun to drop rapidly.

By nine-thirty, it was just above seventy degrees, and the horizon looked bruised and sickly, as if the worst of tumors lay just underneath. It was nearly as dark as if it were night, yet the sky had the odd quality of twilight, the queer color of a solar eclipse. The air seemed to shimmer with anticipation of — something.

The first lightning reached electric fingers from earth to sky just before ten o'clock, and the rumble of thunder that accompanied it was loud and long and rattled the windows in the hospital cafeteria. On the third crack of thunder, the downpour began. The shower pounded the windows with huge raindrops, a thick, saturating storm that instantly began to build wide, deep puddles in the parking lot and the roads beyond.

Over the almost surreal volume of the rain pelting the building, Thomas frowned deeply and looked angrily across the table at Walt Sarbacker, the detective sent by the Tarrytown police to take his complaint regarding the stalker.

The "alleged" stalker, according to them. That was the word that had made Thomas angry. But he realized quickly that his anger was counterproductive.

Sarbacker was a thin, bespectacled man, gray at the temples and salt and pepper everywhere else. He pushed his glasses up on the ridge of his nose, awaiting some comment from Thomas, and then glanced out at the driving rain, apparently having realized that no answer was forthcoming. The detective was younger than the gray would imply, though Thomas couldn't guess his age with any real confidence.

He wondered if Detective Sarbacker had children of his own.

The man had raised his eyebrows several times as Thomas told him about the weird things that had been happening of late. The way Nathan had been behaving, the boy's concerns that the characters of Strangewood meant him harm, his contention that they'd actually been there in the house . . . which now seemed frighteningly more possible than it had previously.

When Thomas told the story of the peanut butter foot and face prints at his house, Sarbacker actually grunted. Thomas chose to take that as a sign of consternation on the part of the lanky detective, and in that regard, as good news. He wanted the man to take him seriously. Wanted the detective to be concerned.

Sarbacker scribbled in a small notebook as Thomas spoke. The bustle and buzz of daily life went on around them in the cafeteria. Patients allowed to walk around and sick of their rooms managed somehow to get trays to their tables. Families and individuals awaiting answers to questions of mortality sat in silence or painfully manufactured levity. A pair of new fathers traded notes as they picked up an early lunch to bring back upstairs to the women to whom they were now joined for life.

For no matter what happened, Thomas thought, they would always have the child. Always have the baby they had brought into the world together.

Anything else was unthinkable.

Thomas shook his head. He felt as though he'd been walking, seeing, and especially thinking through a fog ever since he'd walked in on Nathan in the bathroom the night before. But he had to pay attention, now. The cop was talking to him.

"I'm sorry?"

The detective nodded slightly. "I said it didn't make any sense to me," Sarbacker repeated. "I suppose anyone can have a stalker. And I understand how it connects to your work, that much is obvious. I just don't get why. Obviously you've made some money, but this kind of thing isn't about that. If someone is stalking you . . ."

Thomas didn't miss the if.

". . . it's a matter of obsession. And no matter how wonderful Strangewood may be, what is there in a series of children's books that could inspire that kind of obsession?"

Though he searched his mind for a snappy retort, Thomas couldn't find one. What could he say?

"Maybe it isn't really that at all," Thomas suggested. "Maybe it's someone who knows me. Has a vendetta against me or something? It could be professional. Some psycho . . . Jesus, I don't know."

He almost said, isn't that your job? But decided against it. He had to remind himself several times that Sarbacker was on his side. Supposedly.

"What about my son?" Thomas asked, repeating a question he'd asked twice already with no response. "Something in the toothpaste, you think? How the hell did the guy get in my . . . I mean my ex-wife's house."

Again with that slight nod that Thomas was quickly learning meant nothing at all, Sarbacker grimaced. "I don't see any reason to believe he did, Mr. Randall. There were no signs of forced entry, no reported sightings of any alleged stalker around your wife's residence. And, according to the doctors, Nathan wasn't poisoned."

Thomas blanched. "What? He wasn't . . . then what the hell did this to him?"

"I wish I knew, sir," Sarbacker said. "But Dr. Gershmann was very clear to say that the toxicologist found no poisons . . . in fact, nothing at all out of the ordinary . . . in your son's system."

Thomas bit his lip, shook his head, refusing to comprehend the man's words.

"I'm sorry, Detective . . ." he began, but let his words trail off. How absurd, to be calling someone “Detective.” He'd never had to use the title before, and it felt slightly ridiculous.

"Mr. Randall?" Sarbacker ventured.

"Nothing," Thomas said, covering his eyes as if to shield them.

Suddenly, he dropped his hands, sat up straight, narrowed his eyes and looked closely at the detective.

"You were in my son's room, right?" Thomas asked.

"Just for a moment, speaking with your wife," Sarbacker replied. "Why?"

"Did you notice anything . . . I don't know, odd, when you were in there?"

Sarbacker lifted his chin slightly, brow furrowed with confusion. "Odd as in how?"

"Did you smell anything?"

The detective blinked. Thomas widened his eyes, dropped his head, urging the man to answer.

"Flowers, I suppose," Sarbacker said. "The usual hospital smells."

"Think about it," Thomas prodded.

For a moment, the man actually closed his eyes. He opened his mouth, breathed in slowly. When his eyes opened, he looked at Thomas strangely.

"I did smell something else," Sarbacker recalled. "I guess I passed it off as your wife's perfume or shampoo or something."

"She's my ex-wife, and she hasn't showered since yesterday morning," Thomas said quickly. "What did you smell."

With the tiniest of shrugs, Sarbacker said, "Oranges."

"Oranges," Thomas agreed. "It comes and goes, but the smell is coming from Nathan, almost as if he's breathing it out. I thought maybe it was some chemical reaction from the poison or . . . but you're saying he wasn't poisoned."

"Not that the doctors can tell."

"Oranges," Thomas said again, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin.

"Where's the smell coming from, then?" the detective asked.

Thomas didn't have an answer.

* * * * *

He heard beeping. Beep, beep, beep, beep. Not like the Road Runner, but steady along, like a robot. Beeping faster and faster. Beating faster and faster. Beating.

He was crying. He could taste the salt of his tears.

Nathan's heart hammered in his chest. He could barely breathe because he was crying so hard. He knew that if he didn't stop he would throw up, but it didn't matter.

"He's . . . he's ours fair and square!" Cragskull snarled.

But he and Longtooth didn't come anywhere near Nathan, not an inch closer. There was a long moment when nobody said anything, when even the Orange Pealers had stopped wailing, even the wind had died. Glittering orange starlight shone down on the path. The smell of fire — of the Land of Bells and Whistles burning to cinders not far off — drifted through the air.

The Peanut Butter General stood at the top of the rise, swathed in bees. He took one step forward. The Orange Pealers scrabbled several feet down the hill toward where Nathan lay in the dirt.

"Bob?" Cragskull whispered anxiously, green fire spurting from above his left eye, where his skull was cleaved in two. It happened when he was angry or afraid.

Next to the fire-headed troll, Bob Longtooth took a brave step forward and raised his chin defiantly, glaring at the Peanut Butter General.

Nathan Randall threw up in the dirt and the smell made him cry even harder as he scrambled aside, trying to keep the puke off his clothes. He had to pee again, and bit his lip as he tried to hold it. His pants already stank with urine.

"Mommy," he heaved, his breath coming in spurts. "Da-daddy?"

"You'll be all right, boy," the Peanut Butter General said, his voice sticky, his mouth filled with peanut butter. It stretched in a web from lip to lip, and bees buzzed in and out whenever he opened his mouth.

Nathan stopped breathing, stared, wide-eyed. The General might be trying to help him, but Nathan was even more afraid of him and the bees than he was of Longtooth and Cragskull.

"Traitor," Longtooth finally snarled, staring at the General. "You know thisss isss how it hasss to be. Our Boy mussst be returned. The wood needsss him. Whatever mussst be done mussst be done."

"Not like this," the Peanut Butter General said.

Then he extended one hand and pointed at Nathan. "Take him."

The Orange Pealers screamed, and Nathan thought they sounded almost happy. They ran on their tiny legs down the hill, rows of needle teeth gnashing and spears waving. They came right toward Nathan and the boy closed his eyes, retreating completely. He couldn't look.

Until Bob Longtooth clasped a clawed hand on his arm and started to pull him to his feet. Nathan's eyes flashed open just as Longtooth began to shriek, a scream and a roar combined. It was the bees. They were swarming around Longtooth's head and he let Nathan drop to the ground again, swatting at his face.

The screaming little fruit men ran by Nathan and sank their teeth into Bob's legs, some of them jumping up to bite and stab at Cragskull. For a moment, Cragskull tried to bat them away, to duck the bees. But then Bob Longtooth turned and ran, and the instant Cragskull saw him, he did the same.

"Traitor!" Cragskull snarled as he disappeared into the gnarled and dead trees on the side of the path.

Nathan didn't know how he did it, but he stopped crying, then. Too scared even for that, he breathed quickly, terror bringing air in ragged gasps, as he stared around wide-eyed. The Orange Pealers made a circle around him, but most of them faced outward, spears at the ready, screaming a challenge to the darkness off the path.

They were . . . protecting him?

It didn't make any sense. The Peanut Butter General had said he'd be all right, but he couldn't be trusted. He was a bad guy. The worst, in fact, except maybe for the Jackal Lantern. And the Orange Pealers . . . they were savage, like wolves or something. This wasn't right. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Even Nathan knew that.

But then, nothing in Strangewood was how it was supposed to be.

"Hello, Nathan," a buzzing voice said.

Nathan jumped, turned frantically to see who had talked to him, so close by.

It was the bees, of course. There were hundreds of them, in a small cloud now, flowing like a cloud just behind him. He stared at them, afraid that they would begin to attack, to sting, at any moment. Nathan had never been stung by a bee, but he feared them horribly.

"We won't hurt you, Nathan," the buzzing voice said again.

Somehow Nathan realized that it wasn't a real voice. It was the bees' voice, the bees talking. The buzzing of the whole swarm as they greeted him.

The Orange Pealers fell silent.

A sound like feet stuck in mud made Nathan whip his head around. Directly in front of him, the Peanut Butter General crouched down and studied Nathan. The boy flinched.

"I said you'd be all right, boy," the General reminded him. "I always mean what I say."

"He does, he does," buzzed the bees.

Nathan at first avoided the gaze of the Peanut Butter General, but eventually, he felt as though he had to look. Slowly, fearfully, he looked up into the General's eyes, where stringers of peanut butter stretched from eyelash to eyelash. But beyond that, the eyes were kind. Even sad.

"Can I . . ." Nathan began, the words catching in his throat. "Can I go home now? I miss my mom."

The Peanut Butter General thought for a moment, then quickly moved a hand up to flick some bees off the peanut butter coated brim of his military cap. Nathan flinched again, frightened. Then he winced in pain and bit his lip to keep from crying again. His back was still bleeding, he thought, feeling the wetness on his skin.

"Here," the General said curtly. "Let me look at that."

He reached around behind Nathan and the boy began to whimper. But when the Peanut Butter General's sticky hand touched Nathan's back, the pain seemed to go away. The peanut butter was cold and soothing.

"Is that any better?" the sticky voice asked.

"Yes, thank you," Nathan said, uncertainly. "I'm . . . my name is Nathan. I live in Tarrytown."

The Peanut Butter General smiled down at him.

"Yes, son," he said. "I know who you are. And once I figure out how they got you here, I'm going to do everything I can to make sure you get home."

With that, the Peanut Butter General slowly reached his hands under Nathan, unmindful of the pee and the puke, but ever so careful not to frighten the boy any further, and lifted him into gooey, greasy arms. The bees buzzed around the General's legs and behind his back, some creating an insectoid halo above the peanut butter man's head, but they stayed away from his face and chest. Away from where he held Nathan.

"You'll have to have something else to wear," the General said, then glanced down at the Orange Pealers. "See to it," he said.

Several of the Pealers screamed loudly, a sound like the squealing of a subway train coming into a station, and ran off into the forest. The others continued along with the General.

Nathan was still terrified. His heart still beat wildly and his eyes darted around, watchful for any danger that might spring out at them. The smell of peanut butter was so strong he was both hungry and even more nauseous at the same time. But of the General, he was no longer afraid. The books must be wrong, he thought. Of course they were.

He'd seen the eyes of the Peanut Butter General, and they were very kind.

As they walked back along the Winding Way, Nathan's mind drifted back to all the stories his father had read him or told him about Strangewood. He thought of all the places there and realized that Strangewood was an awfully big place. It wouldn't be long, he thought, before they would come to Grumbler's cottage, and then the Rickety Bridge after that.

With a shiver, Nathan thought of what lurked beneath the Rickety Bridge, and he huddled closer in the Peanut Butter General's arms. Before he realized it, his eyelids began to droop.

Nathan Randall fell asleep in the arms of an all too familiar monster.

* * * * *

As an intern stripped and changed Nathan's bed, a nurse named Frank Pearlman held Nathan in his strong arms.

"Poor kid," the intern said. "They don't know what's wrong with him?"

"Not yet," the nurse replied. "Not a clue, so far."

CHAPTER 6

Thomas couldn't think.

Instead, he cried.

On a small jetty, built of massive quarry stones, that jutted out into the Hudson River, he sat and wept with frustration. Nothing in his life had prepared him for the feelings that swept over him now. Grief over the loss of loved ones, physical agony, none of it compared to the anguish and helplessness that crippled him now.

It was Tuesday morning and nothing had changed. He had spent the night in a hard plastic recliner in Nathan's hospital room, barely a foot away from where Emily slept on a cot. This morning, Nathan still lay motionless on his sturdy, comfortless bed. The used-to-be Randalls had declared a sort of truce, based upon feelings they'd once had for one another, and upon certain things that would never go away: an abiding, bemused affection, and a joint devotion to Nathan.

Emily volunteered to stay while Thomas went home to shower and change, so that he could then do the same for her. In that way, Nathan would never be alone, though whether he knew they were there or not, Dr. Gershmann could not say. He certainly could not see them. The doctors had been forced to tape Nathan's eyes shut to prevent them from drying out. The effect was unnerving; he looked like some horrid human experiment.

When Thomas reached his house in Ardsley, there had been seven messages on the answering machine. He didn't listen to them. He didn't look at the mail as he dumped it onto the kitchen table. Things that held an almost ritualistic importance in his life no longer had any value at all. He had showered, not bothering to shave, and pulled on a faded green V neck T-shirt and a clean pair of blue jeans.

But somehow, on the way back to the hospital, he had been sidetracked. He couldn't do it. Couldn't go back there just yet. Thomas knew he needed a moment to himself, a moment inside his own head, to commune with his id, or whatever. All he really knew was that he'd been so benumbed by the events of the past two days that he could barely think.

Which put him here, after a quick detour in the Volvo. Thomas stared out at the Hudson River, the surface ripples belying the profound power lurking there. He'd paid four dollars to park in the lot of a tree-lined picnic area in Philipse Manor, a slightly snooty suburb just north of Sleepy Hollow. He only had a few minutes — didn't want Emily to feel as though he was taking advantage of her — but it was worth four bucks just for the tranquility. Other than a few oldsters, there weren't many people home to spend time in the park on a late Tuesday morning. And the older people weren't going to be walking out on a rocky outcropping with the river flowing by only inches away.

He was alone.

"God, Nathan, I'm sorry," he whispered to the river.

Never in his life had Thomas felt so frail. He needed desperately to do something, anything, to help Nathan. Find the right doctor, track down a missing clue, find the stalker and beat the crap out of him. The two things were apparently unrelated, but Thomas couldn't help but feel that they were: that there was some connection nobody was seeing. And violence would have felt so good to him then.

With a sigh, he realized he ought to get moving. Thomas wiped the back of his hand across his face, smearing the tears but not erasing them completely. He planted one hand on the edge of a large stone, and had just begun to rise when he heard a distant splash out on the river.

Thomas grunted to himself and turned, propped in a ridiculous position for that moment, to see something wide and black disappear beneath the river's surface, cutting down into the water like a whale's tail.

"What the hell?" he muttered as he stood and brushed mostly imaginary dirt from his butt.

Curious, he narrowed his eyes and watched the surface of the water, waiting for whatever it was to crest once more. To show itself. In his mind's eye, he tried to picture what it had looked like, but couldn’t. Just his imagination, now, trying to layer a subconscious idea on top of the reality. Seemed that had been happening a lot lately.

Nearly a minute passed as he stood there. Thomas reached into his left hand front pocket, where he always kept his keys, and pulled them out by the plastic case of his alarm remote control. Reluctantly, he turned to go, still wondering what kind of freshwater fish got to be as big as the thing he'd seen, though he'd only seen it for a moment.

With a shrug meant only for himself, Thomas glanced around to see that he was, indeed, alone, save for two old gents playing chess at a table under an enormous oak, which seemed to be holding up the sky itself. Nobody else would have seen it, he thought, and began to carefully pick his way along the jetty toward the green grass of the park. At the end of the rocky outcropping, just before he stepped onto the grass, Thomas turned to look again.

Paused a moment.

The water erupted as something broke the surface. Wide and flat and black, easily four feet across, the thing was slick as wet rubber, and with the same consistency. A long, thin tail trailed behind it, as the thing seemed to float along the surface of the water like a flying squirrel soaring from tree to tree. Then it dove again, slicing the river and disappearing into the deep current.

Thomas only stared for a moment at the ripples on the surface where it had gone down. Then he brought his arms up, one hand splayed across his face while with the other, he hugged himself. His fingers covered one eye, as if he couldn't stand to see what he'd just seen, and his heart pumped too hard, too fast in his chest.

His mind gave the thing its name. It was a flying manta, of course. What else could it be? But, then, it couldn't really be a flying manta because there was no such thing.

Not outside of Strangewood. Jesus, he was losing it.

In his right hip pocket, Thomas's tiny cellular phone trilled. Startled, he stepped forward, his foot slipped, and he nearly went over into the shallow water at the river's edge. Instead, he slammed his right knee down on the edge of a rock hard enough to puncture the skin, even through denim. Thomas howled with pain. In the park, the eternal chess players glanced up, saw that he was all right, and went back to their game.

The phone trilled again.

With a loud curse that would have made even his late father, the career military man, blush, Thomas yanked the phone from his pocket, nearly bobbled that into the water, and finally succeeded in flipping it open.

"Yes!" he snapped.

"Have I called at a bad time?"

Thomas took a deep breath; hung his head.

"No, Francesca," he told his agent. "There isn't a good time, these days, so how could this be a bad time? I just think I'm losing my mind is all."

"I don't blame you," she told him.

Thomas knew Francesca thought he was talking about Nathan and what was happening. He let her go on thinking that. He ought to be back at the hospital anyway, he thought. Then, idly, he wondered if he should confer with someone in their psych unit. Or at least get a referral on a shrink.

"I'm headed back over to the hospital now," he said. "What can I do for you?"

She paused a moment on the other end. When she spoke, the question of his sanity was not merely in Thomas's own thoughts, but in his agent's voice as well.

"I'm headed over for that Fox meeting in a bit," she said. "Just a bit of whatever they call breakfast here in the City of Angels. Then it's off to make you a lot of money. I really don't know if I can pull this off without you."

"You'll get more money on the deal if I'm not there, and you know it," he told her dismissively.

"Maybe," she replied. "Listen, I don't want to seem cold about this, Thomas, but is there any way you could get in on a conference call in a little while? And I need to know what to tell them if they ask when you can come out for a follow-up meeting. Even if they agree to do the deal, they may want to meet with you in person anyway."

At first, Thomas didn't respond. Then, when he opened his mouth and the first syllable began to emerge, Francesca cut him off immediately.

"Look, I know that Nathan comes first," she said quickly. "For me, too. Really. But the doctors have already told you he's going to be all right . . ."

"They don't think he'll die, Frankie," Thomas said, eyes narrowed as he massaged his temples, watching the old men play chess. "That doesn't mean he's getting better. It doesn't mean he won't spend the rest of his fucking life like this. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Frankie harrumphed. Thomas could hear it, even over the phone.

"I’m out here working for you, Thomas. Maybe you should think about working for Nathan sometimes too. Look, do you want me to cancel the whole thing? Believe me, I have friends in San Diego who would love to spend the week with me, and I could use a vacation."

"No," Thomas said instantly. "I'm sorry, Francesca. You just have to understand . . ."

"I do understand. Much as you think I don't. But life has got to go on, Thomas. The world doesn't stop turning when you want it to. In all seriousness, Nathan may need you now more than ever. I understand. I really do. But Fox wants this right now. In a day or a week they may not be interested. That's the way this business works. You know that. There's value here, insurance. And if you're going to stop working for a little while, I don't need to remind you that subrights on Strangewood are all you've got for a livelihood."

They were all good points. Thomas recognized that. Francesca wasn't the kind of bloodsucking agent who was going to crack the whip just to make her commission. She was his friend. And horrible as it was, she was right.

To a point.

"Look, I can't do anything for the next few hours. I've got to relieve Emily so she can wash up, change clothes. This afternoon, if they want to talk to me, we'll arrange it. But right now, no. And I'm not coming out there."

"Thomas . . ."

"I'm sorry, Frankie, but no. They want to see me, they can come to Manhattan," Thomas said sternly. "I've screwed up my kid's life and mind enough as it is, with this divorce. If they don't get that my son needs me now, then fuck 'em. I plan to be there when Nathan wakes up."

After a brief pause, Francesca said only, "Call me if there's any change. I'll let you know how the meeting goes."

Then there was a click, and she was gone. Thomas folded up the little phone, slipped it into his jeans, and clambered toward shore again, wincing at the pain in his knee. A small dark spot of blood, no bigger than a dime, had soaked through the denim. But he'd be all right. With all that was going on in his life, Thomas really didn't give the injury another thought.

With a glance at the chess players — the older of the two men, a dapper looking Latino, was handily whupping the other — Thomas half-limped across the grass beneath the trees until he came to the dirt path that led back out to the parking lot. Though he'd seen only the chess players in the past twenty minutes or so, there were five cars other than his own in the lot. Two spaces over was a hunter green Jeep Cherokee Laredo, and Thomas admired the vehicle. He'd wanted one for a while, and he knew that Nathan would love it.

Just for you, buddy, he thought, a silent promise to his son. When Nathan woke up, he'd buy the Jeep for both of them.

When he rounded the Jeep, Thomas saw his Volvo. It was covered in bird shit. Not merely one or two drops of white and brown and green, but dozens. It looked as though he'd parked under the trees for weeks, rather than half an hour.

"Jesus!" Thomas snarled and then stared up at the sky as if imploring the heavens for assistance. But the heavens were the problem, he thought. And began to laugh. It didn't last long, but it felt good to laugh. Even at his own stupid jokes.

With a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head, Thomas pulled his keys from his jeans again. He went for the driver's door, and was unlocking it when a huge crow landed on the roof of the car. The bird might have been innocent, but Thomas believed wholeheartedly in guilt by association, particularly as it pertained to beasts such as dogs, cats, birds, and small children.

"Scat, you little shit!" Thomas said. "Get away. Shoo! Get off the car!"

The crow only glared balefully at him, its black eyes shining, reflecting Thomas's face like the most polished of precious stones.

Thomas raised his hands, trying to spook the bird. Nothing worked. The thing would simply not move. Finally, at wit's end, Thomas reached into his car for a road map he kept in the glove compartment and waved it at the bird. The crow behaved as though it were Cleopatra, languishing in the breeze of the wildly fanning map.

Thomas glared at the crow.

"Fine," he grunted. "Fuck you, then. We'll see if you can stay up there doing fifty five."

Keys in his right hand, Thomas held his door open and was about to drop into his seat when the crow spoke.

"He needs you, Our Boy," said the crow. "You're the only one who can help him now."

For a moment, he was frozen. Then Thomas turned to stare at the crow in horror. Its beak was closed. It couldn't possibly have spoken. Not really. It had to all be in his head.

But the way it stared at him with those wide, black, funhouse mirror eyes . . .

Feeling like an utter moron, Thomas tilted his head to regard the bird.

"Dave?" he asked.

Caw! it cried, and with the slap of broad ebon wings on air, it lofted itself skyward. Thomas stared after it until the bird was out of sight. Then he slid behind the wheel of the Volvo, slipped his key into the ignition, and started the car. As the engine roared into life, Thomas glanced out the window again.

"No," he told himself. "No fucking way."

On the way to the hospital, he turned the radio up as loud as he could stand it, and still, he barely heard the music.

* * * * *

There wasn't much of a view from Nathan's hospital window. In the chair in which Thomas had slept the night before, Emily looked out on the windows of other wings of the hospital and the roof of what must have been the lobby, several floors down. The roof was covered with stones, almost like a parking lot, a practice Emily had noticed many times and never understood. What was the purpose of covering the top of a building with a blanket of small rocks? It irked her.

It was also boring. A cardinal sin. Even the parking lot itself would have made for more interesting viewing. At least she would have been able to see people come and go.

With her cheeks suddenly flushed with guilt, Emily turned to look at Nathan. Nothing had changed. He lay there, so sweet, almost as if he were asleep. If only that had been the case. She thought of Nathan as a baby, the wispy thin brown hair he had as an infant, and the way his animated, forever-babbling face lapsed into a cherubic innocence when he drifted off. His mouth slightly parted, so desperately exhausted just from the effort of being a baby.

He still had dimples. When Nathan smiled, his dimples were enough to make anyone grin right along with him. But he wasn't smiling now. Wasn't asleep now. Instead, he was just frozen in some kind of weird in-between state, here, but also somewhere else, somewhere far away.

There was nothing Emily could do except watch her son's chest rise and fall with each breath, watch horrid daytime television on the hospital set, or stare out the window at the gravel spread inexplicably over the rooftop. And when Emily had stared too long out that window, worried too long and too ineffectually about Nathan, and grown tired of her anxiety, she wanted more than anything to leave.

She dropped her head, suffering with her guilt, and her blonde hair spilled down to drape over her face.

Time and again she told herself that this was her son, that she belonged here at his side. Emily knew that was true, and she would have done anything for Nathan. But a part of her just wanted to escape, only for a little while. To be away from here.

"I’m sorry, honey," she whispered to Nathan as she sat on the edge of his bed, ignoring the tubes.

It was silly, really. She knew that anyone would tell her that. After all, nobody could spend all that time in a hospital room, no contact, no activity or emotion but the fear of the future. But that didn't make the guilt go away.

Emily rose and went to the small private bath off of Nathan's room. She used the toilet, then washed her hands and splashed water on her face. When she had finished, she leaned over the sink and stared hard at her own visage in the mirror. Backward. The opposite of Emily, she had always thought, alternately amused and repulsed by the idea. There were crow's feet around her hazel eyes, but not too many. And though the dark circles were particularly unattractive, she knew that they weren't usually this bad.

There, looking in the mirror, Emily began to come awake at last. To rise from the numbing fog that had enshrouded her since Sunday night. She was in the hospital, with her son, and he needed her more than he had since the day he left her womb. That was all that mattered.

But in order to properly care for Nathan, to be there for him and be ready to handle whatever might come up down the line, Emily knew that she would have to continue to live. Continue to be Emily, the woman in the mirror. Her late father had once told her, in a rare expedition into the foreign land of philosophy, that people defined themselves, for better or worse, by their own reflection in the eyes of others. Emily needed the moral and intellectual support of the people in her life: her ex-husband; her mother — if only it were possible to rouse her from her Alzheimer’s-induced fog; Nathan's doctors; her co-workers; and Joe. She needed Joe, too.

Dragging her fingers through her unwashed hair, Emily went back into Nathan's room. She sat on the edge of his bed, kissed his forehead, and looked at her watch. Thomas had been gone nearly three hours. A long time, she thought, and hoped he'd be back soon. She needed a break, damn it, and to hell with the guilt that thought engendered.

Somehow, even without the shower, the change of clothes, and the sleep she craved so powerfully, Emily felt reenergized. She reached for the phone and, after several aborted attempts trying to figure out how to get an outside line, called work.

Emily was the director of human resources at Sentinel Software. Given her current circumstances, she realized that she was fortunate to be in a job where she had two managers working for her who really knew what they were doing. It had enabled her to work shortened hours, so she could pick Nathan up at three o'clock every afternoon, and have a life with him. And now, the competence of her subordinates enabled her to be with her son when he needed her most.

"HR, this is Lorena."

"It's Emily," she said.

"Oh, God, Emmy, how is he?" Lorena asked fretfully, and just from her voice on the phone, Emily could picture the younger woman's concerned expression.

"No change," Emily admitted, sitting up a bit straighter, a physical sign of her resolve to be strong for her son. "They started with a CT scan on Sunday night, that's sort of a computer map of the brain. Yesterday they did an MRI, which gives much more detail, but they still haven't figured out what's wrong with him. I'm sure it's just a matter of time, though. How are things on your end?"

"Are we firing Mark Caligiuri or not?" Lorena asked.

"Yes. Show him his record if he wants. Wait until the end of the day, though. I don't want him leaving with anything sensitive. He can keep his rolodex, but not a single client file," Emily replied thoughtfully. "Did we get an answer from that woman, Paula whatshername?"

"Paulette," Lorena corrected. "Hobson. And yes, she countered our offer. She's asked for an additional seven thousand, commensurate bonus, and another week's vacation."

"Give her six," Emily said. "That's within the executive committee's parameters for third quarter new hires. Anything else?"

"Nope."

"I'm going to be here a while, Lorena," Emily told her. "Well, shuttling between here and home. I'm going to pick up my cell phone when I go home to shower, and then I'll be good to go."

"I won't call unless it's . . ."

"Call," Emily said quickly. "If you have questions, if you need me, if you're not sure about something, call. If there are papers I have to sign, messenger them over, or let me know and I'll pick them up when I have a chance. I'm not going to stop being responsible in the rest of my life, Lorena. But I need to be here."

"Of course you do," Lorena replied. "I just meant that . . ."

"I know. Thank you. I'll be going home shortly. You can reach me there for the next few hours, but I should be back here by two o'clock. Three at the latest."

They said their good-byes and Emily hung up, grateful to have someone as kind and competent as Lorena to rely on. She reminded herself to actually tell the woman that the next time they spoke. Somehow, though, she suspected that she would forget.

Behind her, the door clicked open.

"Sorry," Thomas said.

Emily pursed her lips, readying a stern reproach for his tardiness. Then she saw his apologetic expression, and she faltered. There was more to his appearance than merely apology, however. As he strode across the room and dropped into the recliner, his eyes seemed to dart around distractedly. He wouldn't meet her gaze, almost as if he were guilty of something. But it wasn't exactly that. Emily knew it wasn't, because she'd seen Thomas's guilty face before. He looked upset.

Haunted.

"I stopped at the park for a few minutes, just to think for a bit," he said hurriedly. "Just lost track of the time, I guess."

Still, he seemed unsettled. And Emily did not fail to notice that she understood his reference to the park without Thomas having to elaborate any more than that. There were dozens of parks in this area. But when you'd known someone so intimately for so long, there were so many things that no longer required explanation. She wondered if that were actually a good thing, or if it served to weaken a relationship. There was a part of her that yearned for that kind of simple explanation for the failure of her marriage to Thomas: we just couldn't communicate. It would be so convenient to be able to sum it up like that.

Like now.

"What is it, Thomas?" she asked, studying his furrowed brow, the distinguished graying at his temples. He was two years younger than she, but Emily knew that Thomas would only be more handsome as he aged, and found a bit of envy in her heart at the thought. "What's bothering you?"

In the surprised glance, followed by a frown, followed by a sheepish and halfhearted grin and a shake of his head, Emily found that her communication with Thomas was actually better than she would have thought. She knew him. And because she knew him, she was worried.

"Thomas?"

He stood up again, unable to keep still, and walked over to stare down at Nathan. Their son lay on the rough white bedclothes, as plain and sterile as the rest of the room. Thomas touched the backs of his fingers to the boy's forehead, as if checking for fever. Then he did the oddest thing: he sniffed the air. At last, he turned his gaze to Emily, still distracted but a bit more focused.

"Do you smell anything odd?" he asked.

"Only your behavior," she said firmly. "What's got you spooked, Tommy?"

He wrinkled his nose at the nickname, but didn't correct her, which was how Emily's suspicion that something was very wrong became an absolute certainty.

"Really," he said, and gazed at her sincerely.

With a tiny shrug, Emily sighed, and sniffed the air in the room. There was an odd smell, sweet and familiar. At first she couldn't quite put a name to it, and then it hit her: peanut butter. Without flinching, her voice steady, she looked at Thomas and lied to him.

"I don't smell anything," she said.

Whatever was bothering him, it was obviously something bizarre. No matter what was going on in his head, she wasn't about to go along with it. This way, she hoped that he would at least tell her what was haunting him.

Instead, he muttered a curse under his breath, looked her straight in the eye, and said, "I think maybe I need to see someone."

Emily wasn't the type of person who played the fool, not even for the sake of a loved one. She knew precisely what Thomas meant and wasn't about to dissemble.

"Maybe we all do, sometimes," she said. "We're dealing with a lot, here, Thomas. It couldn't hurt to talk to someone."

"This isn't about Nathan," he said, but his words sounded hollow, unsure. "This is just . . . I think I saw a flying manta today. In the Hudson."

She stared at him, frowning.

"There's no . . ."

". . . such thing, I know," he agreed, and that was all.

It was obvious to Emily that Thomas was holding something back. There was more to all of this. But the key issue was out in the open. He'd started to hallucinate.

"It's probably all stress related, Thomas," she assured him. "Everybody freaks out. Creative people are likely to freak out in creative ways. Or in ways related to their work or art, or whatever."

She stood up and went to him, reached out for his hands, and held them in hers. Emily gazed into her ex-husband's brown eyes with sincerity, but nothing more. There was a line drawn between them, and she didn't want him to misinterpret the gesture as crossing that line.

"See someone, Thomas, and right away," she said. "Nathan needs you in one piece. He needs your strength. And so do I."

Briefly, they embraced. Then Emily reached for her purse.

"Give me a couple of hours," she said. "I'll go as fast as I can. Do you need anything?"

"Only my head examined," Thomas said, a self-deprecating smile on his face. "And our son back."

CHAPTER 7

On the drive back to her house in Tarrytown, Emily received a ticket for driving forty-seven miles per hour in a thirty zone. The cop didn't care that her son was in the hospital. The law was the law, according to him.

As much as she had resolved to remain a part of the world, to keep pace with her work and the people in her life, Emily felt horribly detached from it all. The speeding ticket was merely one in a long stream of occurrences that proved to her the world didn't care. The world sped on and on, with little or no interest in what had happened to Nathan, nor any interest in how it had affected Emily. The world didn't need her.

But Emily needed the world, very badly, to keep her grounded. Already, the surreal quality of it all, the terrible mystery of Nathan's illness — if it could even be labeled an illness — had managed to sweep her away into some kind of strange twilight borderland, a limbo from which she could watch the lives of other people continue on without interruption.

As she drove south on Broadway, Emily felt as though her Honda Accord were a bubble carrying her along through the real world. It was a horrible feeling, and she felt bile rise in her throat. She passed through Philipse Manor and the turnoff that would take her to the park that Thomas loved so much. In Sleepy Hollow, she passed several churches, the high school, and the little restaurant, Horsefeathers, where she had met Joe for the first time.

That was real life. A memory that didn't have anything to do with Nathan or Thomas. Emily latched onto it with a desperation she had never felt before. Somehow, it began to settle her down. She slowed the Honda to a stop at a traffic signal, where she blinked several times, took a deep breath, and let it out. Emily tested her grip on the wheel, felt the solidity of it beneath her palms and fingers, and nodded to herself.

I'm freaking out, she thought, and immediately, her mind flashed to one of the cartoons Nathan enjoyed so much. Freakazoid, she thought it was called. An image formed in her mind of her son's face, the sandy blond hair a tussle and the cheeks dimpled with a wide grin.

Emily took another breath, sat up straight, and set her jaw defiantly. She paid little attention to the tears that began to stream down her cheeks. The tears were real. She had every reason in the world to cry. Weeping, she drove several blocks to the center of Tarrytown, where Main Street led west, down to the train station and the Hudson beyond. There, she took a left, going east, up the hill toward Marymount College and home.

A few minutes later, Emily turned into the driveway of the home she shared with Nathan. For several moments after she turned off the ignition, listening to the engine tick and cool, she couldn't even look up. The house would be dead to her now, empty as a ghost town. She dreaded going inside and promised herself that she wouldn't go into Nathan's room.

Then she looked up and saw the bicycle propped on its kickstand near the garage. A twelve speed lightweight racing bike the color of grape soda. It was Joe's.

They had been dating little more than a month. Measured in weeks, even, it seemed such a brief time. Emily would never have predicted the rush of relief and gratitude that filled her at the sight of that bicycle. She knew that her emotions were running wild. No doubt. But as much as she needed Thomas to be in her life right now, particularly at the hospital, with Nathan, Emily realized in that moment that Joe was what she needed to anchor her to the rest of the world.

For precisely the same reasons that she wanted him gone from the hospital the day before, she needed to see him now.

She climbed out of the Honda, and when she slammed the door, Joe stood up from the bench on her front porch. His face was etched with concern and self doubt, but he said nothing as he waited for her to approach.

Emily strode quickly toward the steps.

"I'm sorry, Em," Joe said hurriedly. "But when I called the office, Lorena said you were coming home to wash up, and I just had to . . ."

Nearly launching herself up the steps, Emily wrapped her arms around Joe as tightly as she could. That was it. No kiss. It didn't even occur to her. Just the weight of him was enough to give her what she had to have at that moment, the reassurance of her own self. Emily Randall had never been a woman who defined herself by the presence of a man, but in this case, having anyone who cared so passionately about her and just her was an absolute necessity.

"I'm glad you're here," she said weakly.

Together, they went inside.

"I don't have any more classes today," Joe told her. "I thought I'd go for a ride, and then I called the office and . . . here I am. I was afraid you'd be angry."

Though she was dying for a shower, Emily sat Joe down and tried her best to explain her feelings, the maelstrom of emotion she'd gone through in the past forty-eight hours.

"What it comes down to," she said in the end, "is that I need you. I really do, Joe. But right now, selfish as it sounds, I need you on my terms. Is that awful?"

This last she asked hopefully, her hazel eyes turned up to him.

"Not at all," he replied gently, and then he kissed her, softly, deeply, for a long time.

Finally, Emily stood, tossed back her unwashed hair, and said, "I feel so gross, I've got to take a shower. Alone."

They both smiled.

"If you have the time, please stay. It's easier for me to be here when I'm not by myself. I shouldn't be long," Emily said.

"I’m not going anywhere," Joe promised.

He was as good as his word. When she emerged from her room, hair damp from the shower, and began to put on her makeup, Joe was sitting in the living room watching The Gossip Show on the E! Channel. When she had gotten everything she needed together, and her hair was dry, Emily went back out the door with Joe, kissed him good-bye, and watched him ride away on his bike, powerful legs rippling with muscle.

Sliding into the Honda, she left the ghost house behind. All the while she was in the house, she hadn't so much as glanced at the door to Nathan's room.

* * * * *

Strange smells filled the air. His eyes felt sticky. Sticky and tight. There were voices. Or maybe just the wind in the trees.

Cradled against the gummy chest of the Peanut Butter General, Nathan slept fitfully as they made their way along the Winding Way. He briefly woke, not quite aware, his eyes fluttering, then blinking, then opening wide for just a moment before he drifted off again. He'd seen, in that moment, the clearing in front of Grumbler's darkened cottage and the lake beyond, orange starlight glimmering on the water's surface.

He knew that meant they were passing the Scratchy Path on the other side. But it didn't occur to Nathan to wonder what might happen if he turned up the Scratchy Path, traipsed carefully through the brambles to where The Boy's house was supposed to stand. Before he could even begin to consider where The Boy himself might be, Nathan had fallen back to sleep.

It was twenty minutes or more of sticky jostling and the distant howl of the Orange Pealers before a low, viscous voice whispered in his ear.

"Wake now, boy," the voice said. "For I may need to fight and then won't be able to carry you."

As he was being lowered to the ground, Nathan rubbed sleep from his eyes. It was weird to him to have to wake up when it was still dark out, and he was unsteady on his feet for a minute as he got his bearings. Strangely, there was no peanut butter on him anywhere, neither on his clothes nor on his skin, except where the General had soothed the ragged wounds left on Nathan's back by Bob Longtooth. It was as if he could control it, and why not? It was part of him, after all.

Nathan looked up at the Peanut Butter General and wondered if there was anyone inside, or if he was made up all of peanut butter.

Several Orange Pealers came screaming up the path behind them, gnashing their teeth as they rushed to take up positions on either side of Nathan, eyes darting around, looking into the darkness of the wood for any sign of attack. Nathan bit his lip. He was still afraid of the Pealers, but they seemed much more interested in protecting him than in using those gleaming needle teeth and their tiny spears on him.

Nathan glanced around. The dark wood was thick on either side of the Winding Way, but there were no fruit trees here, burned or otherwise. He didn't know what kind of trees they were, but they looked good for climbing. Or they would have been, were it not for the nasty looking pricker bushes that lined the left side of the path. Though there was no breeze at all, the wicked-looking branches swayed back and forth, and Nathan knew without a doubt that he didn't want to go anywhere near those bushes.

Then he recalled passing Grumbler's cottage, and what that meant. He felt a brief urge to turn back, but he was only five and a half years old — that half having become so very important to him — and he didn't want to go alone. In some strange way, the Peanut Butter General was the only grown-up around.

Eyes darting around nervously, Nathan reached up unconsciously to hold the Peanut Butter General's hand. The bees still kept away from Nathan, and that was good. The General seemed surprised when Nathan's fingers touched his own, but after a moment, he gripped the boy's hand firmly, and they began to walk along the Winding Way together.

"Why are you going to have to fight?" Nathan asked suddenly, though he'd actually been running the General's statement through his head ever since he'd been put down. "Are they . . . are they coming back?"

They had reached a point where the Winding Way became a small hill, an incline up which they now walked briskly. Nathan had to hurry to keep up with the long stride of the General. Somehow, the Orange Pealers seemed comfortable with the pace, which for them was almost an out and out run. Nathan smelled oranges again, and of course the smell of the General.

"Strangewood smells like breakfast," he announced, happy the thought had occurred to him.

But the Peanut Butter General had not forgotten his question. "The only way I can think of to keep you safe is to take you to my home," he explained. "The journey is long, and there are many dangers along the way: those who would try to prevent us from reaching our destination."

"Why?" Nathan asked, eyes wide with his lack of understanding. Longtooth and Cragskull wanted to hurt him, but he didn't know why anyone else would try to attack, especially a . . . well, a monster, like the Peanut Butter General.

The General stopped in the path. They'd reached a point just below the crest of the hill, and the path was all hard-packed dirt and stones and twigs there. When the General crouched by Nathan with a hand on his shoulder, the boy heard his knees pop just like an old man's and he stared hard at the General's knee for a second. Bones in there, he thought.

When he looked at the General's face again, Nathan studied him intently. There was someone in there. Somehow. More than just peanut butter.

"Son," the General said, "there have always been bad things in the wood. Bad people and places. Danger. But since your father stopped coming here, it's only gotten worse. It isn't safe now. You know the stories, the way things would always work out for the best. That's over, now. It's savage here. Do you know that word? It's wild, son, and there's only one person in the world who can do anything about that."

Nathan bit his lip. "My Dad?" he asked.

The General smiled slightly, kindly, and nodded. Then he stood again and took Nathan firmly by the hand, and together they walked up the crest of the hill, Orange Pealers spread ten feet on either side of them, covering the entirety of the broad path out to where the trees shot up from the earth. Their bumpy flesh glowed oddly under the light from stars whose color matched their own.

At the top of the hill, Nathan looked down. The path fell away at a steep angle and then leveled out. It began to curve then, but gently, and ran another fifty yards as the wood thinned a bit. Then there was the Up-River, flowing into the heart of Strangewood off to the right. Though it wound all around Strangewood, almost in an embrace, it changed considerably over the course of that route. Here, the Up-River had carved itself a canyon thirty or forty feet deep over the years. The Winding Way led right up to the edge of the river and continued fifty-seven feet away, on the other side.

Spanning the rushing water was a wooden structure twelve-feet wide that looked as though it had been patched together over the course of several decades by a blind carpenter.

"The Rickety Bridge," Nathan whispered.

"It will be all right," the Peanut Butter General said, and started down, still holding Nathan's hand as the boy stumbled to keep up with him and the Pealers scrambled madly alongside.

"It will be all right," the General repeated.

But Nathan knew what lived under the Rickety Bridge.

He wanted to go home.

The river rushed up a gentle slope, ignoring gravity completely. It burbled along, quite content, speaking the language of water. The Peanut Butter General stood at the edge of the Rickety Bridge and listened to all the sounds of Strangewood around him. A light breeze stirred in the leaves on the path, whirling up into a little dust devil that seemed to sway toward him, whisper a warning, and then skitter off down the path, moving away from the Bridge as quickly as it was able.

The Rickety Bridge creaked as the wind pushed lightly yet persistently against it. The General listened carefully to the sounds of the forest and the river and the bridge, but he could not concentrate over the other sounds that insinuated themselves into his head.

"Hush, now," he said sternly, lips nearly sticking together with the first word. He ran his tongue over his lips to clear the webs of peanut butter away.

The Orange Pealers obeyed instantly. Though it was part of their nature to scream at all times, almost like bats with their squeaking sonar, the Pealers fell silent. They had dropped back behind the General and surrounded the boy, Nathan, whom the General had told them must be protected at all costs.

Still, there was a cacophony of noise surrounding him that the General would not tolerate.

It was the bees.

"Away!" he commanded, and held out his arm to point toward the trees.

Instantly, as though he had torn a garment away from his skin, the bees fled the body of the Peanut Butter General. Several buzzed from his throat, into and then out of his mouth. They moved as one, a swarm of angry yellow and raging black.

The Peanut Butter General waited until he could no longer hear them, until all that reached his ears were the language of the river and the whisper of the wind. He felt a ripple at his side, an ebb and flow in the thickness of the peanut butter at his hip. His fingers seemed to flex of their own accord, and then he reached out to grip the peanut butter covered hilt of the long, deadly edged sword that was part of his dress uniform.

It required a great deal of strength to draw the sticky blade from its scabbard.

"Sir?" the boy said behind him. "General?"

The Peanut Butter General turned silently and brought a finger to his lips, shushing the boy. Nathan's eyes were wide with helpless terror. With a gesture to indicate to the boy that he should stay with the Pealers, no matter what, the General turned and took his first step out onto the Rickety Bridge.

The creak was tremendous, the wail of unoiled hinges magnified a hundredfold. The General held his sword out in front of him. There were boards missing or rotted all across the bridge, and despite its width and substantial structure, the way it swayed made it feel dangerously flimsy beneath his feet. The General kept his legs spread wide for balance as he made his way across. He could hear the scritch-scratch of the tiny feet of the Orange Pealers on the wood behind him and felt the realignment of weight with each step Nathan took to follow him.

Without the trees, the orange stars lit the night around them. The black water of the Up-river ran on either side of the bridge, rushed quickly over rocks and around jags in its deep canyon walls, and where the rough water gave up foamy white, it too was tainted orange by the light. To the west, the canyon fell away and the river followed more than a mile before it turned north and collapsed entirely into a water rise, where millions of gallons of the Foamy Sea flowed up the side of a cliff to get to the riverbed in the first place.

In all his years in Strangewood, the Peanut Butter General had never been to the Foamy Sea. He thought briefly that if he survived all of this — if Strangewood survived it — he would like to get a glimpse of that churning water.

To the east, the Up-River flowed, well, up. The incline became greater and greater as it wound steeply into the Bald Mountains toward the high peaks and the fortress of the Jackal Lantern.

The General took several steps across the bridge, carefully, staying alert. There was no sign of trouble from either side, or from beneath. Only thirty-five feet to the other side now, where the Winding Way picked up once more and the wood began to thin out some. And after that, less than two miles to the forest stronghold that the Peanut Butter General had been secretly building for the past six years — ever since Thomas Randall published the first book about Strangewood. A good soldier was always prepared for the worst.

That thought was still echoing in his head, along with the rushing river below, when the bridge swayed dangerously to one side. The east edge of the structure dipped and only because of his stance did the General not lose his footing. Even as he turned, he saw several Orange Pealers slip and roll off the side of the bridge to tumble, screaming louder than ever before, into the rushing water below.

"Help!" Nathan shrieked.

The General was about to shout his name, to go to him, when the resourceful boy grabbed hold of a wooden support on the west edge — what was now the high side — of the bridge. A number of the Orange Pealers only avoided tumbling to the river by holding onto Nathan's clothing.

With an ear-splitting roar, the beast that lived beneath the Rickety Bridge swung up from beneath the wooden structure and landed with a heavy thump on the floorboards. It did not lose its footing. Rather, the sway and creak of the bridge seemed to suit it.

Nathan was just getting his bearings, and stood halfway between the General and the monster.

"Run, boy!" the General snapped and moved forward even as Nathan and the Pealers slipped past him, making for the other side of the bridge. The Orange Pealers had forgotten his orders now, and were screaming as loudly as they were able.

It did not matter now. The Peanut Butter General had been foolish to hope that the beast would sleep through their entire trek across a bridge so ridiculously loud. It made no effort to follow the child, however. There was that, at least. Instead, it merely stared at the General, smoke billowing from its wide nostrils.

It stamped its left foot and the bridge swayed. Then the thing used its weight to continued the pendulous motion. The General didn't dare turn his head to see if Nathan had reached the safety of the other side. Sword in front of him, he began to back up, sliding his feet over rotted boards, hoping he would not reach a spot where the wood had collapsed down into the shoddy latticework that held the bridge up. It was not easy to keep his balance, but the Peanut Butter General had an advantage the creature was unaware of.

The bottom of his boots, coated with peanut butter, stuck fast to the wood.

"General," the thing said, its voice a low, laughing rumble. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Keep well back, Troll, or they'll use your guts to lash this old bridge together," the General warned.

The Troll laughed. It was a hideous thing, three and a half feet tall and nearly that broad. Stout as a wooden keg, its head and back, belly, groin and feet were covered with fur, while the rest of it was a dry and cracked brown leather. Its dark orange nose was huge and bulbous, and spread halfway across its face. Massive twin tusks jutted from inside its lower lip. Nearly six inches long, they came up to the side of the beast's nose. Its jaw was long and its chin pointed, decorated with a long, tasseled bit of beard that hung like a horse's tail.

When it fed, the Troll's jaw opened wide enough to swallow a pig whole.

"You have no token for me, General?" the Troll rumbled with amusement. "For safe passage across my bridge, you know I require some sort of payment."

The thing's wide yellow eyes glanced past the Peanut Butter General toward the other side of the bridge, and the Troll lowered his gaze. All trace of amusement had left his voice when next he spoke.

"If you have nothing else," he said ominously, "I suppose I'll have to take the boy."

The Peanut Butter General studied the Troll's wide yellow eyes, saw the steam jetting from its nostrils, gauged the length of its thick-muscled, ropy-veined arms, and then he smiled, peanut butter stretching across the gaping grin. Then he waited. The bridge swayed west, then it began to swing back east. As the wood beneath him tilted, the General nodded.

"That sounds fair," he said.

The Troll blinked in surprise. The Rickety Bridge paused in its motion, about to sway back in the other direction. The Peanut Butter General surged forward and drove the point of his sword deep into the Troll's shoulder. As the blade whickered toward Troll flesh, the peanut butter seemed to roll back from it, revealing a steel edge beneath, gleaming in the orange starlight.

Steel pierced flesh. The Troll screamed. With huge three-fingered hands tipped with vicious claws, the Troll raked the Peanut Butter General's chest. The General fell backward onto the rotted wood, heard the snap as several boards broke or crumbled beneath him. The Troll rushed toward him, but the General rose quickly.

He heard the Orange Pealers howling. In that chorus, he thought he heard Nathan screaming as well. For the boy, he must prevail. Failure was not even conceivable. The Troll lunged for him, the General ducked his attack and drove steel through Troll flesh once more. This time the blade passed through the Troll's abdomen. Blue blood began to crawl like heavy cream down the beast's pelvis and legs.

The Troll backed up. The General pressed his advantage, moving in on the thing. Before he realized his error, he had stepped onto the boards his fall had broken. Wood splintered around him, and the Peanut Butter General fell. He dropped his sword and it clattered on the wood. He reached out and barely was able to gain his grip on the unbroken boards around him where they were still attached to the wooden supports that ran along each side of the bridge.

Below, the thick latticework of rotten or discarded wood that held up the bridge was broken in places. Boards jutted up at odd angles. If he did not die from smashing into the crisscrossed beams, he might be impaled instead. Worse, somewhere in that dark trap was the lair of the Troll, and who knew what horrors lay down there.

"Hmm?" the Troll said and held one thick hand on its broad expanse of gut, where the General's sword had passed. "Perhaps you'll think twice about not paying a toll when next you wish to cross, General?" the Troll grumbled angrily.

It stood, prepared to walk past him, but paused after a moment. It glared down at the General, blue blood flowing over its fingers.

"I don't think I want the boy, come to think of it," the Troll said mildly. "I think I'll just take your sword."

The Peanut Butter General's eyes widened with rage at this insult.

"And your hat. Always liked that hat," the Troll added, narrowing its eyes to study the General's peanut butter encrusted military cap.

Then the Troll licked its lips. "And since I'm a bit hungry, and you smell so very, very good . . ." it said, and then paused, reached out, and gripped the General's right hand. Now the General held onto the bridge by only his left hand, but falling had suddenly ceased to be his primary concern.

"I'll take a bit of nourishment as well," the Troll finished.

He crouched on the bridge, which had stopped its swaying, and held the Peanut Butter General's hand up to his mouth as though it were a leg of fowl. The Troll's jaw distended, tusks dropping low enough to allow the General's entire arm to pass through the jagged teeth that lined the inside of the beast's maw.

"No!" the General shouted.

The Troll snorted with amusement, smoke jetting from its nostrils.

The Peanut Butter General narrowed his eyes, struggled to keep his arm from the Troll's mouth. "No," he said again, angrily.

Dangerously.

Then he said another word, in a voice so low he knew the Troll would not hear it. The word he said was, "Swarm."

The bees rushed in by the hundreds, an angry cloud of black and yellow, the buzzing loud enough to drown out the rumble of the river below. They surrounded the Troll's head in an impenetrable sheet of stinging fury.

As the Troll began to scream, the Peanut Butter General climbed out of the hole in the bridge and got to his feet. He picked up his sword, hefted it in his right hand, and walked toward the screaming Troll.

"Away," he said grimly, and the bees obeyed.

Face lumpy and swollen from the stings of the bees, the Troll looked up at the General, his eyes pitiful. The General raised his sword.

"Wait!" the Troll said, suddenly terrified. "What are you doing? You can't . . . you can't kill me!" he cried, his tongue thick and swollen. "This is Strangewood."

For a moment, the Peanut Butter General hesitated. Then his eyes narrowed to gooey slits and he set his jaw firmly.

"This is war," the General snarled.

The sword whickered through the air, peanut butter flying off and leaving only the shining metal edge. It hacked through gristle and bone with one clean slice, and the Troll's head separated from its neck, tumbling through the air and down over the side of the Rickety Bridge to be carried by the Up-River toward the Bald Mountains in the distance.

"This is war," the General whispered, as the blood fountained from the decapitated body of the Troll, where it slumped to the rotten wood of the bridge.

Greatly saddened, the General turned toward the other side, toward home. He looked up, and only then did he notice that the screaming of the Orange Pealers had nearly ceased. Only one Pealer remained to scream, and its wail was high pitched and frantic.

Nathan was gone.

The Peanut Butter General moved swiftly but carefully across the bridge and scanned the Winding Way and the forest around it, but to no avail. The rest of the Orange Pealers were gone, as was Nathan himself. The bees followed him and began to settle on and in his body once more, but he paid them no mind.

"Nathan!" he screamed, his anger only tempered by his growing panic.

"Where?" he demanded, lifting the remaining Pealer into his hands and holding it up. "Where is he?"

The Orange Pealer, its teeth gnashing in savage contempt, pointed into the wood at the side of the Winding Way. That was when the General heard it. In the distance, the screaming of the others of its kind. He set the screaming citrus creature on the ground and it took off into the forest. The General followed as quickly as he was able. It led him down a steep grade to the edge of a sheer rock face above the Up-River, where the black water churned below.

A thick cord was tied to a tree and hung down over the edge. Blood was splashed across the stony edge of the cliff where the Orange Pealers stamped and shrieked, pointing down at the river. The cord hung down over the cliff to the water, and as the General looked over the edge, he thought he could barely make out a dark shape on the water upstream.

A boat of some kind. And in it, he knew, was Nathan.

"Who?" he growled.

The Orange Pealers responded, scrambling into the trees, back the way they'd come. When they emerged, they held in their hands a green felt fedora that was quite familiar to the General.

"Grumbler," he said in disgust. "Traitorous little bastard."

CHAPTER 8

"It's certainly not like anything I've seen before," Dr. Gershmann said bluntly and shook his head in consternation as he glanced over at Nathan. With his left hand, he stroked his bushy mustache, while his right rested with familiarity on his prodigious gut.

"It's just so darned odd," the doctor added.

The strange odors had mostly disappeared, though Thomas could smell just a phantom hint of orange. Or thought he could. He had been taking in the depressing sterility of the room — even the walls themselves looked as though they had been washed so often they were now faded and dull — but now he blinked and just stared at the doctor.

"Odd?" Emily repeated, a horrified look on her face. "Dr. Gershmann, he's been here nearly forty-eight hours. How can you all be completely clueless? I'm sorry if this is insulting, but what the hell are we doing here if you can't help us? Should we transfer Nathan somewhere he'll be able to get help?"

A bleach-blonde nurse knocked lightly on the door, popped her head in, and reminded Dr. Gershmann he had a meeting with someone named Challis in twenty minutes. He thanked her without really acknowledging her presence and then turned his attention back to the Randalls.

"You're certainly free to make whatever decisions you feel are in your son's best interests, Mrs. Randall," the doctor said, the harsh hospital light gleaming on his bald pate. "But I assure you, we're doing all we can at the moment. He's in no danger, and if you wanted to take him home, you'd need someone there full time to monitor his condition and to handle the use of the IV and, of course, to clean him."

"I've been cleaning him for five and a half years, Dr. Gershmann," she snapped instantly.

Thomas moved to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. "That's not what he meant, Em, and you know that."

They stood together in silence, and she laid her hand on top of his own. Thomas closed his eyes a moment, chewing his bottom lip. He wished he were somewhere else. As horrible as it made him feel, he wished for the quiet solitude of his office, his desk and computer, for the very act of creating. Granted, he hadn't really felt much pleasure in that for quite some time, ever since the pressures of producing had begun to outweigh his interest in the characters. But just to have a moment of that bliss . . .

For just a moment, he wondered what had happened with Francesca and the Fox people that day, and then cursed himself for even thinking of it.

"Look, Dr. Gershmann," he said, for Emily seemed to have run out of words, "I just don't understand how you can stand there and tell us there's nothing wrong with our son. Nothing on the MRI, nothing toxic in his system. It's like he's normal, but Jesus, just look at him! Does that look normal to you?"

They all looked, then, at the small boy with tape holding down his eyelids, whose face seemed frozen and distant. Unaware of anything around him. Unaware, even, of the bee that even now crawled across his lips.

"God, Thomas, get it off him!" Emily said, her voice choked with disgust and helplessness.

Thomas was already moving. He swiped the bee away without any regard to the possibility of being stung. When it settled down again, he killed it with a rolled up People magazine Emily had bought.

"How'd that get in here?" Thomas asked and looked angrily at Dr. Gershmann, though he knew he could hardly blame the man for a random insect.

Dr. Gershmann didn't respond. He was cleaning his glasses with the lapel of his white coat. When he looked up, Thomas could see in his expression that there was something he was not saying.

"What?" Thomas prodded.

"You were discussing how normal Nathan seems," Dr. Gershmann said, idly scratching the back of his head just below the wide bald spot that was partially ringed by a half-circle of straggly gray hair.

"Oh no," Emily whispered. "What is it?"

"Nothing worrisome," the doctor said. "Just a bit odd, is all."

"Odd how?"

"Well, I had Neurology run an EEG on Nathan today. Normally during a coma or the infrequent case of catatonia, brainwave activity ought to be at a very low ebb," he explained. "Nathan's brainwaves are spiking off the chart. The activity level is extraordinary, as if he were not only wide awake, but very, very excited. We're going to hook a monitor up in here, but it seems like a consistent condition."

Emily reached out to touch Thomas's hand, and he gripped her fingers tightly in his own.

"So he's, what, dreaming?" Thomas asked.

"Dreams come in cycles, Mr. Randall," Dr. Gershmann said. "If it were a particularly lucid dream, we might see results like this, but not on an ongoing basis. This is nearly continuous."

"How do you explain that?" Emily demanded.

"We can't," the doctor confessed. "At least, not right now. I've consulted with several department heads, and so far, we believe this condition reflects a possible psychological disorder. There may be nothing at all physically wrong with your son."

"So we should talk to a psychologist?" Emily asked, incredulous, and gestured to Nathan's prone form. "For this?"

The doctor paused a moment, stroking his mustache again. Thomas wondered if the other man was offended by Emily's tone. He found he really didn't care. But after a moment, Gershmann glanced at Nathan again and shook his head.

"We'll keep monitoring him, and we'll do another toxicology scan, just to be doubly certain. Other than that, I do think we should have a psychologist look at the EEG readings and maybe examine Nathan. If you have no objection, of course."

Thomas and Emily were both silent at that.

"Tomorrow, then," Gershmann said, before turning to exit the room.

At the door, he paused. "Mr. Randall. Mrs. Randall. I'm Nathan's doctor, not yours. But I feel I should tell you that the closeness in here, the sameness of a bedside vigil, if you will, can be maddening. I understand perfectly that you want to stay with your son, but you might consider splitting those duties. I think you would both benefit from a bit of fresh air, maybe some contact with the outside world."

Thomas frowned at first, but then he softened. It was a good suggestion, and the doctor didn't have to make it.

"Thank you, Dr. Gershmann," he said.

"For everything," Emily added.

The man nodded, both hands unconsciously patting his girth, and then he was gone.

When Emily left the hospital, a little after eight-thirty on Tuesday night, she felt a horrible guilt descend upon her. She'd left her little boy behind. Thomas was still there, sitting up with Nathan, and would be there all night. But she was his mother. Regardless of practicality, a large part of her felt that she should never leave his side.

Yet, no matter how inconvenient, life marched on. Dr. Gershmann was right. It made little sense for both of them to spend every night in the cramped confines of the hospital room. They each had lives to lead, things that must be attended to, no matter what personal crisis had arisen.

In addition, there was the small matter of sleep deprivation.

Tonight, she would sleep at home, tomorrow night, in a cot next to Nathan's bed, and on and on into the frightfully unknowable future.

With the evening slowly creeping across Tarrytown, the way it will in summer, Emily made her way up onto Tappan Hill. It was only as she guided the car into her driveway that she tasted salt on her lips, felt the moisture on her cheeks, and realized that she had been crying.

The tears were for Nathan, yes. But she knew they were also for herself. For the betrayal of her conscience.

Emily was relieved to be home, to be looking forward to a night in the peace and comfort of her own bed. The knowledge that Nathan's health might take a turn during the night, for better or for worse, was a powerful counterbalance, but still, she could not deny her pleasure at the thought of her own home. Her own bed.

Nor could she deny the small thrill she felt as she noticed that, once again, Joe's grape twelve-speed was propped up in the drive just in front of the garage.

The guilt was severe. But she was a practical woman, and she knew that it would, if not pass, at least recede enough for her to function. Already, she was resigned to this new arrangement as a fact of life, at least until Nathan recovered from whatever it was that ailed him. And that was the kicker, wasn't it? Gershmann had no idea. Nathan had been a funny, smart, imaginative little boy, and then someone, somehow, had turned him off, easy as pushing a button on the remote control.

With a sigh, and a quick check in the rearview to see exactly how horribly red and swollen her eyes had become, Emily shoved her door open and stepped out of the car. As she slung her purse strap over her shoulder, she fumbled with her car keys and they slipped to the pavement. She bent to retrieve them and felt all the breath go out of her in a rush. For a moment, the emotion washed over her, and Emily could only bite her lip and clutch her keys. Then she inhaled deeply, stood up, and slammed the car door.

By the time she reached the front door, she could hear the music coming from inside her house. Music. Part of her had forgotten all about music and remembering was bliss. It was "You Bring Me Joy," an old Anita Baker song; one of her favorites. Her key turned in the lock, and she pushed the door open.

Joe stood at the dining room table with a plastic bag of fortune cookies in his hand and the goofiest look on his face. He wore crisp new blue jeans and a chambray shirt that looked almost like stonewashed denim itself. His hair was a bit wild, and he shrugged, holding up his hands as if he had no answers to anything. When, in fact, at that moment, he seemed to have the only answer she could hope for.

On the table were more than half a dozen white Chinese food take out cartons in three different sizes. There were plates and wine glasses, not to mention a bottle of dry Italian wine. And candles. He'd lit candles.

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head, a look of utter despair on his face now. "I know it's a little much, just with Chinese food, but when I finished correcting papers, I didn't have time left for anything but take out. I hope you like fried rice, because it didn't occur to me that you might prefer white until after I'd ordered, and . . ."

Ignoring his stream of words completely, Emily dropped her purse, marched across the room and melted into his embrace. He held her tentatively at first, and then with more confidence. That was all it took, the warmth of him. The strength of him.

With the odor of Szechuan cooking and fried rice in the air, she hurried to undress him, and then herself. She caught his gray eyes as often as she could, needing his attention, needing him.

* * * * *

The sky above Strangewood was lightening. The orange stars had begun to disappear, as sable turned to deep navy above them, and then slowly to a powdery blue. Not a cloud in sight.

Nathan sat in the prow of a small rowboat, staring at the mountains that rose up around them. The Bald Mountains, and on their highest peak, where the Up-River splashed over the edge and began to run down once more, they would find the Jackal Lantern's fortress.

He wasn't afraid anymore. Not really. Now he was more mad than anything else, and he sat there, arms crossed, with the grumpiest expression he could summon on his face.

"I'm sorry, kid," Grumbler said, his deep, scratchy voice as rough as a friend of Nathan's Daddy's who lived in Brooklyn.

The dwarf was examining the slashes on Nathan's back and shaking his head, grunting.

"Ol' Jack Lantern never shoulda sent Longtooth. That boy's a savage. Always has been," Grumbler said angrily. "Looks like it's gonna be all right, though. That peanut butter ought to heal it up nice. Let's get you dressed, then."

Nathan had on a clean pair of underwear and tan jeans he recognized from his dresser at home. Grumbler had brought the clothes for him. Nathan had been reluctant at first, but when it seemed like the dwarf wasn't going to hurt him, he stripped and used a bucket of water to wash himself off as best he could. Neither Grumbler nor Gourdon Squashhead, the quiet scarecrow who was using oars to guide the boat along the Up-River, watched Nathan as he washed. Afterward, Gourdon put an oar down to toss Nathan's soiled clothes into the river.

"Damn, what a stink," the squash-headed scarecrow snarled as Nathan's clothes swirled out into the current, only to be snagged on some reeds at the side of the river.

Now Grumbler handed Nathan a Batman T-shirt that was a little too big. That had also come from his drawer at home. When he'd pulled it on, Nathan wanted to cry. He felt so tired, and so sick of being afraid, that he just wanted to let go and have the tears come and sink himself into that place he went when he cried. Away. Safe in misery.

"Can't believe I lost my damn hat," Grumbler said unhappily, and sat on a bench that stretched across the center of the rowboat. "Took me seven years to break that one in."

"Shut up about the hat," Gourdon snapped.

Nathan watched him nervously. The scarecrow seemed anxious and angry at Grumbler, though the boy didn't know why. Maybe he wanted Grumbler to take a turn at the oars, Nathan thought. Though it wasn't much work, just guiding them along, keeping them from hitting the shore.

He turned his eyes to the mountains again, squinted, and the fear began to return. Then he looked at Grumbler, and only felt sad. He'd never loved the dwarf, even when his father first read the Strangewood stories to him. Grumbler always seemed too angry, and a little scary. He was four and a half feet tall and wore a gray, pinstriped, cashmere suit. Under either arm was a leather holster in which he carried huge Colt revolvers, like in the old Western movies.

And the hat. Gone now.

Without it, and now that he was so close to Grumbler, Nathan thought he was just grumpy, and maybe a little sad, too. Just like Nathan, but not afraid. Even as he thought it, Nathan wondered if Grumbler might really be afraid, just a little bit.

"Why does the Lantern want to hurt me?" Nathan squeaked, afraid of the answer that might come.

Grumbler shook his head, and now Nathan knew for certain that he was both afraid and sad. The boy felt better. Less alone. But that didn't last, for he had to also think that if Grumbler was afraid, maybe they were all in danger.

"He's not going to hurt you, kid," Grumbler said. "We won't let him, even if he wanted to. That's not why you're here, Nathan. You'll get home one day. I'm sure."

"Who's this we?" Gourdon asked suddenly, and he pulled the oars in a moment to rest, staring at Grumbler with a look that made Nathan shiver.

"Me." Grumbler lowered his head and glared at Gourdon, the morning sun shining on his gray hair and throwing dark shadows on his face. "Me. Feathertop. Barry."

Gourdon laughed, and Nathan moved farther up onto the prow of the rowboat. The boat was drifting with the current, moving toward the left bank of the Up-River, but Nathan barely noticed. For the first time, however, he did notice that Gourdon's big yellow squash of a head looked soft.

Rotten.

Everything was rotten in Strangewood now, he thought.

"A fucking munchkin, a pony, and a bird," Gourdon said menacingly, and shook his squash. "What the Lantern ought to do is cut the boy open and spill his guts out along the Winding Way. That'd get Our Boy to toe the goddamn line, I'll tell you."

The scarecrow rose up in the back of the boat. A look of wary concern crossed Grumbler's features.

"Sit down, Gourdon," the dwarf said. "You're going to tip the boat, or we'll crash into the bank. Pick up the oars."

From behind his back, in the burlap rags that made up what little the straw man had for clothes, Gourdon withdrew a long knife. The squash grinned, and rotted seed dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

"I don't think so," Gourdon said. "I think it's time somebody took some real action here. It's all falling apart too fast."

Grumbler reached under his cashmere coat and drew a long iron Colt, so fast Nathan barely saw his hand move.

"Pick up the fucking oars," Grumbler growled.

Nathan studied the gun and Grumbler's stubbly face — the gray hair and sideburns, and the blue eyes that made him look almost like a real person, almost like a real dwarf, a human one, that you might see on the street. But the pointed ears gave it all away. That, and the way all his teeth tapered down to a needle tip, a mouthful of sharp fangs.

Gourdon laughed.

Nathan's eyes were wide, and he hugged himself tightly.

The scarecrow came for him.

Grumbler lifted the Colt and fired, and rotten squash splashed across the rear of the boat and into the water. What was left of Gourdon stumbled back with the impact, fell, and then slid over the side into the water.

Nathan screamed and began to babble incoherently. Something was coming from his mouth, but it didn't make sense, even to him. Grumbler holstered the Colt and went to the oars. He got them back into the middle of the river and then put the oars up again. Cautiously, he approached Nathan, and the boy drew back from him, whimpering. But slowly, the dwarf was able to pull Nathan into his arms, and then he just held him tightly as he cried.

"I'm sorry, Nate," Grumbler whispered, voice scratchy and low. "But it's gotta be like this. There ain't no other way."

As the river held on straight for a while, and there weren't many obstacles in the water, Grumbler sat that way with the boy for quite some time. The morning came on fast after that, the orange sun bright in the sky and the trees — here at least — as green as ever. The mountains rose around them and the river swept up, up and up until it began to get cold.

Grumbler took off his cashmere jacket and slipped it on Nathan, and the boy lay down and cried in the prow of the boat. Grumbler rowed. After a time, the crying stopped, and the dwarf realized the boy was asleep. He was glad for Nathan. The boy had likely had precious little sleep since arriving in Strangewood, and it would be a blissful escape for him.

Before the real horror began.

Before he met the Jackal Lantern.

* * * * *

The cot was almost unbearable. Thomas was reminded of a floral-print cot mattress his parents had kept on a wire mesh frame in the basement when he was a child. For sleepovers, his friends always had to use the thing, which resembled an arcane torture device, even to a boy who knew little of such things. What was worse, however, was when a relative might come to stay, which meant Thomas would have to "take the cot."

What the hospital provided for him to sleep on was a bit closer in appearance to a bed than that sadistic bit of fluff and wire from his childhood, but it was hardly more comfortable. Had he been anything less than completely exhausted, he would have been up all night.

Instead, he was asleep before the ten o'clock news.

Nineteen minutes after his eyes closed, Thomas was awakened by the most peculiar sound. At first, he thought the television was malfunctioning, but when he looked up, he saw that the news was still on, though the volume was low. No, the white noise was coming from somewhere else in the darkened room.

Turning to face the wall, pulling his legs up into a fetal position, he tried to ignore the sound at first. But it was annoyingly insistent. Almost like whispering, if mosquitoes could whisper.

When he realized he would not be able to sleep until the noise had ceased, Thomas surrendered to destiny and sat up on the cot. He glanced around the room, trying to pinpoint the origin of the noise. Maybe the phone was off the hook. But no, the sound seemed to be coming from all over the room.

"What the . . .?" he began, and stood up, his bare feet cold on the ammonia-stripped tiles of the hospital room.

Something moved up in the blue glow of the television screen. Thomas glanced at it, tried to focus.

Finally, truly, he came awake.

He'd been an idiot not to recognize the sound. Now, as he saw one of them crawling across the screen, crackling with static electricity from the set, his eyes went wide and he froze.

Bees.

There was no way to tell how many there were, but they were growing louder. Thomas hated bees and always had. But Nathan was in the room as well, breathing softly on his bed, and protecting his son was more important than trying not to get stung.

How in the hell did they get in here? he thought, as he shuffled silently across the tile toward the light switch on the wall. But how was secondary to what to do about them.

At the wall, Thomas reached out, found the switch, and paused a moment before flipping the lights on. A part of him had expected the room to be blanketed in bees — the part that was slowly slipping away from reality. That part was relieved at what the lights revealed. The rest of him was horrified.

"Oh, Jesus, Nathan," he whispered.

Thomas was at the door a second later. He opened it quickly but quietly and stepped out into the hall. The nurses' station was abandoned. He gazed up and down the hall and heard someone laughing a short way down, around a corner.

"Hello?" he called, afraid to shout in case he riled the bees.

For a moment, he stood on the threshold, wanting desperately to get help, and yet unwilling to leave Nathan's side. There would be a nurse back any second, he knew it. If he just left the door open, help would arrive. What decided if for him was the sudden image that came into his mind of the cord with the nurse call button on it. If he pressed that, they'd come quickly.

Thomas turned back into Nathan's room, and bit his lip as he saw his son again. The bees were crawling across Nathan's sheets, buzzing around the bed, alighting on the window and in the corners of the room. A few dozen, that was all. But it was more than enough to cause Thomas to cease breathing for a moment as he stared at them. At Nathan. There didn't seem to be a single sting on his exposed flesh, and that calmed Thomas somewhat. But he couldn't just let them stay there. He had to do something, but what? Once he began to attack them, the bees would likely retaliate, stinging him time and again.

Thomas was allergic to bee stings. He would swell, perhaps enough to close off his breathing passages. In which case, he might die. His only positive thought was that he was in a hospital, so at least someone might get to him in time.

Someone.

His eyes found the white cable and small plastic button that he was supposed to press to call a nurse. It lay across Nathan's bed, next to the boy's legs. To reach it, he would have to put his hand on the sheet with the bees.

It had grown more difficult to breathe, as if he had already been stung, and Thomas tried to push it away. Anxiety, that's all it was, he assured himself. But still, he did not know what to do. He stared at the bees crawling on his son's bed, watched Nathan's face carefully, looking for any sign that his son might awaken, feeling the tiny pressure of the bees on him.

As Thomas watched, a bee crept out of Nathan's right nostril and rested on his upper lip.

The sound that came from Thomas then was not a word, really. More a simple exhalation of breath, but every bit of his fear and despair was expressed in that single syllable. Slowly, he took a step toward Nathan.

The buzzing stopped. The bees fell silent. All of them, in an instant. Thomas blinked, shook his head, wondering if he were deaf now, because deaf was so much more acceptable than crazy, which was what he'd been thinking so much the past two days. It might not be happening at all, that was the problem. It might just be him, and what then?

A pair of bees emerged single file from Nathan's slightly parted lips.

"Stop it!" Thomas screamed. "Stop it! Get away from my son! Get out of here!"

Raving, he flapped his arms as though he were shooing cattle and screamed at the bees. As one, they rose from their roosts, moved into a tight knot in the center of the room, and buzzed there. There came a light rap on the open door and a worried male face poked inside. As if on cue, the bees moved for the door.

"Oh, shit!" the nurse exclaimed, losing his professional cool as he scrambled backward across the hall and stared at the small swarm of bees as it buzzed from the room and then swept down the hall before dispersing into various rooms and dark corners and crevices.

Thomas stared at the nurse. The man stared back at him.

"You saw them?" Thomas asked, and realized immediately how asinine the question must have sounded.

"Where did they come from?" the nurse asked.

Thomas thought of the bees creeping from Nathan's open mouth and shook his head, denying the thought even the beginning of entry into his head.

"I don't know," he said. After a moment, he believed the lie and tried to figure out who might have been able to release the bees into the room.

The stalker? He determined to call Detective Sarbacker first thing in the morning. For the moment, he was too rattled to talk to anyone.

"Look, I'm sleeping in my son's room," he said. "But after that, I really need some fresh air. I'm just going to take a walk out front, and then I'll be back. Is that all right?"

"Just tell the guard on your way out," the nurse said, now standing at the door to Nathan's room and staring around inside. "If he has any questions, tell him to call LaMarre and I'll back you up."

"Thanks," Thomas said, and with one glance at the peaceful form of his son, he moved swiftly for the elevator. He had to get out. Behind him, LaMarre was muttering something under his breath. Something about the bees.

Outside, under the stars, with a light breeze blowing cool across his face and in the trees above, Thomas tried to shake the horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't do it. He was more convinced than ever that someone was stalking him, and Nathan. Even now, he might be in danger. And yet, he was much more concerned about his son. The doctors had turned nothing up, but Thomas was going to demand a second opinion about the toxicology report. There must be some kind of poison, some reason for the scents in the room.

The bees hadn't just appeared there by magic, that much was certain.

Out of the hospital, with the fresh air clearing his head, he also began to wonder if his own weird hallucinations that day might not also have some kind of chemical origin. It was possible that he had also been poisoned somehow. In which case, he ought to have his blood tested right away. Thomas had a history of seizures, ever since he was a child. He hadn't had one in years, but he kept that bottle of phenobarbital in the medicine cabinet, just in case.

The thought of having another seizure, after all those years, was enough to make him forget the bees. They were terrifying, when they came. With a shiver, Thomas made a mental note to have that blood test.

Some kind of poison. The more he considered the possibility, walking along the grassy hill in front of the hospital, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans, the more he realized that it had to be true. It was the only answer that made any sense whatsoever. The only sane answer.

Thomas had loved Sherlock Holmes as a boy, and he'd always sworn by one of Holmes' greatest maxims. Once you had eliminated the impossible, Holmes had believed, whatever remained, no matter how improbable, had to be the truth.

Well, Thomas had decided that very night, breathing in the clean air and hoping to purge his system, that it was time he eliminated the impossible.

He'd talk to the doctors in the morning, but he wasn't going to wait that long for the cops. No, the moment he got back inside, he planned to call Walt Sarbacker.

He turned to walk back toward the hospital. He'd been told to come in through the emergency room, since the main lobby was shut down for the night. He stepped off the grass onto the pavement of the parking lot and headed for the massive electric doors to the ER. It seemed very quiet, even for a Tuesday night. He thought about ambulances.

And because he was thinking about ambulances, his first thought was that the high, rhythmic sound was a siren.

But it wasn't a siren. It was a sound he'd thought he'd heard on Sunday night outside Nathan's room. Now he heard it again, like someone playing the violin seductively, while the breeze tickled a large set of wind chimes.

Thomas stopped. Shook his head, whispered "no," and then began to weep.

It simply couldn't be. He'd had it all worked out just seconds earlier. It just could not be possible.

Slowly, Thomas looked up into the sky, leaves rustling with the breeze through the trees nearby. But there were no trees above his head just now. Only the stars and the sky, and soaring above the parking lot, a little green dragon with an orange belly, whose wings made a beautiful music when he flew.

Fiddlestick circled twice, far above the lot. His wings had never sounded so beautiful in Thomas's mind.

CHAPTER 9

As Thomas drove to the house he had once shared with Emily and Nathan, thunder rumbled across the sky. With a sound like the night being torn in half, the storm began in earnest, assaulting Tarrytown with a dense, punishing rain. The wipers on Thomas's Volvo had needed replacing for several months, but he had always conveniently forgotten to get around to it as soon as the sun came out again.

Now he regretted it. He could barely see past the windshield enough to notice that the light thrown from his headlamps was splintered and refracted by the curtain of rain. Turning up toward Tappan Hill, he bumped over the curb, nearly hitting a fat blue mailbox.

A year ago, his life had been as close to perfect as anyone could ever hope to get: a beautiful home, a wonderful wife, a sweet little boy playing in the back yard, and a burgeoning career in a creative yet brutal field that crushed most of those who ventured into it. Everybody wanted him. Time magazine had called him "the A. A. Milne of the new millennium."

A week ago, he was still the envy of nearly everyone he knew. Divorced, yes, but at peace with his ex, spending time with his son, with his pick of movie and television deals and the luxury to consider resting on his laurels.

That was all perception, of course. Inside, Thomas had always been Thomas. The same boy who had been dragged from base to base as a child as his father was transferred to a new post every few years. A military brat, he'd lost himself in books and movies and found nearly all of his best friends that way. When his son Nathan had created an imaginary friend, it hadn't seemed at all odd to Thomas. Crabapple was the creation of a fertile mind, and Thomas could relate.

A part of him would always be that little boy whose best friends were encountered in libraries, in comic books snapped up at the drugstore for a quarter, and on the battered black-and-white Motorola they carted from one end of the world to the other.

TJ Randall. Thomas Randall. Tommy, his mother had called him, and she was the only one he never corrected. Inside, he still felt all the insecurity, all the anxiety, and all the wonder that he'd felt twenty years earlier.

Emily had touched him there, been part of that innocent love that still existed deep inside. But only Nathan had ever lived there. From the moment he took his first breath, from the moment Thomas first held his son in his arms, Nathan had taken over that place in Thomas's heart completely.

In essence, Nathan was his heart; he was everything that made Thomas fundamentally himself.

Now, with Nathan lying in that bed, and the future so somber and obscure, Thomas felt as though he had lost his way. It was all falling apart, everything he'd ever known or believed in or trusted about life. Things were happening that he had no capacity to understand. His mind was playing tricks on him, of course. That was the only possible solution.

But it was so real.

As real as the friends he'd woven out of fictional fabric had been to him as a small boy, these episodes, hallucinations, whatever they were, they were even more real. They weren't the flighty imaginings of a child that a parent could never grasp. No, this bit of madness had the texture of life, such as a man could recognize and understand.

He needed help. He knew that. But it was late, and the only help he could think of was the only person who might be able to understand, just a little.

The useless windshield wipers threw rain off the glass in sheets, but it wasn't nearly enough. He bumped up over the curb turning into Emily's driveway, and nearly hit the rear of her car as he slammed on the brakes. Thomas popped the door open, pocketed his keys, and slammed the door. He squinted through the rain at the front of the house. There were a few lights still on inside.

For a moment, he didn't move, only stood in the soaking rain, his clothes and hair quickly becoming saturated. He felt a moment of longing as he looked at the house and wondered if he hadn't left a piece of himself here when he'd moved out.

He jogged to the front steps, water sheeting off his sodden jacket. The rain was loud enough that he couldn't tell if the doorbell had rung when he punched it with a finger, and so he began to knock almost immediately.

Desperately.

Thomas heard the deadbolt being thrown back and the door opened. Emily stood in only her robe, disheveled, her makeup smeared, and Thomas realized he had roused her from bed. The way her hair was mussed and fell in swirling disorder over her shoulders, he felt a wave of nostalgia rush over him so powerful that he could barely contain the urge to embrace her.

"Thomas, my God!" she said frantically, pulling him in from the rain. "What is it? What's happened to Nathan?"

The room flashed around him: Asian prints he'd bought for her in Los Angeles, an enormous potted plant she'd bought a week before they split, a coatrack he'd had since college and had never thought to take with him, the plush rose patterned sofa in which he'd lain, holding Nathan against his chest, watching old Abbott and Costello movies as he rocked the baby to sleep.

"No," he said, the one word coming out of him like a mournful groan. He couldn't blame her for her reaction. He knew what he must look like, what the surrender and grief on his face must have made her think.

"I'm sorry, Emily," he said, trying to focus. "It's not . . . I mean, Nathan's all right."

Even as he saw the hope rise in her eyes, Thomas said, "There's been no change."

Emily pursed her lips, tiny lines forming around the edges, and her eyes grew hard. She stood up, cinched her robe tightly, and stared at the water dripping from his clothes to the carpet. Thomas started to speak, to try to explain, but he was distracted by sudden movement in his peripheral vision.

"Huh?" He spun quickly, wondering what it would be now. Some other hallucination, or a flesh-and-blood stalker at the window.

But the man with a scruff of reddish-blond hair wasn't at the window. He wasn't a stalker. From what Thomas knew, he was an English professor named Joe Hayes, and he was currently bedding Thomas's ex.

"Damn it, what the hell are you doing here?" Emily demanded. "You're supposed to be with Nathan."

Thomas did his best to regain his dignity. He stood up straight and twisted his neck a bit to sort of reset his entire body. With great deliberation, he ran his hands through his soaking hair, straightening it as best he could. Before he turned back to Emily, he took a quick glance at Joe.

"I can see why you were in such a hurry to start spending some nights at home," Thomas said.

Even as he said the words, he felt his stomach begin to churn. It wasn't only uncharitable and childish, it was incorrect. Her going home had been Gershmann's idea, and they had decided together that she would have the first night off. It didn't matter. Sometimes words were nothing more — or less — than weapons. Given his occupation, he understood that better than most.

"Thomas . . ." Emily began.

Joe cut her off. "There's no need for that," the professor said, and stepped forward to offer Thomas his hand. "Joe Hayes."

Thomas stared at the hand a moment, dumbstruck. He noted Emily's similar expression. Hayes wasn't playing the game. Thomas studied him carefully and found himself feeling more like an idiot than a righteous arbiter of morality.

"Thomas Randall," he said, almost before he realized he had reached out and grasped the other man's hand.

Hayes didn't smile. Thomas liked him for that. No bullshit here.

"I'm sorry you two had to meet like this," Emily said. "But it's late, Thomas. I never could have . . ."

"Forget it," Thomas said, waving her apology away. "You're right."

He felt Hayes' eyes on him, but could not look at the man again. Not then. Thomas was surrounded by the laughing ghosts of that house. Certainly, there were the ghosts of pain and sadness there, as well, but the ones he saw now were those of good times. His mind held a map of the house, of each step in the hall, the layouts of pieces of furniture, how many steps up to the attic. He recalled the way the towel bar in the master bath had always rattled, and exactly how far to turn the faucet in the tub to get the perfect temperature for Nathan's bath.

Thomas sat heavily in the rattan rocker he'd bought Emily at Pier One, just after they'd moved in. He ran his hands through his hair again, then over his face, and finally, he actually managed a slight, wistful smile.

"I'm sorry," he said again, and then he looked up at Emily and saw the concern that had replaced her anger. She was beautiful, of course. She always would be. But more than anything, he just needed to talk to someone who really knew him.

"I think I'm losing it, Em," Thomas confessed. "I think this whole thing is going to drive me right over the edge."

Emily turned to glance at her new lover. Thomas averted his eyes, looking instead at the dried floral arrangement on the other side of the room. It sat on an antique sideboard, flanked by an ancient but sturdy rocker and the enormous plant he'd taken note of when he entered. On the wall above the sideboard was an ornate antique mirror. In it, Thomas could see the entire room reflected back at him. Or almost. He could see himself in the rattan rocker, with Hayes on the other end of the image. Between them stood Emily.

The house was hers.

"Joe, would you mind putting water on for tea?" Emily asked gently.

From her tone, Thomas could tell she was uncertain of the answer she might receive. He had known her long enough to gauge even her smallest inflections. When he was paying attention. And that had been the problem, hadn't it? He hadn't paid attention often enough.

Hayes inhaled deeply and nodded so slightly that Thomas wondered if the man were aware of it. His eyes were an odd, flat color, and they gave him the impression of wisdom. He was only five years younger than Thomas himself, but looking at him now, Thomas felt as though the distance was so much greater. The weight of his fear and his anxiety had made him feel so old. Hayes was still at an age where he carried himself with the carefree attitude of the young and the foolish.

Thomas had taken his measure. Hayes did not seem like a fool. Not at all.

"Why don't you two talk?" Joe said after a heartbeat's hesitation. "I'll be in the kitchen with tea when you're ready."

Emily smiled. Thomas blinked.

He'd been off somewhere. Not himself. Recognition of what had just happened was slow in coming, but now that it was here, he could hardly believe it. He didn't want Emily's lover making him tea. He didn't want Joe Hayes in his house, no matter what he thought of the man.

"No, I . . .” he began, and Emily frowned, turning toward him. Thomas paused, then closed his mouth.

It wasn't his house anymore.

"That would be appreciated," he said to both of them, his ex-wife and the man who now shared with her what had once been the Randalls' marriage bed.

Joe turned and pushed through the two-way swinging kitchen door. Thomas watched the way the hinges worked with great appreciation. He'd spent a lot of money to have that door put in. And the dark green detailing on the door, which Emily had done herself. Back when she'd had the time to spend on such things.

When the door had stopped its pendulous motion, Emily came near to him. She sat on the arm of the sofa and clasped her hands on her knees, bent over to meet his gaze the same way she would do with Nathan when she wanted to get his attention.

"Thomas," she said tenderly. "What's going on?"

So he told her. He told her all of it.

By the time the tea kettle began to whistle, Joe Hayes had skimmed every bit of the paper, including the things he'd already read that morning. He'd checked the stats of his favorite teams, when he normally only looked at the scores from the previous day. He'd rummaged around and found a package of oatmeal cookies that were nibbling at the fringes of stale, but he ate them anyway. It was a distraction, and any distraction was good when it came to this whole situation.

It was absurd. Surreal, actually. That was more the term he'd been searching for. He couldn't blame Thomas Randall for being a little whacko at the moment, what with all that was happening to Nathan. He also could not blame the man for his discomfort. Hell, he probably still thought of this place as his house and Emily as his wife. At least a part of him would have. It was only natural.

The whole thing made Joe intensely uncomfortable as well, and as he read a review in the Arts section about a foreign film he knew he would never see, he allowed himself to wonder what in God's name he was still doing there. In the past, he'd avoided involvement with women who were divorced, or single mothers. Avoided older women, too, at least since college. He'd always believed that at his age, he needed to start fresh with someone.

No baggage. That's what he'd been looking for. He was just getting started, after all. He'd been on the fast track pretty much his whole life, ahead of the curve both academically and later, professionally. He'd had his tragedies like everyone else — his older brother had broken his neck taking a bad dive at summer camp when they were boys, and Joe was the first one to realize he was dead. His mother, even now, was struggling through a valiant war against breast cancer, a war the doctors said she had every hope of winning. In his way, Joe had baggage too.

But he had always thought he would end up with someone in the same position, someone just getting started. He'd graduated college at twenty, received his Master's at twenty two, and even now, as an associate professor of English at Marymount College, he was working toward his Ph.D. He was only twenty-six. He'd never had a new car, never owned his own home, never even had a pet all to himself. He had always thought he would share all those things with someone who was also experiencing them for the first time.

That was before Emily. That was before he'd fallen in love.

When he'd met her, he had known she had baggage. She had not hidden anything from him. Ex-husband, a son, a career going strong. Debts. Doubts. Attachments he could never hope to touch.

But that was before any of this. Before Nathan was hospitalized, before this crazy “stalker” business, before Thomas had started to act like a lunatic. As he sat there, in a hard oak chair, barely perceiving the words of Ann Landers, Joe Hayes thought very seriously about lighting out for greener pastures. He could do it, too. Just take off. No one would blame him. Not even Emily, though he was certain she'd be hurt. He hadn't signed up for all of this pain and anguish, never mind the awkwardness of it all.

For Christ's sake, he was only twenty-six years old. This soap opera wasn't meant for someone his age. And now Thomas was getting a bit frayed about the edges, maybe more than a bit. That could get even uglier.

Joe buried his face in his hands, elbows on the edge of the kitchen table. He was tired, and frustrated, and too much in love. For when he pictured Emily in his mind, when he looked around the kitchen, when he thought of Nathan — whose face he'd only ever seen in pictures — lying in that hospital bed . . . he just couldn't walk away.

That wasn't the way Joe Hayes was built.

The tea kettle was still whistling, and he'd let it go, assuming it would be enough to call Emily and her ex into the kitchen. Now he rose, took the kettle off the burner, and fixed himself a cup of tea. It was chamomile, and already, it was something he associated with Emily.

With the rain pounding the window at the far end of the kitchen, and the warm mug steaming in his hands, Joe sat down to wait out the storm. No matter what, he vowed, he was in it for the long haul. Or, at least, as long as Emily wanted him there.

* * * * *

A cool breeze blew off the broad lake behind Grumbler's cottage. In the clearing in front of the cottage, just along the Winding Way, the Peanut Butter General stood holding Grumbler's fedora in his right hand, with the left resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword.

For once, the Orange Pealers were silent.

"Why should we trust you?" Brownie growled.

The others, one by one, mumbled or merely nodded their agreement with the grizzly. The General squinted, his vision splintered through a web of peanut butter stretched between his eyelids. He didn't notice, of course, for there was nothing at all unusual about this. With a low grunt of annoyance, the General scrutinized those who had gathered in the clearing: there was the grizzly, of course, the dancing bear they had all taken for a fool for so very long; the musical little dragon — the General thought he was called Fiddlehead or . . . yes, Fiddlestick; Dave the Crow; Mr. Tinklebum, the little bell-bottomed man who might be the only survivor of the firestorm that enveloped the Land of Bells and Whistles. The bell bottom was not smiling, and the General thought that might be a first. Then, of course, there was Laughing Boy, who was more hyena than human.

They all stared at him, and the Peanut Butter General stared back. The breeze blew through the trees that surrounded the circle. Wooden chimes that hung from the side of Grumbler's cottage made tinkling music, reminding them all that the dwarf was nowhere to be found. Other than that, the sun-drenched clearing was silent.

"Dave?" the Peanut Butter General asked. "Where is your brother?"

The crow cawed, flapped his oily-looking ebon wings, and then fluttered up to sit heavily on Brownie's shoulder.

"I don't know! Caw!" Dave Crow replied.

"Well I know!" the General snarled. "He's in the same place you'll find the dwarf and that annoying little horse."

He thought of Feathertop, the pony who had green feathers sprouting from the top of his head, and how many times Feathertop had eluded him in the past.

"The same place," he continued angrily, "that you'll find Bob Longtooth and Cragskull."

The collective intake of breath gave him much satisfaction. Dave Crow's wings fluttered and Brownie growled low and shifted his weight. Fiddlestick grew completely still, and Laughing Boy did not so much as chuckle.

"Has anyone seen Gourdon lately?" Mr. Tinklebum asked grimly, and he too shifted his weight, the clapper inside his body allowing one gentle "bong" before quieting again.

"Hush!" Brownie said quickly.

"Ah," the General observed, "so Squashhead is with them, as well. You see, you all know what has happened. The boy, Nathan, has been taken. Even now, Grumbler spirits him away to the Jackal Lantern's fortress.

"Strangewood must be saved. That is something upon which we can all agree. But that is not the way to do it. It is simply not acceptable, and likely to bring more destruction rather than a return to the idyllic days we shared before. In truth, it may be far too late to ever return to such innocent times. The unthinkable has happened. Now, I know that you have been attempting to contact Thomas . . ."

Once again, he had shocked them with his frankness.

"Our Boy," Brownie growled.

"Yes, yes," the General said, waving him away. "I have also been attempting to contact him, but breaking through is no mean feat, as you have discovered. Efforts in that area will continue, of course, but we cannot rely on Thomas . . . on Our Boy . . ." the General paused oddly at this, seemed to lose his train of thought. Then he hurried on, hoping the others would not notice.

"The Orange Pealers have allied themselves with the cause, and so will others. Just as some of your friends have joined the Lantern, so will some of those who have troubled you in the past now become your allies."

The General let his gaze linger on Brownie. "I'm not asking for your trust," he said bluntly. "I'm telling you what must happen if you wish to save that child, and if you hope for any chance to save Strangewood, and yourselves.

"If the boy dies," he said gravely, "we all die."

The odd collection of characters around the clearing made no response at first, save to exchange awkward glances with one another. All but Fiddlestick. The little dragon still sat as though made of stone, at the center of the small group upon whom the General had now placed his hope for the future. Several of them whispered to one another, but still no reply was forthcoming. The General was about to reprimand them, to demand action, when Fiddlestick moved.

The little dragon sat up a bit straighter on his hind legs and fluttered his wings. But the music that came from them now was not the light and delicate sound of harps and chimes and violins. This sound was dark and ominous, as his wings moved slowly on his back. Eventually, the dragon settled down again, but now he'd gotten the attention of all those gathered in the clearing. It was suddenly clear to the General that, much to his surprise, the amiable little fellow was as close to a leader as the creatures of Strangewood had ever had. He would have guessed Grumbler first, or even Brownie.

Fiddlestick stared at the Peanut Butter General.

"If it will save the boy," Fiddlestick said, "we are at your command."

* * * * *

On Wednesday morning, Emily stood on the back deck sipping her second cup of coffee. Her robe was loose around her body, and the short night shirt beneath fell suggestively across her breasts and barely reached down to cover her panties. To either side, her neighbors could have gotten a decent view of her from porch or side windows. It wasn't that she didn't mind. It was simply that she hadn't thought of it.

Her mind was otherwise occupied. She stared hard at the swingset in the backyard, the hard rubber seats so very still, undisturbed by the light breeze. The rain had stopped hours earlier, but the sun hadn't quite broken through and there were small pools of water all over the deck. Thomas had chosen the right stain when the deck had been built, apparently. She'd have to reapply it herself this summer, she thought.

There was a tiny creak behind her. Emily imagined she could feel the disturbance in the air. In her mind's eye, she saw the house: its paint was Chatham Sand, the shutters a deep green. The slider would be open, and through it, she would be able to see a large portion of the kitchen she'd been so proud of.

If Joe weren't in the way.

Without turning around, Emily said, "Don't you have a class to teach?"

She could practically hear him grinding his teeth. "Why are you putting this on me?" he asked. "It isn't my issue. It isn't even really my business."

"No, it isn't," she snapped. "Life isn't black and white, Joe. Don't get me wrong. It would be wonderful if things were as simple as you apparently think they are."

Pause. "Whatever."

Another creak, as he stepped back into the house. She heard the shush of the screen sliding closed.

But he wasn't done. She knew that. She already knew him well enough to know that he wasn't about to walk away until he was certain she had understood his intentions.

Emily waited, sipped at her coffee, imagined Joe pulling his clothes on, lacing his sneakers. A few minutes later, she heard the front door close, and blinked in surprise. She took a deep gulp of java and then began to turn toward the house.

"Listen."

Emily jumped, spilled coffee onto the emotionless face of Snoopy, drenching her night shirt. She spun, and glared at Joe, who had come around the garage, wheeling his bike beside him.

"Don't sneak up on me like that!" she said halfheartedly.

Joe chose to ignore that. Instead, he just sighed and let his bike lean against his leg.

"Emily, I'm not going to argue with you about this. It isn't my place, and with all that's going on, I'm not sure you can be objective."

She began to protest angrily, but he held up a hand to stop her, and the pained look on his face convinced her to let him go on.

"What little you told me of what Thomas is going through makes it sound like a lot more than just some kind of basic hallucination. I've heard of people under stress imagining things, but never on this level," Joe explained. "You said yourself that you think he needs help."

"I also said he's going to get it," she said coldly. "I'm not sure what this is about, Joe, but Thomas is still a big part of my life. I'm not in love with him, but I love him, and he's Nathan's father. Right now, today, I'm sure he's scrambling to get in to see someone, for Nathan's sake as well as his own. You have no right to . . ."

"I know that," Joe snapped, and now it was his turn to smolder angrily. "That's what I've been saying, if you'd bother to listen!"

They glared at one another. Joe ran his hands through his hair and sighed and shook his head. "Listen," he said, "I have a class to teach, and if Thomas is going to be out of action today, you need to get to the hospital. All I'm saying is, if he's this close to having a complete breakdown, it's no sin for you to start considering Nathan's best interests, and whether Thomas is in any condition to do the same."

Emily bit her lip as the tears began to well in the corners of her eyes.

"Don't you think I've thought of that?" she said, her voice hitching. "I could barely sleep last night because all of this was on my mind. But custody isn't something you can make snap decisions about. Even if he is having problems more serious than a good night's sleep will fix, it isn't like I can just challenge the custody arrangement out of nowhere.

"It would kill him, don't you see?" she pleaded. "If Nathan's being sick is already making him crazy, that would drive him over the edge completely."

Joe couldn't meet her gaze. Apparently, he'd had his say.

"Damn you," Emily hissed. "You were right. It isn't any of your business."

She turned toward the house, but she moved slowly, defeated. Nathan waited for her at the hospital, but all Emily wanted to do was fall back into bed — alone — and sleep.

"Em," Joe said gently. "Will I see you later?"

As she slid the screen across and then latched it, Emily looked at him, trying to find the response in her heart.

"Not today," she said at length.

* * * * *

The sidewalks of New York City were swarming with suits and street people, falafel and hot dog vendors, and cops. The sun had finally broken through, and the sky had turned a bright blue. The moisture that had been lingering in the air was quickly burning off as Francesca Cavallaro hurried along West 47th Street. She glanced at her watch one more time, nearly trampling a young boy playing percussion on an upside down pickle tub.

Frankie swore softly as she turned north on Broadway. The diner was diagonally across the street, and she looked both ways for traffic before jaywalking. It wasn't something her mother had taught her. It was something New York had taught her. Even the city buses would hit you if you happened to be crossing the street against the light.

A cab sped toward her, going south on Broadway, and Francesca picked up her pace. She kept glancing over to the entrance of the diner. It didn't even seem to have a name, at least not on the outside. She thought it was called Cleo's, but she couldn't be certain. What was important at the moment was that she was nearly twenty five minutes late to meet Thomas, and it was getting to be a habit. Granted, she'd been surprised to hear from him this morning, asking that she meet him for a late breakfast at 10:30. He was going to be in the city — he wouldn't say what for — but it was providential, from her perspective. She needed to pin him down, anyway, and hadn't known exactly how to approach him.

He'd saved her the trouble by calling to set up the breakfast meeting.

With a sigh, she reached the propped-open front door of Cleo's. It was only by chance that she happened to look over her shoulder. A pair of dueling taxis honked at one another and tires screeched, voices were raised, and Francesca turned to look.

Thomas stood at the corner of Broadway and 48th, hand up to draw the attention of a taxi not involved in demolition derby.

"Shit!" Francesca turned toward him, picked up her pace. Even as she closed in, a taxi three lanes away jerked across traffic and began to slow.

"Thomas, wait!"

He spun, and Francesca was stunned by his appearance. He looked haggard, unshaven. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he seemed to be chuckling silently as she ran up to him.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she said, and then waited. Under normal circumstances, she would have fully expected him to chastise her in his amiable way and then return to the restaurant with her. Instead, he only shrugged.

"Too late, Frankie. Gotta go," he said, the muscles of his face slack. He looked as though he were dead.

The cab slid to the curb, engine idling, and Thomas reached for the handle.

"What? Wait, I've got to talk to you!"

"I have an appointment," said the zombie who had once been one of her biggest clients.

"Listen, the Fox people took you up on your suggestion," she said hurriedly. "When I told them about Nathan, they agreed to come here. They're flying in tomorrow afternoon. They have other business, but they want to meet on Friday morning."

He stared at her for a moment as though he hadn't understood a word she'd said.

"Hey, in or out, pally!" griped the driver.

Francesca leaned over and sneered at the man, an old-time New York hack with a Yankees cap slightly askew on his head.

"Start the meter, you asshole," she barked. "You can bill us for the conversation."

The cabbie balked about her suggestion being against the rules, but he started the meter anyway. Frankie was surprised he hadn't simply gunned the engine and driven away. Thomas looked like he hadn't even noticed.

"It's important, isn't it?" he asked.

Francesca stared at him. "Thomas, are you all right?" she asked. "You know how important this is."

"Friday, noon. Lunch at Keen's," Thomas said mechanically. "You make the reservations. I just can't think about it right now."

"What is it, Thomas?" she asked. "Did you get bad news about . . . about Nathan?"

Thomas got into the cab. "Make the reservation, Frankie. I'm sorry. I have to go." He pulled the door shut and the taxi sped away.

"Oh, boy," Francesca muttered to herself. "What am I gonna do with you?"

* * * * *

After his appointment with Dr. Mizell, Thomas felt considerably better. Not completely sane, but then, he'd been hallucinating for what seemed to be days. Possibly even before the horrible thing that had happened to his son, this bizarre catatonia.

He'd first called Rachel Morrissey, who had been Nathan's therapist when the divorce had first come up. Dr. Morrissey specialized in pediatrics, but she remembered Nathan and his parents quite well. When Thomas had begun to explain the nature of his concerns, Dr. Morrissey had actually made an appointment with Dr. Mizell for him that very day. As a favor to Morrissey, Mizell had skipped lunch.

Thomas had wondered if she would bill him double time.

But Dr. Mizell turned out to be nothing at all like he had expected. She was young, and very pretty, but not in any fashion magazine's definition. Her black hair was chopped very short, and her olive skin was dotted with a small sprinkle of freckles that he found intriguing. She had an easy laugh that soothed him greatly, and Thomas found himself opening up within minutes of settling into a chair opposite Lee Mizell.

"Did anyone but you and Nathan witness any of these oddities previous to his catatonia?" she had asked him.

Thomas knew the next question. "No," he admitted. "And Nathan didn't speak to anyone else about them, as far as I know. But they did happen, Doctor."

Mizell had nodded gently, her brown eyes sparkling with understanding. She wore a burgundy dress that was nothing if not professional, but Thomas could not help but be distracted by her. The writer in him made a mental note that the old saw about how easy it was to fall in love with your doctor or therapist was very, very true.

It was her job to be sympathetic. It was her job to be concerned for his well being.

Thomas found great comfort in that.

After a long pause, she had said, "And yet these other instances, which you insist are hallucinations, were just as real as those things you claim Nathan witnessed as well."

Thomas had been taken aback. "What are you suggesting?" he had asked her, almost angrily. "There's a huge difference between some prankster or even a stalker spreading peanut butter on my lawn and my window, and hearing birds talk to me, or seeing characters from my series come to life."

"Of course there is," Dr. Mizell agreed. "I merely illustrate how difficult it can be to draw the line between reality and fantasy once the line has begun to blur. I had a patient once who was convinced that she was plagued by ghosts. Saw them all the time. Eventually she began to see the ghost of her mother, a sprightly old woman of eighty-three years, who was very much alive. Several weeks later, when the patient's mother died, the poor woman blamed herself, as if her seeing that 'ghost' had somehow brought on her mother's demise."

Thomas had frowned. "What happened to her?"

Dr. Mizell raised her eyebrows and tilted her head slightly as if wishing she could have avoided the question. Finally she said, "The patient took her own life."

Feeling morbid, but unable to help himself, Thomas had laughed at that. "Well," he'd said, "at least I'm not feeling suicidal. I suppose that's a start."

Mizell had smiled and agreed. "Mr. Randall, it isn't terribly uncommon for imaginative individuals to detach themselves from reality during times of great stress and seek to find some solace in worlds they believe are safer. Your situation is a bit different, a bit more hostile, but under the circumstances, there is a pattern. You feel helpless to heal your son, and the products of your imagination keep appearing to dun you with the suggestion that only you can 'save' him. It's very likely a product of your own misplaced guilt. If we can try to address that, and perhaps discuss your attachment to those characters, we may be able to stop these episodes completely."

"That's a lot of 'ifs,'" Thomas pointed out.

"Would you rather I tell you that you were a raving lunatic and pack you off to Bellevue?" Dr. Mizell asked sweetly.

After that, things had gone rather well.

Soon, Thomas would have to call Emily and tell her that he would be there to relieve her that night. It would be, after the day he'd had, almost relaxing to sit up with Nathan. He needed to be with his son, to watch over him. No matter what Dr. Mizell had said, he was still Nathan's father, and the urge to protect the boy was great. Perhaps there was nothing he could do to speed Nathan's recovery, but he could at least be there for him, talk to him a little, just in case he could hear.

He would sing, he thought suddenly. Just as he'd used to sing Nathan to sleep as an infant. James Taylor and Bonnie Raitt and the Eagles. He'd known them all, then. He'd find something to sing.

Despite his concern for Nathan, and the pain the boy's state brought him, Thomas's heart was lighter than it had been in days. He bought a kielbasa from a park vendor as he strolled a wide paved path with the sun beating down, making him sweat. It had grown quite warm, but he didn't mind. The sweating felt therapeutic to him. When the kielbasa was done, he bought a lemonade from another vendor and then took a turn down a narrow path he thought would take him back toward Fifth Avenue, where he figured he would have no trouble hailing a taxi.

The path meandered a bit, and there were thick copses of trees and shrubbery where an assailant might have been hidden. Thomas grew a bit anxious. While Central Park was generally safe during the day, this path would have been an invitation to brutality and robbery or worse after dark. Even during the day, there might well be unsavory people hidden just off the path.

He stepped up his pace.

Just off the path, he heard a whisper.

Instead of pausing, Thomas picked up speed. Whoever was out there, he didn't want them to think he was paying attention to whatever they were up to. It could be lovers, or junkies, or just about anything, but one way or another, he didn't want to see.

The whispering seemed to follow him, sounding like nothing more than the wind through the trees. But there was a voice there. He could hear it. Syllables that had nothing to do with the wind. After a few more seconds, he recognized the one word that was repeated over and over again.

His name.

"Thomas," whispered the park.

"Leave me alone!" he shouted, putting his hands over his ears and squeezing his eyes as tight as he could without cutting off his vision entirely.

He fought the urge to run, recalling Dr. Mizell's words almost as a mantra. "Anxiety, guilt, and stress. All of them can cause hallucinations, given the right circumstances. Yours are very powerful, but that could be just the power of your own imagination. And hallucinations are like fainting; once it has happened to you, the chemical processes of your brain have followed a certain path, and it becomes more likely that it will happen again."

Thomas slowed, now, refusing to run. With a great effort, he blocked out the whispering until he could hear it no longer. Not at all.

With a deep sigh, he got his bearings and continued along the path, hoping it would soon lead to one of the main paths, and then out to Fifth.

"Thomas!"

He froze on the path, bit his lip, and closed his eyes. A tear slipped down his left cheek. He was going insane. That was it. He knew he was completely losing his mind.

Slowly, Thomas Randall turned. In the middle of the path behind him was a tree. But not a tree. Not like the other things that grew in the park. For one thing, it was not rooted into the path, but stood upon its powerful roots. The tree bent over slightly so that the eyes cut in its bark could look down upon him, its branches and leaves blotting out the sun above. It was Broadbough, the captain of the Forest Rangers.

"Our Boy," it said solemnly, "you must come back to Strangewood. If you do not, your son will surely die."

With a shriek, Thomas crumpled to the path and lay there sobbing until a young couple jogged by. The man stayed with him while the woman went for help. After a while, the man was able to get him to his feet and begin to walk along the path. But he was forced to lead Thomas by the elbow until they were out onto the rolling lawn of Central Park.

Thomas would not open his eyes until he was away from the trees.

CHAPTER 10

The hospital cafeteria was relatively deserted when Emily slid into a chair near the row of windows on the far wall. She dumped her purse onto the chair next to her and set down the paper cup of chicken broth she'd gotten from a machine that dispensed the brew in the same way it would coffee or cocoa. It was much too salty, and it scalded her tongue, but Emily loved it because it reminded her of her childhood.

It was perverse, in a way. Her grandfather had died of cancer fifteen years earlier, a horrid, debilitating experience for all those who had loved him. But she fondly recalled the chicken broth she'd get from a vending machine for a quarter. This wasn't exactly the same, but the taste was pretty close. If anything, this was even saltier.

The urge to return to Nathan's room rose up and she quashed it immediately. Without short breaks like this one, the little room would quickly become unbearable, so she forced herself to sit there and sip at the broth and stare out the window onto the lawn where the oak trees threw long afternoon shadows. Someone laughed and Emily turned to see a pair of nurses walking to a table with trays encumbered with little more than salads and coffee. She recognized one of the nurses — Nancy, she thought her name was — and offered the woman a polite nod. The nurse smiled kindly, and Emily wondered what was in her mind: Ah, there's the poor woman whose son went off the deep end, disappeared into his own head — I'd die if anything like that happened to my . . .

Emily winced, turned away, looked back out the window as the day slowly died. That was a path she was unwilling to walk down. She didn't even know if Nurse Nancy had any kids, for starters. And as far as sympathy was concerned, she'd rather have help. She didn't need any assistance in feeling sorry for herself.

A soft trilling sound interrupted her, and Emily was grateful. She didn't like where her mind was going. As the chatty nurses glanced her way, she withdrew her cellular phone from inside her purse, flipped it open, and said, "Thomas?"

"Sorry, but no," a woman's voice said.

For a moment, Emily didn't know who it was. She hadn't heard the voice in close to a year, after all. Then it hit her.

"Francesca," she said. "Thanks for returning my call."

"I was a little surprised to hear from you, Emmy," Thomas's agent said. "But I'm glad, as well. I'm getting a little worried about Thomas. But first, look . . . how's Nathan?"

Emily frowned. "He's the same. But what about Thomas? Have you talked to him? He was supposed to be here almost two hours ago. I've left half a dozen messages for him, but . . . well, that's why I called you."

"I saw him this morning. He seemed pretty scattered."

"He was going to see a therapist today," Emily said, though she worried that she might be revealing more than Thomas would like.

"I'm glad," Francesca replied. "I don't want to sound cold, Em, but he needs a little perspective. He may end up queering this whole Fox deal if he doesn't start paying attention. I know it isn't his number one priority, but you're talking about an investment in the future, y'know?"

Emily raised an eyebrow. "Fox deal?"

Silence. Then a sigh. "Ah, shit. I shouldn't be talking to you about this stuff. You guys both have Nathan to deal with, but that doesn't mean you're not still divorced. I'm speaking out of school, here."

"Not at all, Francesca," Emily insisted. "Thomas and I have been really good about not playing that game so many couples get into when they split. And now, with this . . ."

She didn't want to talk about it.

"Listen, if you hear from him, please tell him to call me right away. It's my night to stay with Nathan, so if he's not coming back tonight, that's okay. But I'm worried about him. He's . . . been a little on edge lately."

"If he calls, I'll tell him."

The conversation lasted less than thirty seconds longer and then Emily snapped the phone shut. She laid it on the Formica table and picked up her quickly cooling broth. Inside, whatever had been mixed with water to invent that concoction had begun to settle down into sediment at the bottom of the cup. Her stomach turned, and Emily set the broth back down on the table.

For a moment, she chewed her lip. Her fingers drummed idly on the table — something close to the old Lone Ranger theme song — and at length she picked up the phone again, flipped it open, and hit the speed dial for Thomas at home.

The machine picked up. "Hi. It's Thomas. You can take it from here."

She counted nine beeps, so there were at least three messages on top of the six she had left. Emily almost hung up; what was the use? But instead, she waited until the end and tried not to sound as worried as she felt.

"Thomas, me again. Look, I just want to know how your appointment went today. I'll be at the hospital all night, and you can try my cell phone if I'm not in the room. I'm . . ."

Emily sighed, almost didn't say it.

"I'm worried about you."

In the living room of his house in Ardsley, Thomas Randall lay on the sofa, his head propped on a pair of green throw pillows. The volume on the answering machine was turned up just enough so he could make out Emily's words. He didn't move. Hadn't moved, in fact, for nearly half an hour. Instead, he simply lay there with the television remote control in hand and idly surfed cable channels.

Eventually, he came across an old episode of The Twilight Zone and paused a moment. He remembered it instantly, one of his favorites. "A Stop at Willoughby," it was called.

The empty prescription bottle that had held his phenobarbital lay on its side on the coffee table. Thomas glanced at it as his hand slipped off his chest and hung loosely down to scrape the carpet. After a moment, the remote dropped from his fingers, but Thomas didn't even notice.

His eyes closed slowly.

* * * * *

The Up-River leveled out and flowed in a straight line across the highest peak of the Bald Mountains. This high, there were no trees, nor even any vegetation. Only the stone and the water that had cut through it ages and ages ago, before there were any stories to tell. The Up-River ran across the mountaintop until it reached a sheer cliff that dropped away down the other side, into the Misty Nothing. A short distance away, a water spout erupted from the ground itself. This was the source of the Up-River. From there, it began the long circuitous route that would bring it round to the peak all over again. For the Up-River coiled around the world like the serpent son of Loki.

Despite the bright and savage sun, the wind blew cold across the stone, chopping the water without mercy. At the edge of the water stood an angry pony, its coat matted with filth, its bones knocking with the chill. A tuft of green feathers, which sprouted from its head, whipped about in the breeze, and it stamped its hooves impatiently.

"Damned dwarf," the pony muttered, thick lips curling back from huge teeth. It stamped again, its deep green tail flitting back and forth across its rump.

The pony's name was Feathertop. This name was one of the things that concerned it greatly, and one of the things that had led it to side with the Jackal Lantern in the current crisis. For Feathertop knew that had not always been his name. Even a horse was smart enough to realize that a mare doesn't just dump a foal and name him Feathertop. The feathers weren't very likely to have been there at birth, and his mother must have had something else in mind in any case.

No, something or someone had named him Feathertop, and it certainly wasn't his mother. But if not her, then who?

The question drove a spike of pain through his head, and he stamped and snorted, then produced a neigh that could be heard even over the whistle of the wind over the rocks and the rambling of the river. It hurt to think about. Feathertop was not at all certain he wanted an answer to that question. In fact, he was rather sure he did not.

But the question had never occurred to him until The Boy had stopped coming. Had stopped caring. And he believed, as the Jackal Lantern did, that Strangewood must have The Boy back at whatever cost. If only to make the question go away.

To make the pain stop.

His fat nostrils opened wider, and Feathertop lifted his head. He'd smelled something, carried along by the breeze. The scent of The Boy, but not The Boy. Not exactly. Accompanying it was the rank body odor of Feathertop's best friend, also known, at times, as “the damned dwarf,” or something significantly more colorful.

Narrowing his eyes, Feathertop saw the small skiff as it crested the mountain and began to float along the river toward the tumble into the Misty Nothing. As the boat drew near, Grumbler paddling furiously to reach the calm swirl near the riverbank, Feathertop noticed immediately the absence of his friend's favored fedora.

It occurred to him that now might not be the time to chastise Grumbler for his tardiness. Not unless he wanted a very large caliber bullet through his equine brain.

He had also noticed something else immediately, however. Something about which he could not stop himself from inquiring. As Grumbler jumped out of the boat into the shallows at the river's edge and dragged the skiff to the bank, Feathertop looked at him anxiously.

"I have the boy," Grumbler said, huffing with effort as he pulled the stern of the boat over the rocky edge of the water.

And Feathertop had seen the boy. It was wonderful news. Though the child was asleep for the moment, it was without a doubt Nathan Randall. The Jackal Lantern would be pleased. But, still . . .

"Where's Gourdon?" Feathertop asked, staring at Grumbler, then glancing momentarily at the inside of the skiff and its captive, before turning anywhere else.

Grumbler grunted and hauled on the skiff. "He lost it. Had to shoot him."

Feathertop snickered. "He was never the ripest gourd in the garden, was he?"

Grumbler turned to stare at him, eyes narrowed angrily. His right hand had strayed beneath his jacket, the tips of his fingers brushing against the grip of one of his Colts.

"It wasn't something I wanted to do, shit-for-brains," Grumbler snapped.

Then the dwarf just shook his head and turned his back on the pony, reaching into the skiff to lift the sleeping boy into his arms. "Swear to God, pony boy, I just don't know about you any more. Sometimes I think your little brain's got as bad a case of vegetable rot as that squash head had. You be careful I don't have to put you down as well."

Grumbler looked down almost lovingly at the boy's sleeping face and then started off across the cold stone of the mountaintop, the harsh sun beating down on his hatless head as the wind ruffled his hair. Feathertop watched him go, the son of The Boy in his arms.

In the distance, across the hard expanse of craggy stone, rose the rock and wood fortress of the Jackal Lantern. When time was young, there had been soil on top of the Bald Mountains, and trees had grown from the soil. Or so the legends had it. All those trees had gone into the construction of the fortress.

Feathertop shivered, and this time it wasn't the wind but the very sight of that edifice that sent that chill rippling down his spine. In every rampart, every gate, every wall, every turret . . . in every damnable stone, the fortress radiated evil. Like the hellish light burning within the Jackal Lantern's overlarge head, evil was a beacon behind the battlements.

The pony had always feared old Jack, but there was nothing to be done for it now. Evil was the only thing The Boy might take note of, the only thing that might bring him back. Good and evil, it was life or death for them all, now.

* * * * *

As she followed Broadway down through Tarrytown and Irvington on her way to her ex-husband's house in Ardsley, Emily began to grow more and more agitated. The radio played harmless and soulless love songs, and they grated on her. Long before she took the turn into the well-groomed family neighborhood where Thomas had moved after the divorce, Emily had turned the radio off.

In the silence of the car, as the last light of day was consumed by the night and the darkness swept over her world, Emily's mind began to race with all the things Thomas had told her. All the things he had seen in his hallucinations.

Her headlights cut the shadows ahead. The streetlamp in front of Thomas's house was out, or had yet to snap on in its preordained obedience. Three houses down, Emily noticed an ache in her fingers and looked down to see how white her knuckles were and how tightly they gripped the steering wheel.

She glanced up.

A black, formless shape rocketed toward her windshield.

Emily screamed, swerved, hit the brakes. But too late. The thing hit the windshield with a wet smack and a crunch that might have been bone but was most certainly glass. The tires squealed.

Heart convulsing painfully in her chest, Emily tried to catch her breath, reached up to her face, and found, to her surprise, that she was crying. Hysteria nearly overcame her, but she fought it back. Her chest hurt, and she wondered how hard she had hit the steering wheel. She remembered the sound of the horn now, and was surprised it had not registered at first.

The far right side of the windshield was now covered with a spiderweb of cracks. Looking at it made Emily feel awfully vulnerable, so she turned her eyes away. With a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped out of the car, looking around to see exactly what it was that had crashed into her.

Stuck beneath the windshield wiper was a single black feather.

On the ground just in front of the car lay the mangled corpse of a huge black crow, its blood pooling around it.

Absurdly, Emily thought of Thomas's story, the crow he'd seen that he truly believed had spoken to him. She even thought it was Dave Crow, one of the twin birds from Adventures in Strangewood. For a moment, her mind started down a path that would do neither of them any good. It wasn't uncommon. Anyone who had walked in a cemetery at night or heard a tree branch scrape the side of the house in the wee hours of the morning might have entertained the same foolishness. Emily knew better. She shook it off, smiled at herself, and then looked disdainfully at the cracked windshield.

"I hope there's nothing wrong with you, Thomas," she said to the night. "'Cause I'm sure as hell not paying for that."

The car was still running, and as Emily opened the door, she heard a caw high above. She craned her neck to look up and saw a black shape cross the moon. It might have been a bat, if not for the cawing. But it wasn't a bat. It was another crow, just like the one that had splintered her windshield, dying in the process.

Its twin.

As he glided over the home of The Boy, Barry Crow's heart was heavy with anguished guilt and grief. Dave was his brother, his twin. Every memory in Barry's life was a memory that included Dave.

But Dave had tried to reach the woman. He would have spoken to her. For those who had allied themselves with the General had realized that she was The Boy's anchor in this world. If she believed in him, and held on to him, he might be able to return to Strangewood, along with Nathan. That must not be allowed to happen. The Jackal Lantern's plan did not include her. There was no room for her in the story he had been spinning, and so she must not believe.

If Dave had spoken to her, she might not have heard him at all. Strangewood had never really touched her, and so she might have been unable to understand what was asked of her. But they could take no chances. The woman must not become involved.

She must never believe.

Barry cawed, and a feather slipped from him and drifted to the ground as though a tear had fallen from his wing.

He had taken his own brother's life so that Strangewood might live.

Emily had knocked more than a dozen times before she dared use her own key to gain entrance into Thomas's house. As she stepped over the threshold, she called his name. The syllables came back to her like an echo down a canyon, like the roar of the ocean within a hollow shell.

The house was empty of life.

But not empty.

She found Thomas on the carpet in the living room in a puddle of his own dried vomit. His eyes were rolled up in his head, only the whites showing, and his breathing was shallow, with too-long lapses between breaths. The gray streak that ran through his hair above his left ear was caked with blood, and Emily realized he must have hit his head somewhere.

Unless he had been attacked.

With a gasp, she stepped back and looked around the room. Thomas believed someone had been stalking him. Now Emily was forced to wonder if he was correct. For a moment, she stood frozen in the living room above his still form, vacillating between her fear and her concern for this man with whom she had brought Nathan into the world.

Then she moved. Whether he'd been attacked or not didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was that he needed help. She went to the phone, saw the blinking red light and the little number “10,” signifying the number of messages he'd received and either ignored or never gotten around to listening to.

Even as she lifted the portable phone from its cradle, Emily began to hyperventilate. She felt as though the world had dropped out from under her, and she was tumbling away into the void of oblivion.

First Nathan, and now Thomas.

Several minutes later, she found herself sitting on the cold tile of the kitchen floor, the phone still clutched in her hand. She didn't remember speaking to anyone but knew she must have, because she could hear the siren wailing as the ambulance approached.

A sudden wave of anger swept over her, and she glared at Thomas where he lay, possibly near death, on the living room floor.

"No," she said softly, furiously. Then she screamed it. "No!"

She hurled the phone at him. It arced across the kitchen and into the living room, bouncing on the carpet several feet away. Red lights strobed through all the front windows and turned the interior of the house into an infernal kaleidoscope.

Emily buried her face in her hands and whispered her ex-husband's name, and then the name of her only child.

* * * * *

Nathan came awake slowly. His awareness, at first, extended no further than the inside of his own body: his tongue against the back of his teeth, the soft breath flowing through his nostrils, the sensation of sunlight on his eyelids. A yawn took him unaware, and he stretched his entire body as his mouth opened wide to accommodate it.

The bedclothes beneath his skin, where he now wiped the drool that had slipped from his mouth during sleep, were soft but felt a bit gritty. He rolled over. His mind was still warming up, and, distracted by the comfort of his surroundings, so suggestive of home, had yet to recall the path that had brought him here.

A breeze blew through the open window, billowing the gossamer curtains, turning them into playful spirits. Nathan saw them through the tiny slits he had allowed his eyes to become, lids lazily threatening to close once more, not quite certain they were through with sleep.

The breeze was cold.

Not merely chilly, as some summer mornings could be, but really, really cold.

That wasn't right.

Nathan opened his eyes, sat up quickly, and surveyed the wood and stone construction of the room about him. It was clean, certainly. As though someone had been through the day before and scrubbed until it sparkled. But the bedclothes were filthy.

The door was thick wood with metal strapping and an iron handle above the old-fashioned keyhole. Other than the window, it might have been a dungeon.

The lair of the Jackal Lantern. Nathan knew right away that was where he was. How could it be anything else? Part of him whispered that he should not be frightened, that if the Jackal Lantern wanted him killed, any of his goons could have done it. But the real Nathan, the boy-voice of his mind told him that the Jackal Lantern might very well want to have him for dinner. Literally. To suck the meat from his bones

The Peanut Butter General had said he wouldn't be hurt, but Bob Longtooth had cut Nathan's back, badly. And besides, he wasn't with the General anymore. Later, Grumbler had promised he wouldn't be hurt, but Grumbler was supposed to be Daddy's friend, and here he was working with the Jackal Lantern, so how could Nathan trust him?

It was all so very confusing.

The boy had been afraid ever since he had first awoken in Strangewood. He was still afraid now. But as he climbed from his bed, Nathan began to feel something else. Something that brought him back several years, to petulant tantrums and striking out when he shouldn't. Nathan was five and a half years old, and a very scared five and a half.

But he was also very, very angry.

He moved to the window and looked out, and his mouth dropped open as he stood and stared. Out the window was a straight fall down the side of the fortress, so straight it seemed almost like the wall leaned outward. Beyond the fortress were the Bald Mountains, and beyond the mountains, the rest of Strangewood. From up here, Nathan thought he could see it all. Everything in Strangewood. That was impossible of course, and a part of him knew that. But the illusion was a comfort, somehow. For out there in the vast forest, or somewhere along the Up-River, there were people and creatures who did not want him to be hurt. The Peanut Butter General wanted to protect Nathan.

"Please come," Nathan whispered, and then all the anger slipped away and he was just a little frightened boy again.

He didn't really believe the Peanut Butter General would come for him. But as Nathan's brain swirled like the roughest waters of the Up-River, he came to realize that he wasn't really talking to the General. He was thinking of his father. Grumbler had said the Jackal Lantern wanted Nathan's daddy to come to Strangewood. He didn't know how that was possible, but then, he also didn't know how he himself had come here.

"Please come," he whispered again.

A cold wind blew across the stripped mountaintop and through the window of Nathan's cell. He shivered and moved quickly back to the bed. He searched until he found the clothes Grumbler had given him — the things the dwarf and the pony had stolen from his bedroom the night they killed Crabapple — and dressed swiftly.

When he was dressed, he went to the door. He knew it would be locked. How could they expect to keep him in here if it wasn't locked? But he tried the handle just the same. The iron was cold to the touch, but when he turned it, there was a heavy scrape as the thick bolt pulled back and the door swung in.

Nathan blinked in surprise. He stepped out into the corridor. It was dank and deeply shadowed, flickering with orange light from torches that lined the stone walls. The fortress was built mostly of huge rocks that looked like they'd been chipped out of the mountain itself. The only wood seemed to be the buttresses used to shore up arches in the hall or the frames of doorways. Nathan shivered. For no particular reason, he glanced down at his blue-sneakered feet and saw that his laces weren't tied. His Dad always corrected him about that, trying to get him to tie his shoes. It had never seemed that important to Nathan.

He knelt and, with some difficulty, tied his laces. Then he stood, took a last look — what he hoped was a last look — at the bed in the room he'd slept in, and started down the hall.

Nathan was afraid, of course, but fear had slid over and made a little room for excitement. Here he was, wandering around the next best thing to a castle, and he seemed to be by himself. It was easy, for just a moment, to forget the rest. His imagination sped along in that direction for a while, ringing with clanging swords and swirling with knights . . . or even pirates.

Then he arrived at a wide stone stairwell, with arched windows cut into the curving wall where the stairs spun down into the depths of the fortress. Nathan glanced around again and, seeing nothing and no one, started down. At the first of the windows, he leaned far out, trying to see more of the fortress, to gauge how far up he was. A fine needle of pain jabbed his back, just below the shoulder blades. Nathan cried out, his face dissolving into wide-eyed panic.

Then he remembered the slashes on his back where Bob Longtooth had clawed him. When he'd leaned out the window, he'd pulled at them. Despite the soothing, healing properties of the General's peanut butter, the slashes were still there, and Nathan had strained them too much.

Biting his lip, the boy forced himself not to cry as he slowly and gingerly worked his way down the stairs. There had already been, in his five-and-a-half-year-old opinion, far too much crying. Once more, his petulance returned, and he found himself overwrought more with anger than terror.

That was his escape, he found. The angrier he got, the less afraid he was. It didn't feel good, being angry. His father always tried to tell him not to get mad about things, just to deal with them, but for now, Nathan couldn't help it. Angry was much safer than afraid.

The light from the windows above disappeared as Nathan reached the floor beneath where he'd been kept. There were more torches here, and somewhere, he thought he heard voices. What he needed to find, he knew, was another staircase. If he could keep going down, eventually, he might come to the bottom of the fortress. They weren't afraid that he'd run, he thought, or they would have locked his door.

He'd show them. He'd run as far and as fast as he could, and they'd never find him out in Strangewood.

The thought gave Nathan pause. For if the Jackal Lantern and his subjects couldn't find Nathan, the boy wondered how his father or the Peanut Butter General would find him. On the other hand, if he stayed in the fortress, they would know right where to look. At least, they would know where to look if the General had figured out it was Grumbler who'd stolen Nathan in the first place. It was all really confusing, and his head hurt a little.

As he tried to work this through his mind, Nathan stepped into the corridor and started down it, searching for the darkened opening that would lead down to the floor beneath him, and hopefully, even further. He passed several doors on his way, heavy wood just like the door to the room he'd been in. All of them were closed, letting not an ounce of sunlight into the damp tunnel of stone. It wasn't until Nathan was halfway down the corridor that he realized there were no torches at the end. No light at all, save for a tiny glow of daylight that drifted up from the left.

The other stairs, he thought. But to get to them, he had to go through the dark. Real dark. Dark enough to make it almost impossible to remember that the sun was shining outside.

Nathan kept on, his sneakers almost silent on the cold stone. He could hear his own breathing, and its loudness surprised him. He passed the last torch, and the shadows swirled around him as though taking him by the hand. The light receded behind him, and his breathing grew even louder. The brave and angry boy started to slip away, stolen by the dark.

The meager light from the stairwell was not enough to keep him brave. Nathan's heart began to pound in his chest. He could feel the pulsing of his veins in his temples and his wrists and his breath came faster. Though he could not see the stone floor very well, he began to run. His sneakered feet slapped the rock beneath them, and he remembered, very clearly, his kitchen.

The kitchen at home. Before. Before Mommy and Daddy split, and Nathan was caught in the middle. When the fights got really really bad, and Nathan cried a lot. He was a little kid then, not even in real kindergarten yet.

The wet crack of his rubber soles on the stone brought him back to that moment. His mother screaming, his father stomping about. And his mother's hand across his father's face. The one and only time Nathan had ever seen her hit anyone, and she slapped him hard enough that it made daddy's face all red.

They stared at each other for a few minutes as Nathan sat on the kitchen floor wailing like he was still a baby, screaming at them both now in words none of them could understand.

It was just a few days later that Nathan's parents told him they weren't going to live together anymore. They told him they were still a family.

He never believed them.

A single tear forced its way out and Nathan wiped it angrily from his cheek. He'd promised himself he wasn't going to cry again, and now he was mad at the dark, mad at his parents, and mad at himself for being so scared.

He started to slow down as he neared the stairs. His heartbeat slowed and suddenly his breathing didn't seem so loud.

Something smelled awful. Worse than a dozen skunks. Nathan tried to cover his nose, but the smell was everywhere. And he recognized it.

Even as he turned to look down the stairs, he knew what he smelled. Whom he smelled.

"Hello, runt," the awful creature said, and though he didn't laugh, there was laughter in his voice. "I was hopin' we'd get some time to ourselves."

The stinking steam that came from the split over the ugly thing's eye blazed up into sudden life, green fire spouting from the space where his brain ought to be.

Nathan froze, bit his lip, and refused to scream. Refused to cry. Instead, he just whispered the monster man's name.

"Cragskull."

CHAPTER 11

In the back of the ambulance, Emily sat very still, jostled about by every bump and pothole on Broadway as they sped toward the hospital. The siren was wailing, and though the EMT had offered her vague answers, Emily knew they were hurrying for a reason. Thomas was in bad shape.

"Why?" she whispered.

The EMT, who was continually monitoring Thomas's condition, didn't even look up. He hadn't looked up at anything she said, and this was a question she'd asked her unconscious ex-husband a dozen times since he'd been loaded into the ambulance.

Her mascara had left black streaks like war paint down her cheeks. Emily knew they were there, but she ignored them. She had nothing to wipe her face with at the moment, and there would be more tears, she knew.

"You bastard!" she snapped, her voice brittle, and brought her open palm down on Thomas's chest.

Finally, she had the E.M.T.'s attention. The lanky man stood as best he could in the cramped rear of the ambulance and reached both hands out to restrain her gently.

"Ma'am, I know you're not yourself at the moment," he said, quietly but with much gravity. "But if you do that again, I'll put you out in the street."

Emily wanted to scream at him. To explain to him exactly what had happened here. How Thomas had failed her, and failed Nathan. They needed him now. Now! More than ever, Nathan needed his father. More than she ever had when they were married, Emily needed Thomas Randall to hold on to.

She knew it wasn't an attack. The EMTs had assured her of that. The angle made it clear it was a fall, probably when he passed out. Passed out from the overdose of barbiturates he had taken with a tumbler full of Wild Turkey. This was something he had done to himself.

"Why?" she said, her voice a harsh whisper, and she stared at the slack flesh of Thomas's face, at the total lack of awareness there. Beneath his eyelids, there was no movement. No dreaming, at least. He didn't deserve it.

Emily brought both hands up to cover her face, sighed deeply, and forced herself to stop crying. She knew her anger toward him was only a defense mechanism. The knowledge didn't do much to deflate her rage, because the rage was the only thing keeping her together. She didn't want to live with Thomas anymore, didn't want to be his wife. That didn't mean she was prepared to have him gone from her life. Without taking her hands away, she spoke to Thomas again, still in a whisper.

"I can't do this alone," she told him, and herself. "I can't lose you both."

* * * * *

Strangewood was never silent. It was never supposed to be. There was such life and color in the wood and in the creatures who lived there that silence would be tantamount to death.

It was very silent in Strangewood.

The Peanut Butter General's eyes were narrowed to sticky, spider-webbed slits and his nostrils flared. Each of his senses was taut, sensitive to the slightest change in their surroundings. He pushed his way through the trees, moving ever eastward, though there were no real paths in this part of the forest.

Legendary for their screaming, the Orange Pealers moved through the undergrowth and over exposed roots without uttering a single sound. The only noise they made as they passed through the deep heart of Strangewood was the gnashing of their teeth and the scrape of branches and leaves on the citrus skin that covered their entire bodies.

Savages. Most of the denizens of Strangewood had thought of the Pealers as nothing more than that. And the Peanut Butter General had shared that opinion for a very long time. But when he had explained to the Orange Pealers what was at stake, the tribe had pledged their lives to the General's cause. Several of them had already paid that ultimate price.

Yet they marched at his side. For if the General failed, they might well all be dead.

But the silence of the Orange Pealers, though amazing, was not nearly as extraordinary as the silence of the small orange and green dragon who sat on top of the Peanut Butter General's shoulder. The General had asked Fiddlestick to come along mainly because if navigation were ever needed, the little dragon's wings would become indispensible. It would take an emergency, however, to get to that point, for when Fiddlestick flew, he made music. It was impossible for them to know precisely what agents and monsters the Jackal Lantern might have roaming about Strangewood searching for opposition. But the melody of the dragon's wings would most surely draw unwanted attention.

So, for now, Fiddlestick sat on the General's shoulder, his talons stuck in peanut butter. Despite the dragon's generally polite demeanor, he'd complained about this fact no fewer than half a dozen times since their journey had begun. The General had promised him that, when the time came for him to fly, not an ounce of the sticky stuff would stay on the dragon's feet. Fiddlestick did not seem comforted by these assurances.

The General was growing tired of giving them.

The General was, in point of fact, growing tired of a great deal regarding this scenario. Though nothing mattered to him more than the safety of the boy, sneaking about in the forest was not, in his opinion, the proper way for a soldier to behave. A terrorist, perhaps, but not a soldier.

Still, he knew enough about soldiers in jungles to keep him alert.

They traveled in silence for another mile or so, slow going through the trees, and then the forest became less dense and there was more room to move. No trodden path, but space enough that one could stride freely beneath the canopy of branches that was woven together above them by nature or fancy. The General had never been quite certain which of those two made the laws in this place.

The dragon's wings fluttered slightly as he repositioned himself on the General's shoulder, and for only a moment, it was as though someone had run their fingers lightly along the strings of a harp. The General grunted in frustration, but said nothing. Fiddlestick had been, upon reflection, an excellent traveling companion. He kept silent when asked and was far more intelligent than the General would ever have given him credit for.

The dragon's scales rested against the peanut butter, and his tail lay along the General's back. The General felt it all. The imprint of each scale, the gentle question mark left behind as Fiddlestick's tail moved to take yet another shape. The talons in the peanut butter moved slightly, though this time the dragon controlled his wings.

Something was amiss.

"You are troubled, dragon?" the General asked.

The Pealers were off in the trees to either side, one far ahead on recon, and one trailing behind, watching their flank. But several nearby glanced up at the General, surprise in the mad chaos of their wide lemon-yellow eyes. The General glared at them, and they looked away.

"Shouldn't I be troubled, General?" Fiddlestick replied, with none of the glee that usually tinged his voice.

"There is a great deal that is troublesome at the moment," the Peanut Butter General agreed. "Things we must do that I am certain you and your friends never imagined."

Fiddlestick was silent for a moment. Then, with the air of confession in his voice, but no malice, he said gravely, "I never thought I would be sitting on your shoulder, allied in a single cause. Not after the times you tried to kill me."

There was a sudden screech above them, and a fat owl snorted its displeasure at their passing, spread its wings, and lazily dove from a thick branch, only to glide to a tree just yards away, where it settled down again. They had seen all manner of creatures as they cut through the deepest part of the forest. They had passed the huge, crumbling stone figure of an ogre who'd strayed too far from his cave and could not return home in time to avoid the sun. Hares and birds were in large supply, and they had, the General believed, seen a small patrol of flying squirrels making their way through the trees. But they were too fast for him to have gotten a close enough look to be certain.

There was life in Strangewood.

That was something to consider.

There was more at stake here than the life of Nathan Randall. Or the sanity of his father. There was Strangewood itself. And each creature in Strangewood had its own concerns. Just as did the dragon they all called Fiddlestick.

"I never wanted to kill you, dragon," the General admitted, though reluctantly. "It is my role, you see. We all have our part to play in this world, and mine was to menace the kindest, simplest of creatures. You were among them."

Fiddlestick laughed. "Nothing personal, huh?"

The Peanut Butter General smiled. "Nothing personal," he repeated.

After a moment, Fiddlestick sighed. "I'm just worried about the others, I suppose. Brownie and Mr. Tinklebum will likely be all right, as long as they stay where they are. But I wish we could have sent someone else besides Laughing Boy . . ."

"There was no one else," the General said harshly. "That damned hyena would have laughed at the wrong moment, or been too thick-skulled to listen to a simple command. He was the only one we could spare."

Fiddlestick's wings ruffled, and he moved up on his haunches on the General's shoulders. He craned his neck around to look right into the General's eyes, his snout beneath the General's cap, a tiny spurt of flame coming from his nostrils. His double-lidded eyes closed and then opened.

"You mean he was expendable?"

The General froze in place and turned his own head so that he could face the dragon directly. "We're all expendable, Fiddlestick. All of us. Without Our Boy, there is no Strangewood. If Nathan dies, Our Boy will never come here again. In trying to save us, the Lantern will kill us all. We are all expendable."

He began to walk again, the Pealers scrambling madly through the brush beneath the trees. They passed an incredibly overweight gray wolf sleeping on the dirt, snoring loudly as what sun the trees let through dappled his fur.

"Good thing we're all expendable," Fiddlestick said, after the silence had stretched on too long.

The General frowned. "That's a terrible thing to say. How could that be a good thing?"

He could feel the dragon shrug.

"Well," Fiddlestick replied. "We keep going on straight east this way, we're likely as not to run into the Queen of the Wood. She doesn't take kindly to visitors."

Unsettled, the General allowed his left hand to rest lightly on the pommel of his sword.

* * * * *

Cragskull held Nathan's shoulders tightly and grinned, showing filthy green teeth. His beard was more matted than ever and his hair was stringy. Nathan closed his mouth and tried not to breathe. This close to Cragskull, he though he might throw up.

The split-skulled monster just laughed. "Are you afraid, little boy?" he teased. "You gonna piss your pants again?"

Nathan shook his head vigorously and tried to back up into the hallway. Cragskull, who was several steps down from him, held on tightly. Nathan had a moment to wish the evil thing would slip on the moss that grew between the slick stones.

Then Cragskull picked him up and threw him over his shoulder, and Nathan's stomach contorted with revulsion at being so close to him. He closed his eyes at first, but eventually, when he was forced to take a breath again or pass out, his eyes opened again. Inches from his face, something black and slimy crawled in Cragskull's hair.

Nathan screamed, no longer even aware of the stench.

Cragskull stopped halfway down the steps, dropped Nathan painfully on his butt on the stone, and then slapped him hard across the face. Nathan's eyes were wide, staring at the green flame that shot up from the crack in the bastard's head. Bastard was a word he wasn't allowed to use in either of his parents' homes. But Cragskull wasn't just a monster, he was a bastard.

"Did that hurt?" Cragskull asked, face stretched into a maniacal smile that made Nathan whimper.

He could feel the heat from that green flame.

"Yes," Nathan admitted in a small voice.

Cragskull shoved his face right up to Nathan's, eye to eye, nose to nose, mouth to mouth, and screamed with fetid breath. "GOOOOOOOD!"

Nathan flinched and bit his lip.

"I'm not gonna cry, you stinky, ugly bastard!" he yelled, eyes filling even as he did. But he stopped it right there. No crying.

Cragskull howled with glee.

"Listen, you little shit," the monster sneered, "you've been invited to dinner. Unless you want to be dinner, I suggest you shut your little boy trap and keep all that piss and puke and shit inside your body. Crying's okay, though. Ol' Jack likes to see little ones cry."

He grabbed Nathan's wrist and began to roughly drag him down the steps. Nathan scrambled to keep his feet beneath him, put one hand on the stone wall, and then pulled it away. He wiped the slimy goop from the wall on his jeans and kept up, still biting his lip, still refusing to cry.

Nathan wished Cragskull was dead. He hated to think it, because he knew it was wrong. But he couldn't help it.

At the bottom of the steps, Cragskull hauled him along by the arm down a long hallway and eventually brought him to a large set of wooden double doors with heavy iron rings in them. With one powerful hand, Cragskull yanked open the right-side door and it swung wide for them to enter.

Whatever Nathan had expected — some kind of dungeon or torture chamber — it wasn't this. Unlike the rest of the fortress, this room wasn’t all stone. The floor was wood, and the ceiling and walls were crisscrossed with wooden beams. In one corner, red and yellow flames crackled in a large fireplace loaded with logs. A stack of cut wood lay nearby. Each end of the room was draped with a wide, colorful tapestry unlike anything Nathan had ever seen except for in the movies.

There were no windows. No light coming in. Only the fire and the torches, two on each wall. The room was vast, and at its center was a long table roughly hewn from trees without the same talent that had gone into the construction of the fortress itself. But it was a table, and good enough to use for a table's uses. The chairs around the table were only slightly better constructed.

What drew Nathan's immediate attention, though, were the plates of food that were spread out across the table. At the center was the largest roasted turkey Nathan had ever seen. He could smell it now, even over the stench of Cragskull, and his mouth began to water. He didn't remember when he'd eaten last. There were large iron pitchers that he thought must have water in them, or at least something he could drink. There were plates of boiled potatoes and some kind of green vegetable that he wouldn't even think about eating if he weren't so hungry. There were other things as well, but Nathan ignored them.

Slowly, he stepped toward the table. Cragskull didn't try to stop him. The monster just stood near the open door and watched as Nathan made a plate for himself of turkey and potatoes and some kind of cake that he'd never seen before. He sat down on one of the uncomfortable chairs and started to dig in. There were no forks or knives that he could see, other than the huge carving knife sticking out of the turkey, but Nathan didn't care.

He'd eaten with his hands before.

Most of the turkey was gone, and a few of the potatoes, when Nathan paused a moment in his eating. He glanced up at the turkey. At the huge carving knife jutting from its breast.

One of the doors slammed open behind him with a crack that made him jump from his chair, knocking over his plate and dumping potatoes onto the floor. Nathan spun to see that, by the huge double wooden doors, Bob Longtooth had entered and now stood by Cragskull. The sabertoothed-tiger man's huge tusklike teeth jutted down from his upper jaw, even as Longtooth gnashed his teeth, smacking his lips.

Nathan didn't know if he was reacting to his own presence, or the presence of the food. But he didn't want to know. Quickly, he scrambled under the table and came up on the other side. His eyes were wide as he stared at Longtooth, and the slashes in his back began to burn like some phantom reminder. But Nathan didn't need anything to remind him who had made those slashes.

"Hello, boy," Bob Longtooth growled happily. "Looksss like the General couldn't sssave you after all."

As hard as he could, Nathan tried to come up with a response to that. Some defense of the General. But what could he say? Finally, he only said, as defiantly as possible, "He'll come after me."

From the hallway beyond the wooden doors, two dark shapes appeared. There came a loud snorting and Longtooth and Cragskull scrambled quickly aside. Now Nathan saw that there were not two but three dark shapes, and they ambled powerfully into the room, snorting and grunting, scraping the wooden floor with their knuckles.

The Simian Sisters. Nathan blinked twice. Stared.

"They . . . they shouldn't be here," he said, almost to himself, as he stared at the three identical mountain gorillas.

But even as he stared at them, he knew what was to come next, and he backed up even further as he stared out into the hallway. He stopped only when he backed into a tapestry-covered wall that allowed him to move no further.

The Jackal Lantern entered the room.

Nathan knew what the Jackal Lantern looked like. His father had read him the books and shown him the pictures. But really seeing him . . . Nathan didn't feel angry anymore. He tried to get mad, but he just couldn't. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, but he paid no attention. He was barely thinking, completely consumed with fighting his fear and the hot, burning sensation of impending tears that came to him now.

It moved like a huge dog, though its upper paws were more like hands than anything a dog might have. But for a dog, it was awfully mangy and lean, and he knew that it was really a jackal, which was like an African coyote or something.

The Jackal Lantern moved into the room and stood on its hind legs, arms crossed before it, to stare at Nathan as best it could stare. For the Jackal Lantern had no real head to speak of. Once upon a time, according to the stories, it had had a real head. But now it only had a pumpkin, face carved to look vicious and savage. And inside that pumpkin, orange light burned so brightly that it shone like a flashlight across the room.

It stared at Nathan, and the boy looked down to see that its face — its eyes and nose and mouth — was projected onto his shirt by that bright light. He was marked by it where he stood in the dimly lit room.

Then he couldn't look at it again. Nathan knew if he looked up one more time, if he opened his eyes, he would start crying and he didn't know if he'd be able to stop. So he didn't look. He just wrapped his arms around his body and shuddered and tried to pretend he was anywhere but there.

"You're unkind, young Nathan," the Jackal Lantern said. There was a weird kind of echo to his deep voice, as if it came not from his mouth, but from the flame inside that pumpkin head.

"The Simian Sisters have done nothing to you, boy, yet you insult them?" the Lantern persisted.

Nathan bit his lip. Then, at length, he repeated himself. "They shouldn't be here," he said. Then added, "my daddy told me about them, but he hasn't put them in any of the books yet."

At that, the Jackal Lantern laughed, and the motion of his head cast a flickering image of his face across the walls of the room as he moved with his mirth.

"If you weren't a child, and too young to account for your foolishness, I'd eat your dripping heart for my supper," the Lantern said cruelly, and then its voice became amused again. "But of course, supper's already laid out, is it not?"

Nathan tensed, thinking the Lantern would approach. It did not. Instead, it waved a hand at one of the Simians, and the gorilla fled the room instantly.

"You wouldn't understand the rest of it, boy, but I'll tell you this much, what your idiot father puts down in those books has nothing to do with what really happens here."

The Simian who'd left the room returned, and Nathan was astonished to see that she held a large stack of books in her hands. His father's books; copies of all the Strangewood books. He almost asked how they could be here, in Strangewood itself. But then he remembered that he was here. And Grumbler had stolen some of his clothes and brought them here.

At a nod from the Jackal Lantern, the Simian dropped the books into a stack in front of the fire. Ol' Jack, as some of them called him, dropped onto all fours and sauntered over to the pile of books. His pumpkin head hung just as a dog's head would from his shoulders, but where there should have been a hanging, lolling, panting tongue, there was only a burst of orange light from the flame inside his head.

The Jackal Lantern was the most frightening thing Nathan had ever seen. As the boy watched, it trotted to the books, lifted its leg, and let loose with a stream of steaming, acrid-smelling, yellow piss, which was soaked up instantly by the books. His father's books. All the love Nathan's father had ever given Strangewood.

The Lantern stood again on two legs and glanced over at Longtooth. "Bob," he said, "the boy seems to think the General will come for him. I want Our Boy to come, but the General could be a problem. I doubt he'll come, but to be safe, take that stupid pony and go down into the wood after him. If he gets to this fortress before you, don't bother coming back. And when you find the dwarf, tell him I want to see him as well."

With a nod and a short bow, Bob Longtooth withdrew. Then, at the Jackal Lantern's instructions, Cragskull and the Simians sat down to feast upon what was left on the table.

Backed against the wall, Nathan stared at the piss-soaked pile of books. Tears streamed down his face. Nathan was furious.

The Jackal Lantern had made him cry.

* * * * *

It was nearly eleven o'clock at night when Francesca Cavallaro's phone rang. She glanced up from reading through a client's manuscript — a book that she'd hoped to be able to sell when he'd told her about it but now that she was reading it had determined it was utter crap — and noted that it was the business line she kept for days she didn't want to go into the office.

"What the hell?" she muttered angrily.

Francesca had strict rules about business hours. She made it clear to her clients. Before ten or after six, they were on their own, with few exceptions, and then they were exceptions she made.

Still irked, she very purposefully ignored the ringing and went back to the manuscript. Though she didn't know why she was still reading. Only because she'd said she would, perhaps. Because she already knew there wasn't an editor in town who was going to buy this shit without a massive rewrite.

After the fourth ring, the machine took over. That was its job.

"You've reached the home office of Francesca Cavallaro. Leave a message, or try me downtown," it announced, and then beeped in the caller's ear.

"Francesca?" a female voice, choked with emotion, began. She didn't recognize the voice, even when it went on to say, "oh . . . oh God." But she looked up and stared at the machine again. There was a long pause, and then: "It's Emily Randall. Thomas is . . . he's in the hospital. In a coma and . . . I just needed to talk to someone close to him."

She lunged for the phone, picked up, and said "Emily? Emily? Hello?" But Emily had already hung up.

With a sick churning in her gut, Francesca hung up the phone. She looked over at the clock, thought about calling back before she realized that she had no idea where to call. Probably the hospital Nathan was in, whatever that was called.

"Oh, shit, Thomas," she whispered and brought a hand to her forehead.

Tomorrow was going to be a very long day.

* * * * *

It was dusk when Thomas returned to consciousness, but he could barely see the sky through the tangle of branches above his head. He had to crouch in order to move along the path before him. It was lined on either side with pricker bushes, and several times he snagged his shirt. Thorns scratched his face and scalp and he crouched down even further.

Then he knew.

Knew where he was.

Every other time he'd come here, he had been small enough to walk that path without harm. The Scratchy Path. Even as a grown man, when he'd come here, he would be a boy again. The Boy.

It felt so different. The air on his skin, the night around him, all felt so unreal. Not like a dream, but like the few times he'd pulled all-nighters in college, when he was up so much later than everyone else that the world had stopped revolving except for him and whatever else was out there prowling about. Even the air was different those long nights. It wasn't surreal, but hyper-real.

He felt like he was nine years old again, and everything was new and dangerous and incredible. It was an adventure.

But this adventure wasn't for him. The only thing that mattered now was Nathan.

So when Thomas finally emerged from the Scratchy Path to stand on the hard packed dirt of the Winding Way, with Strangewood stretching out on all sides, he did not feel at all that he had come to a new and frightening place. Rather, Thomas Randall felt as though he had come home, to the places he had played as a boy, to find that the tree still had his initials carved in it, and nobody had ever torn down the treefort he and Lainey Levenson had built at the age of eleven.

He had returned to the imagination of his boyhood. It was all familiar to him.

And it had stolen his son.

He turned to stride north on the Winding Way, not quite sure where to begin, though possessed of a confidence he would never have imagined. But then Thomas froze as he saw Grumbler's little stone and wood and thatched-roof cottage, and the lake beyond it.

The cottage had been burned to the ground, and the blackened timbers were still smoldering. The stones had tumbled and only the little chimney still stood tall and proper.

Beyond it, the lake was black and stagnant, and silver bellied fish lay dead on the flat, motionless water.

Beneath the orange stars of Strangewood, Thomas Randall felt his imagination crumble, his nostalgia turn to nausea, and his sense of strength and confidence melt into despair.

He looked north along the Winding Way. Then south. And then he realized he had no idea how to begin, now that he was here, in a world that should have been almost a part of him and was instead a foreign territory where friends were enemies and innocence killed, where the imaginary friends of his dreams wanted his blood and the blood of his son.

Frozen, directionless, Thomas Randall screamed his son's name and received no answer.

CHAPTER 12

With the back of his skull resting uncomfortably against the headboard, Joe Hayes struggled to keep his eyes open. In the darkness of his cluttered bedroom, he lay beneath a single pale blue sheet and peered at the black-and-white images flickering on screen. He should have been asleep hours ago — he had an 8:50 class to teach in the morning — but he'd turned on AMC to find a marathon of Basil Rathbone Sherlock Holmes films, and that had been that.

In the wan light of the set, the black and white film draining all color from the room, as if Joe's own world had been sucked into the world of 1930s Hollywood, he finally began to succumb to the incessant demands of his body. His eyelids fluttered one final time, and then he was drifting, head still resting at an angle that would give him a hell of a stiff neck in the morning.

On television, Rathbone and Nigel Bruce droned on. The Hound of the Baskervilles bayed. Somewhere, someone rapped at a wooden door. Then pounded. Loudly.

Asleep, Joe flinched. Wherever his sleeping mind had gone, a part of his subconscious was irked by this noise. He ought to have turned the television off and nestled more comfortably in his bed. Some part of him was aware of this, and he slid down further under the single sheet and turned onto his side, holding his two pillows under his head in a passionate embrace.

Sleep.

Watson or Lestrade or someone pounded on a door again.

Holmes rang the doorbell.

Joe's eyes snapped open.

The doorbell rang again, and he glanced over at the alarm clock, already afraid of what he would find when he opened the door. It was after two o'clock in the morning. Someone knocks on your door in the middle of the night, he reasoned, it's never good news. He slipped on a pair of dark green gym shorts and moved quickly out into the hallway.

The apartment was above Trachtenberg's Antiques on the steep hill of Main Street that led down toward the Hudson. It was a bitch to pedal his bike up that hill, but Joe had fallen in love with the apartment right away. The antique shop was on the first floor, and Joe had the upper two. The second floor had a living room, dining room and kitchen, all good-sized rooms with beautifully restored woodwork. The top floor had two bedrooms and a bathroom, and plenty of closet space, which had been added when the recent renovations had taken place.

It was perfect for a bachelor. Better than perfect, and probably more than he ought to have spent on an apartment for just one person. But the second bedroom made a wonderful office, and he had plenty of room to entertain.

He hadn't done much entertaining since he met Emily.

As he moved clumsily, still half-asleep, down the narrow stairs to the apartment's street-level door, Joe began to finally come fully awake. Thoughts of Emily had shaken the last sleep from his mind, and when he pulled the door open to find her standing there, he was not at all surprised.

It had started to rain. Emily wore burgundy shorts and a dark green T-shirt, and it was obvious she'd pulled them on without much planning. Her blonde hair was damp from the rain, and several strands were plastered across her left cheek, a stripe across her eye and face. A tiny drop of rainwater hung from her nose.

Joe started to open his mouth, to lift his hand to pull her in. As if this were all the reaction she had been waiting for, Emily seemed to fall forward into his arms, crossing the threshold and tumbling into his embrace.

"I tried to go to sleep," she said, her voice choked with tears she had cried and tears that were yet to come. "I couldn't think of anywhere else to go. I . . . I don't want to be alone. I'm sorry."

"Ssshhh," Joe whispered in her ear as he brushed the damp hair away from her face. He kissed the top of her head and then held her to him, using the strength in his arms and the shield of his body to give her warmth and stability, a safe haven she had obviously been seeking quite desperately.

While he held Emily's left bicep, Joe reached out and shut the door, closing out the night and the rain. He turned the lock, sliding the deadbolt home, and then he wrapped his arms around Emily again, hugged her tight, then stepped back slightly and met her pleading eyes.

"Let's go upstairs," he said and gently propelled her in that direction. She plodded up the stairs as if she were about to collapse, and he feared it was true.

In the living room, he sat with her, touched her cheek, and asked the question. "What's happened?"

As Emily spoke, her voice was choked with sobs and she shook her head in despair and surrender time and again. Her hands waved wildly, as though she were throwing her fate to the winds. In a way, she was. Joe's heart broke as he listened to her tale, how she found Thomas, the emotions that had ravaged her, and how her ex-husband now lay in a hospital bed only a few floors away from their son.

She paused. Her red, moist eyes searched his own. "I . . . I didn't want to come here," she confessed. "I wasn't sure you'd understand. I'm sorry if I . . ."

"Would you stop with the sorries," he said, and smiled in sympathy. "I'm the one who's sorry. Sorry that I wasn't as understanding before as I might have been. If I'd been more of a grown up about everything, maybe you would have come here first instead of going home to sleep."

Emily rolled her eyes. "I couldn't sleep. Not in that house. Too many ghosts there, now."

Suddenly, her eyes went wide and a look of horror crossed her face. "I didn't mean it like that," she said quickly. "I mean, not ghosts, but . . ."

Overcome by her despair, Joe pulled her to him again and held her in a tight embrace. Emily trailed off midsentence and fell silent. And they sat like that, on the couch, holding one another in silence, for almost twenty minutes.

"The only thing you can do is leave it to the doctors now," Joe told her, his words sounding slightly hollow, even to himself. "That's what they do. You aren't responsible for whatever psychosis Thomas has, and there isn't anything you could have done to stop him doing what he did."

Emily met his gaze, nodded resolutely, and smiled, just a bit.

"I want to be back at the hospital early tomorrow morning. I have to talk to Nathan's doctors, and Thomas's as well. Plus I . . ."

"You need to call your lawyer," Joe finished for her.

As if her resolve were the flimsiest of masks, Emily's face crumbled at that. She nodded, even as the tears sprang once more to her eyes, rolling down her cheeks.

"I don't want to do it, but he's . . . until I know he's okay, I can't be tied by whatever his wishes are for Nathan. I . . . Nathan needs me more than ever, now. His father isn't doing him any fucking good!"

She said this last with such vehemence that Joe blinked a moment, but then when he saw the pain in her eyes, he understood.

From Emily's point of view, Thomas had abandoned her, left her all the responsibility for Nathan, and now for him as well.

"Does Thomas have any family that you should call?" Joe asked.

Emily nodded, wiping her eyes. "His sister, Tricia, lives in California. I called her. But she has a family of her own. If Thomas isn't in any immediate danger . . ."

"Damn, that's cold," Joe said softly.

"They've never been much of a family," Emily said, as if that explained everything. Then she shuddered. "I don't know if I can handle this."

"You will. You can. You just do what you have to," Joe reassured her. "Meanwhile, I'll be backing you up all the way."

He kissed her head again, and this time, Emily lifted her mouth to meet his, and their lips met. There was love and tenderness there, but also a weird sense of relief. He would get her through this. Somehow.

Together, they started up the steps toward the bedroom. At the top of the stairs, they turned into his room, where only the dim light of the television cast any illumination. Emily reached for the button of her shorts, undid it, and slid them down over her calves to her ankles, then stepped out of them. She looked ethereal in the flickering light, a goddess of the silver screen come to three dimensional life.

But when she put her arms around her body, hugging herself, the spell was broken. No illusions remained. Only the pain.

"I just . . . I just need to sleep with you, Joe. To have you just hold me. Is that all right?"

He held out a hand to her. "How could it not be?" he asked.

They crawled into the bed together and she curled into him spoon style. He lay a leg across hers, and an arm across her abdomen, and it was in that position that he drifted off to sleep once more.

When he woke a short time later, her hand was on him, drawing him up to a state of arousal before he was truly awake. For barely a moment, he caught sight of her face, and the desperation and pain there, and he opened his mouth to speak but she stopped him with a kiss of passion and hunger. Fervor. Fever.

She kissed his neck, and she whispered to him. "I'm so lost," she confessed. "I don't know who I'm supposed to be anymore. What I should feel or who I should love."

Again, he started to speak, but he stopped when she took his hand and laid it against her naked thigh, urging him toward her.

"It's not going to go away, Joe," she said with certainty. "Not soon. I just . . .”

Her face came up, and she stared into his eyes, and he saw the truth of her words there. She was lost.

"I just need to know, just for tonight, who I am. Where I am. Find me. Remind me of Emily."

He made slow and sweet and gentle love to her, and pretended not to notice her tears. After Emily had fallen asleep, Joe stayed awake watching over her, stroking her hair, and falling ever more deeply in love.

* * * * *

The echo of Thomas's scream had yet to fade entirely when he heard the tinny bong of a bell just off the side of the path. He spun quickly, staring at the burned out remains of what had once been Grumbler's cottage. What little timber remained on the ground was charred and warped, and even the bricks were burnt black.

Behind the chimney, something moved, and Thomas's eyes widened as he heard the noise of the bell again.

Amazed, he narrowed his eyes. Then, almost unable to believe he was speaking the words, he opened his mouth and with a choked voice called, "Tinklebum, come out of there."

Somewhere deep within, Thomas knew what would happen next. But the man he was, the being that had eclipsed the boy who had first come to Strangewood all those years ago . . . he just stared. Eyes wide, his mouth opened just a bit as the diminutive bell-shaped man stepped out from behind the chimney. He was bald and his skin was a light blue, smooth as fine china. A lavender stripe ran around his body about chest high, and another just above where his legs began. He was stooped slightly, almost like a hunchback, and though his chest and belly were rather flat, his back belled out as though he were a firefly or a wasp. And when he began to move toward Thomas, the clapper inside — the heart of any bell-bottom — clanged happily and noisily from side to side.

"Tinklebum?" Thomas whispered, mind whirling.

Strangewood was real, of course. He'd always known that, ever since his first visit. But real knowledge fades over time, just as wounds heal. It had been a knowledge, and a truth, that he had kept to himself — to prevent accusations of insanity — for so long that there had been whole weeks, perhaps even months, that had gone by where the truth had escaped him. Periods where the knowledge of Strangewood's reality had simply slipped his mind. Eventually, he'd forgotten it altogether.

As a boy, he had known with great certainty that Santa Claus was real. And elves. Vampires. Everlasting love. These things he had taken on faith, until that faith was shattered. But they were things he had never seen. Strangewood was something else entirely. He had been there. Seen it. Smelled it. Touched it. It had not been as simply dismissed as the myths of childhood. And yet, over time, even reality could blur so that it was remembered only as a dream.

Thomas blinked. With wonder in his eyes and his heart, he stared at Mr. Tinklebum, and he could not help but smile.

The expression on the little bell-bottom's blue face was pure bliss. "Our Boy!" he cried. "It's true. It's really true! You've come back!"

Mr. Tinklebum trotted toward him, bell swaying from side to side, the noise echoing along the Winding Way and, suddenly, Thomas was afraid. Not of Tinklebum necessarily, but of Strangewood. Granted, he had not been here — really been here, as something other than a dream — since he was a boy. But this was not the Strangewood he remembered. And it most certainly was not the Strangewood he had "created" for his books.

He stared at the happy little bell-bottom. Thomas wanted his heart to soar with that same joy, the joy of being reunited with a part of him he had left behind so long ago. Even in the many dreams he had drawn on over the years, the times he had visited Strangewood, asleep or awake, it had never seemed this real. Not since that first time.

He stared at Tinklebum and recalled that when Nathan first began to make his wild claims, to voice his fears about Strangewood, he had said that Grumbler and Feathertop had murdered Crabapple, his own imaginary friend.

For the first time since the madness had begun, it occurred to him that perhaps they had. Fear and rage rose up inside Thomas Randall, and now his senses seemed to kick into overdrive. Nothing in this place was safe. Not anymore. Nothing could be trusted.

When Mr. Tinklebum reached Thomas, he threw his hands up like a child waiting to be lifted high in the air and tossed into space as though he were flying. Thomas only stared at him.

The smile drained slowly from Tinklebum's pale blue features.

"Where's my boy?" Thomas asked suspiciously. "Where's Nathan?"

"We can help you find him," Tinklebum said and nodded vigorously, causing the clapper to clang within him. "Come, Our Boy, we don't have much time."

Tinklebum looked saddened now, but pleased to be of service. Thomas didn't, or rather, he couldn't, believe. Instead, he reached out and grabbed Tinklebum around what ought to have been called his neck and hefted him off the ground. Tinklebum's tiny arms beat weakly at Thomas's hands.

"Our Boy!" the bell-bottom screamed in terror. "You . . . you can't hurt us!"

"Of course I can!" Thomas snapped.

Inside, his heart ached horribly. He had no idea how he could do such a thing, and to a creature he had always thought of as so gentle, so kind.

"I can't trust you!" Thomas roared. "I can't trust any of you. I just want Nathan back, that's all that matters."

In Thomas's hands, Tinklebum seemed to slump, stung by his words. "You mean we don't matter. We, the forgotten ones, don't matter." There was a long pause, and Thomas began to feel horrible about the way he had handled Tinklebum. Until the bell-bottom glanced up at him with rage in his eyes.

"Maybe the Jackal Lantern was right, Our Boy," Tinklebum said slowly. "You made it like this. You ruined it all and left us here. It's all ruined now because you just didn't pay attention. But you came back for your child, didn't you? Maybe the Lantern was right."

This last he said weakly, sadly, and the fury had gone out of his eyes, to be replaced by a terrible, weighty sadness. The little blue and gold flecks in the deep blue eyes began to redden, and Thomas thought Tinklebum was going to cry. His lip quivered, and his eyes darted around as if he wanted to look anywhere but at Thomas.

He set the bell-bottom down. Knelt on the dirt path beside him, his own face silently pleading for forgiveness. "I'm sorry, Tinklebum," he said, as kindly as he was able. "I just . . . I've got to find Nathan. Please, I just want him home safely. Then . . . if I'm responsible for what's happened here, I promise you I will do everything I can to make things right again."

Almost like a wet dog drying off, Tinklebum began to shake his entire body with excitement. His smile was wide and infectious, and his body tolled with the happiest sound Thomas had heard him make yet.

"Our Boy! Our Boy! You really are back! I know you can do it, I know you can! You can fix it! Of course we will help you and when the child is gone back to the other place, you will stay here with us and Strangewood will be safe and beautiful again."

That was the moment when Thomas began to wonder about Tinklebum's sanity, which was why he did not correct the bell-bottom's assumption of the path things would take in the future. For the moment, all that mattered was saving Nathan. Then he would do what he could to save Strangewood, whatever that might be.

He looked away from Tinklebum's gleaming grin and glanced across the path again. The burned out cottage, the lake, the Winding Way leading out into a wondrous world beyond. While he had been talking with Tinklebum, the dark had crept in and night had truly fallen. Now the orange stars gleamed above, and Thomas realized he was already tired. He needed rest.

But there would be no rest yet. Not for a time. Not unless he absolutely had to.

He frowned and turned back to Tinklebum. "Where are all the others?" he asked, realizing even as he did so that he had thus far learned nothing from the bell-bottom, save for the fact that the Jackal Lantern was among his enemies.

"Others?" Tinklebum asked.

Then he began to shake a bit, as if he were shivering from the cold. But it was quite warm in the wood that night.

"Tinklebum?" Thomas asked.

But Tinklebum wasn't answering. He shivered, staring off into the orange-starred sky, and Thomas had the odd idea that somehow he was being electrocuted. It was the way he stood there, almost frozen, quivering.

A low growl came from behind Thomas. Then the words. "Been like that ever since his village burned. Fiddlestick wanted to leave him behind, but I wouldn't let him."

Thomas turned around and stared up, up, and up into the snout and tiny, soft eyes of Brownie the Grizzly. His paws were huge, his teeth like daggers, but Thomas wasn't frightened at all. Instantly, he trusted Brownie. Perhaps, he thought, his anxiety around Tinklebum had to do with the bell-bottom's questionable sanity. And his own.

Brownie was another story.

Just as he had done when he was eight years old, Thomas folded himself in the soft, moist furry embrace of the Grizzly, and he felt safe. He whispered the bear's name, and Brownie patted his back, as he'd done all those times, all those nights when Thomas had cried.

"Our Boy," Brownie whispered. "We will find Nathan. You are not alone, here. You'd be surprised to learn who has sided with you."

That stopped Thomas a moment. He felt the bear's arms tighten around him, and the breath went out of him just a little. Then he pushed away from the bear, stared up at him, back at the mad little bell, and then Thomas Randall nodded.

He was in Strangewood. They had his son, his Nathan, but he was not powerless here. Strangewood was not really his creation, but this Strangewood . . . this he had created. All he had done had gone to shape it, to carve it. His memories had changed it, his words had ordered it. Yes, and left alone it had begun to fall back into chaos, back into its own law, its own awareness.

But he knew this place. And he knew all of them. There was power in that, and Thomas was determined to use that power against the Jackal Lantern. He would need it.

"The Forest Rangers," he said grimly. "With whom do they side?"

Brownie growled low in his chest. Tinklebum actually chuckled a bit, and his clapper bonged twice.

"The Rangers have not acted to help either side, as far as I know," Brownie said, his tone revealing his displeasure.

"No. Broadbough came to me, in my own world, and warned me," Thomas admitted. "If their captain has allied himself with me, the Rangers must do the same."

"What if they refuse?" Mr. Tinklebum asked, a nervous frown of concern on his face.

"Then I'll burn them down," Thomas replied.

The Grizzly actually shivered.

Thomas turned and began to walk south, and the others fell into step beside him.

"I don't think it's a good idea to take Tinklebum through what remains of his village," Brownie said quietly, glancing down at the bell-bottom who ding-donged happily along far below them.

"We won't be going that far," Thomas replied.

The bear stared at him, but Thomas said nothing more.

* * * * *

The fire burned blue.

That was the first clue the Peanut Butter General had that things were not quite right. With Fiddlestick sitting atop his shoulder, the General had forged tirelessly on through the oldest part of the wood. The trees were a bit further apart and much taller and thicker than elsewhere. Some were as broad across as four men shoulder to shoulder, and taller than even the General's eyes could see, in spite of the glow from the orange stars.

They had passed the time mostly in silence, this strange pair of travelers. What little they had in common stemmed from their concerns for the boy, Nathan, and for Strangewood itself. And their journey. The journey was all that mattered now. That, and the blood that must flow at journey's end.

Wildlife had been scarce, save for various night birds and a run-in with Fox Trot. Though the General and Fox Trot had worked together several times to thwart the best intentions of The Boy and those who lived in the wood nearby Grumbler's cottage, the General had never trusted him. Nor did he trust the red furred one now.

Still, Fox Trot was no friend to the Jackal Lantern and would do nothing that did not benefit him directly. In the present conflict, the General was certain the four-legged beast could be counted to stay out of things all together. In truth, he suspected that having seen them in the forest, and realizing that a battle was likely due, Fox Trot would have hidden himself away somewhere until the worst was over.

Clever and mischievous, yes, but the fox was a coward.

They had journeyed on, after that brief meeting, and did not chance upon any more fellow travelers. The Orange Pealers were silent, as the General had commanded, and they moved in and out of the trees to either side. After a time, the General saw them so infrequently that he'd nearly forgotten they were there.

The night had come, and as the darkness crept from tree to tree, and branch to branch, silence swept across Strangewood. Fox Trot, it seemed, wasn't the only one who had hidden himself away.

"Fiddlestick?" the General had asked, the first time in an hour that he had broken the silence. "Why do you do this?"

The dragon was unsettled, and fluttered its musical wings for the first time in long, long minutes, causing the General to shush him again. But Fiddlestick craned his long, scale-encrusted neck out so that he could stared into the General's peanut butter webbed eyes.

"What do you mean?" the little dragon had asked.

The General had nodded, realizing how inadequate the phrasing had been. "If the Lantern gets hold of you — or, for that matter, if Longtooth or Cragskull get their hands on you — they'll kill you, my orange-bellied friend. Do you understand that? You'll be dead?"

Fiddlestick's head sank lower, and he had glared at the General through slitted eyes, only inches from the General's face. He had snorted and fire licked out of his nostrils and scorched his nose.

"My parents are dead, aren't they?" the dragon asked.

The Peanut Butter General raised his eyebrows at that, though no one who saw him would have recognized the expression. Covered as he was. He looked back at the dragon. So many questions came into his mind, but instead of asking a single one of them, he had merely nodded slowly and said, "Yes, of course."

"Love," Fiddlestick had said a moment later. "I'm here for the love of Our Boy, and of his son, and of Strangewood. I can't think of any other reason."

The dragon had leaned in so close that the heat from its nostrils seemed to melt the peanut butter on the General's nose.

"What I'd like to know, General, is why you're here."

"I don't have a choice," the General had replied. "Which, I believe, makes you the more courageous." Then he stared more closely at the dragon for a long moment before looking away, as if to indicate that his next question meant absolutely nothing.

But the Peanut Butter General was not one for idle chatter.

"Let me ask you, Fiddlestick," he had begun. "Do you recall a time before I came? A time when there was no Peanut Butter General?"

"You ask the strangest questions," the dragon had replied.

After that, they had fallen into silence once more. Even the wood was quiet. They had walked on along through the trees. At times it would seem that they had come upon a path, but soon it would turn out to be nothing more than the lay of the land. Once they came to a tiny stream, a tributary of the Up-River, apparently, for it flowed up the steep wall of a ravine and then on away into the wood.

Then, moments later, the fire. Blue, flickering light that cast ghostly shadows through the trees. And in the branches above them, the wood all around, things moved; and the General didn't think it was the Orange Pealers. Wings fluttered like moths swarming to the glass around a torch lamp. Leaves rustled. The General felt Fiddlestick begin to stir on his shoulder, and he whispered harshly to the dragon to be still.

Ahead, perhaps eight yards away, the wood opened into a clearing. The blaze was there, blue and white and crackling with destructive hunger. Beyond the clearing, on its far edge, stood the largest tree the Peanut Butter General had ever seen. But he had only been in this part of Strangewood once before, and never through this particular clearing.

This was to be avoided.

"The fire," Fiddlestick whispered suddenly, pointing one of his thin arms into the circle. "It's stones. They're burning stones."

The General saw that it was true. In the presence of all this wood, whatever had camped here had made a fire of stones. How this had been done, the General did not know. But he did not doubt that it could be done, for he was seeing it even now.

"We should turn back," the dragon suggested.

Out of the corner of his eye, the General saw the way Fiddlestick's neck was drawn back, and he could feel the way the dragon was tensed to flee. Calmly, the General moved his right hand to the pommel of his sword and spoke to the dragon without turning.

"We go forward," he said. "It is the only way for us now. If you try to flee, I'll cut out your flaming heart myself."

Fiddlestick said nothing after that. With the dragon on his shoulder, the General moved cautiously toward the clearing. Wings beating, something fluttered out of the branches above them and darted toward the General's face. He ducked, put up a hand to defend himself, and several others appeared and instantly raced toward his face.

"Back!" the General snapped, and struck out. He connected with something, and heard it crash through some leaves and plummet to the forest floor.

Another came at him, and now the General saw it clearly. Saw it, even as Fiddlestick named it.

"Wood nymphs!" the dragon snarled.

And they were. Tiny fairy creatures, with bodies made of wood and bark and wings of leaves. Their faces were savage and angry lights burned in their eyes.

Many of them were covered with orange pulp, and the scent of it was strong on them. The General's eyes went wide with horror. These creatures had been stalking them, flanking them, and had murdered the Orange Pealers in silence. Not one of them had so much as screamed.

"General, do you smell . . .?" Fiddlestick began.

"They're all dead," the General replied grimly.

Fire spurted from the dragon's nostrils.

The wood nymphs then swarmed in, and the General drew his sword from its scabbard with a sticky tug. The peanut butter whipped away from the gleaming blade and he slashed in front of him. The blade connected, hacking through wood. The peanut butter on his shoulder slipped away, just as he had promised, and Fiddlestick took flight, the music of his wings cutting through the dark, pulsing with the flickering of the blue flame up ahead.

As he spun to face another onslaught, the Peanut Butter General moved backward, his body naturally seeking a wider space from which to defend himself, he stepped into the clearing.

The wood nymphs did not follow.

They hovered just outside the clearing, red, ugly light flashing in their eyes as they glared at him for a moment, then turned to go back and help their comrades-at-arms to attack Fiddlestick.

"Dragon, to me now!" the General cried. "They're afraid of this place!"

Instantly, Fiddlestick moved. He had heard the General, and with the tinkle of wind chimes, he shot up through the branches. Several of the wood nymphs held on to his wings, but he brushed them off on the trees before soaring out over the clearing. Moments later, he settled down not far from the Peanut Butter General's feet.

Ten feet from the burning stones.

All around the clearing, the wood nymphs hovered. For all intents and purposes, they were trapped.

"Vicious creatures," the General observed.

"Very," Fiddlestick agreed. "But what I'd like to know is, for such horrid little things, what fear would this clearing hold?"

They stared at one another then, soldier and dragon, and the General felt a queer dread creep over him. He stared once more at the burning stones, and then looked across the clearing toward the enormous tree. Fiddlestick also turned to stare at the tree.

"That's her, isn't it?" the dragon asked.

"I believe so," the General replied.

Together, they moved slowly across the clearing and closer to the enormous tree. With a last glance at one the dragon, the General knelt on the ground before it.

"Queen of the Wood," he said quietly, with a deep and abiding respect. "Please hear our imploring voices. A boy is in trouble, a victim of the Jackal Lantern. But he is more than merely a boy. And if he dies, all of Strangewood may die as well."

As if expecting some sort of response, the General looked up at the motionless, expressionless tree. At his side, Fiddlestick seemed to also be looking to it for answers. After several minutes had passed, and the General had his fill of being foolish, he rose from his knees.

"Do you always pray to trees?" a voice asked.

A very feminine voice, not at all like the General had imagined a tree's voice would sound. He glanced up, to where he thought the voice had come from, and sure enough, there she was.

On the largest of the tree's lower limbs, a young woman sat, dangling her legs beneath her. She was nude, though this condition, the General thought, seemed reasonable enough when one considered that she was made entirely of wood. Even as he met her startling white eyes, shining as the stars if the stars themselves were white, the General knew she was not through with them.

With a tiny shove, the Queen of the Wood dropped down from the tree and onto the hard earth of the clearing. He saw her more clearly now, in the flickering of the stone fire. Long whips of willow branch hung down her back, and he had the distinct impression this was meant to be hair. Her skin was covered with a tender bark, young and perfect, with whorls and knots that were, in themselves, alluring. Her face seemed somewhat green, as though it were spring, perhaps.

He found her quite beautiful.

"You blaspheme, coming here, you know," she said pleasantly enough. "Even entering this clearing would have condemned you. But you insult me, then, with the tale of a young boy in danger. A boy whose life would put the wood itself in danger."

Delicate branch fingers traced over the seductive form of her body, and then those branch fingers began to grow, and move. They were sharper now. The willow branches that he'd thought were only hair seemed to sway. Massive thorns began to burst all over her body like blisters.

"Nothing happens in this wood I am unaware of. If the Jackal Lantern succeeds or fails, it means nothing to me. But I won't have disrespect," the Queen of the Wood declared.

"You're mad," Fiddlestick told her, his wings already playing a discordant tune. "If the Lantern isn't stopped, we may not have anything left. We may not even exist!"

"I am Queen of the Wood!" she proclaimed. "I shall always exist. But you . . . both of you shall die for your affront."

Wooden body rippling with massive thorns, she moved toward the General. He held his sword at the ready, and beyond the circle, the wood nymphs chittered excitedly.

"For Nathan," the General whispered to himself.

But even over the music, Fiddlestick heard him. "For Nathan," the dragon repeated. "For Strangewood."

* * * * *

On Thursday morning, Emily woke before the sun, and could not, no matter how hard she tried, get back to sleep. She had never slept at Joe's before, and the oddness of it, the weird freedom that came from not having anyone to report in to, only made her think more despairingly of Nathan and Thomas.

But then she watched Joe sleep. The gentle rise and fall of his chest and the movement of his eyes beneath the lids. He was dreaming.

"Dream of me," she whispered and kissed his eyes before pulling on a thick cotton robe of Joe's and heading down to the kitchen.

She made coffee and kept it strong, adding only a dab of milk. It was still dark out, but there was just the hint of light on the horizon, and the sky had taken on a surreal, two-dimensional quality that fascinated her. After wandering his living room, checking the titles in his CD collection, and looking over the volumes on a tall bookshelf, she resolved to go back upstairs and crawl into bed with Joe.

She was naked beneath the robe. If he woke, all the better. If he did not, she would be just as pleased to snuggle close to him, feel his warmth. Even with the coffee, it was possible that she might fall back to sleep once more.

When she walked back into the bedroom, she slipped off the robe, then hesitated. Fascinated, still, by this time of day, when the light was slowly overcoming the dark, Emily went to the window and peered out. There was little chance that she might be seen, but she felt a bit daring anyway. A naked woman standing framed in a window. There was something a bit thrilling about that.

She glanced at the sky, at the fading white stars and the way the moon looked like a ghost now that a bit of blue had begun to infect the black of night. She scanned the treeline behind the apartment, and then looked at the roofs and windows of the houses behind Joe's building, at windows that might also hold people daring the morning to catch them unaware at the window.

A horrible burden rested on Emily's shoulders. Not merely one — many. Foremost among them was the welfare of her son, and it was that priority that would drive her today. She had a great deal to do, and it was going to get taken care of, come hell or high water.

But for the moment, the peace of dawn.

Birds had begun to sing while she was making the coffee. Now they were positively a chorus of the morning. Several sparrows squawked and took off from the branches of an oak tree behind the apartment, and Emily watched them go with a heart full of both pain and joy. Her eyes rested on the tree, on its branches, and the way the leaves seemed to move even without the breeze.

On the dark mass in among the branches.

On the eyes, staring at her through the leaves.

Feral eyes. A face thick with beard. Or fur.

With a shout of surprise and fear, Emily backed away until her calves hit the bed and she sat down hard on the mattress, even as Joe flipped back the covers to come to her side.

"Em, my God, what's . . ."

"Out there!" she snapped, and her mind began to race. "He was in the tree, down there. Watching me. Watching this room, Joe!"

She saw the doubt begin to cloud his gaze, and she grew angry.

"Damn it, Joe, down there!" she barked and pulled him to the window to point down at the tree where she had seen the face. The eyes.

The watcher was gone.

"He was there," Emily said.

"Listen, Em," Joe began. "Maybe you're just . . ." He stopped there. The look in her eyes, she knew, was enough to tell him not to go on.

"Look, we can call the cops if you want," Joe finally added. "But don't get carried away."

Too late, she thought. For Emily had already been carried away, borne aloft by crazy suspicions and snatches of paranoia from a man who'd just tried to kill himself. Nathan had seen someone in Thomas's yard. Thomas believed there was a stalker. Now Nathan and Thomas were both in the hospital, and while the doctors could hazard a guess as to the cause of their initial trouble, their lack of any sign of recovery was baffling even the most knowledgeable or arrogant of doctors.

"He was there," Emily insisted, even as Joe picked up the phone to dial the police.

And, though her fear for Nathan and Thomas was extraordinary and all-consuming, Emily could not help one, single moment of concern for one other. Herself.

If there was a hunter out there, she had just become the target.

CHAPTER 13

Under a heavy, musty blanket, Nathan slept fitfully. He had cried a lot before finally drifting off to sleep. Now he lay on the hard mattress, his round little boy belly poking out between his rucked up T-shirt and the only pair of underwear he had. He had almost taken them off and slept naked, but the blanket was dirty and smelly and it grossed him out. He'd wished he didn't need it, but it was too cold not to use it.

His right foot poked out from under the blanket, bare and round and still baby soft and pink. Pink, but growing pale, and perhaps even a bit gray, for Nathan did not feel well. Not well at all. Even in his sleep, he sniffled and coughed a bit, throat constricted around a thick gob of phlegm that had built up as he snored on.

In his sleep, Nathan dreamed of home. His thoughts before finally slipping into the arms of the sandman had been of his bedroom in his house. Not Daddy's house, though he had a room there, too, that he liked a lot. But it wasn't his real room. He dreamed of his room at home, and of his parents when they used to smile at each other. It wasn't far enough in the past that Nathan had forgotten that. He remembered those smiles, remembered causing them.

The dream Nathan was in bed as well, but not sleeping. Instead, he was arguing about sleep, claiming to be exempt from the laws of the sandman that his mother so exhaustively detailed. She lay next to him on one side of the bed, stroking his hair and trying not to smile so Nathan would know she was serious. All Nathan wanted was that smile, and he worked hard until he got it.

In the dream, his father was on the other side of him, which was impossible since his bed was so small. But it was a dream. And in the dream, his Daddy was singing to him, soft and low the way he always did when Nathan had trouble falling asleep. There were a lot of songs Daddy sang to him, but in the dream, Nathan could only hear one of them. "Over the Rainbow," the song Dorothy sings in The Wizard of Oz during the black-and-white boring stuff.

Nathan loved that movie. Especially the winged monkeys. He had been so disappointed to learn that there weren't really monkeys with wings.

His Dad always sang to him when he couldn't sleep.

Or when he was sick.

In his sleep, Nathan coughed harshly, loosening up a string of dark brown phlegm that rattled in his throat, and the dream ended.

Nathan woke with a small start. His eyes were open a moment before he recognized his surroundings. The smell of the dingy blanket, the cold wind whipping against the battlements of the fortress. The dank, dark menace of the stone walls around him. He felt and heard and saw it all, and once again, he could barely believe that it was real. He wasn't supposed to be here.

Again, he coughed, this time choking a gob of phlegm up the back of his throat and into his mouth. Weak, he lifted his head and spat it onto the stone floor in the corner of the room.

Nathan took a long breath, and then he felt his face crumble. His lower lip quivered, pouted. His eyes narrowed, brows coming together as though he were angry. The tears sprang up without preamble, and the pouting lips opened, plastered back against the teeth as he finally let loose with the roaring sob of fear and hate and loneliness that had been building within him since he'd first woken in Strangewood.

Wracking sobs overtook him. There was a moment when he recalled his silent promise to himself from earlier — a promise not to cry. But Nathan was five and a half years old, and such things did not bother him overmuch. He whimpered and coughed and wept, and used the stinky blanket to wipe his eyes and his running nose because it was all he had.

A sudden chill swept over his body and he shuddered beneath the blanket and began to cough again. His throat ached. When the chill had gone, he found, to his surprise, that he felt warm.

After the tears had subsided, Nathan closed his eyes and tried to fall back to sleep. He pulled his legs up tightly so that he was in a little ball under the blanket. Soon, he was drifting again. He was afraid, but he wanted to sleep. It was the only way to get away from the fear, and from his cough, and from Strangewood.

Then, just before he might have fallen asleep yet again, he heard the tread of thick paws, and the click of sharp claws on the stone floor of his cell. Nathan's eyes snapped open again, but he didn't dare move. On the wall, he saw the flickering light cast by the eerie glow inside the Jackal Lantern's pumpkin head. It shone on the wall, shadows where old Jack's eyes and nose and mouth would be, but twisted all out of proportion. If possible, it was even more horrible than the Lantern's true face.

"I know you're awake, boy," the Lantern said, its voice crackling like dry logs in the fireplace.

Nathan said nothing. He didn't want to look at the thing. Couldn't look at it. When the leathery pads of a paw touched the exposed flesh of his lower back, Nathan flinched. Three sharp claws pricked Nathan's skin, and he froze. One of them pressed into his flesh, punctured, drew blood.

"Leave me alone!" Nathan screamed, hysteria overcoming his fear. "Leave me alone or my daddy will kill you!"

Then he bit his lip, his heart racing madly as he waited for the Jackal Lantern to scratch him, to kill him. Part of him was past caring, too terrified to survive the fear one second longer.

He felt the hot, wet breath of old Jack as the mangy pumpkin-headed mongrel moved closer to him. He could hear the ragged breathing of the Lantern and feel the heat of that weird fire against the back of his neck. Nathan closed his eyes tightly, the silence too much. He just wanted to go home. Home to his bed and his spaceships and his videotapes and the yellow tractor that he rode for hours in his mother's driveway.

"Don't ever ignore me," the Jackal Lantern whispered, and a thick rivulet of hot drool slipped down to land at the nape of Nathan's neck.

Nathan thought he was going to puke. Instead, he started coughing again, hacking up dark phlegm. He still refused to open his eyes.

"I only came up here to tell you that your father is on his way."

With a start, Nathan opened his eyes. He didn't turn to face the Lantern, but stared at the wall in astonishment. Hope surged up in his heart.

"It may take a while," the Lantern added. "But he is here in Strangewood at last. Back with us once again. As long as he does as he is told, you might yet live, young Master Nathan. This is good. The wood needs an heir."

Then the Lantern's presence withdrew. No more hot breath or sizzling drool. The pad and scratch of its paws on the stone receded, and Nathan heard the door scrape shut behind it. He waited silently for several minutes before he dared open his mouth. When he did, he coughed once more. But when the cough had subsided, Nathan allowed himself a tiny, weak smile.

"Daddy, please come quick," he whispered.

He did not sleep again after that.

* * * * *

Emily left Joe's just after seven A.M. She drove slowly back to her house, where she showered and dressed with no sense of urgency. Nathan was in the hospital. Thomas was in the hospital — and she was still uncertain of his condition. But she wasn't in a rush. There would be plenty of time today to get to the unpleasant tasks ahead of her.

As much as she could, she tried not to think about the face she thought she had seen outside Joe's apartment at dawn. She'd been unable to sleep afterward, but it had still taken on a kind of weird, dreamlike quality. It could have been anything, or anyone. A homeless person, a kid climbing a tree. But at dawn, how many kids were out and about? None of those things were any more likely than her initial thoughts of some kind of stalker.

But the stalker thing wasn't holding water well either. The doctors had already ruled out poison in Nathan's case, and it was obvious that what Thomas had done, he'd done to himself. Still, she promised herself that she would call that detective, Walt something, who had taken Thomas's statement about his own suspicions and the possibility of foul play regarding Nathan's catatonia.

But that would have to wait. Already, Emily had too many things to think about today. Things that needed to be done.

Things she didn't want to do.

Refreshed by her shower and feeling much more comfortable in a clean pair of jeans and a magenta cotton top, Emily slipped behind the wheel, turned the key in the ignition, and stared at the cellular phone. She was prone to doing business in the car, using that otherwise wasted time as best she could.

Purposely moving her eyes away from the phone, Emily put the car into reverse and pulled out of the driveway. The entire ride north on Broadway toward the hospital, Emily was hyperaware of the calls that needed to be made. But before she would make those calls, she needed to see her son. And she needed to see Thomas.

In Thomas's hospital room, which was two floors below Nathan's, Emily stared at the pallid features of her ex-husband. The urge to curse him had waned, but she could not escape the anxiety his condition caused. She wanted to ask him again, to whisper to him though she knew he could not answer. She had to know why he had done it. But she wasn't alone, so she said nothing.

"How is he?" she asked.

Dr. Gershmann, who had been tending to Nathan, seemed to deflate when Emily asked the question. They'd come in together only moments ago, and the doctor had obviously been waiting for that question. Rather than answer, however, he inclined his head to defer the question to the young woman who stood at his side. She had the blackest, most perfect skin Emily had ever seen. When she smiled, Emily could not help but smile in return.

"I'm Callie Cardiff," the woman said pleasantly, moving forward with her hand extended. Emily shook it, and noticed simultaneously the surprising firmness of her grip and the fact that she was much shorter than she had originally appeared. Charisma, Emily thought. It did wonders.

"I'm the doctor handling your ex-husband's case," Dr. Cardiff went on. "To answer your question, he's stable. I'm not going to use the word 'fine.' He's far from fine."

Emily glanced over at Thomas. "The pills?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"Phenobarbital," Dr. Cardiff replied. "Washed down with scotch, apparently. If there had been just a few more in that bottle, he'd probably be dead already. According to his records, he'd had the medication for seizures, and that means he would have been given the usual warnings. But he must have known what he had might not be enough to kill him, so his actions puzzle me. Nobody takes a fistful of barbiturates and washes them down with whiskey unless suicide was their goal."

Emily stared at her. Whatever charm the woman possessed was gone. She almost made a comment about how the real puzzle was Dr. Cardiff's bedside manner, but she remained silent. Taking that silence as her cue to continue, Dr. Cardiff moved toward Thomas's bed.

"We almost lost him during the night," the doctor said.

With a start, Emily looked at Thomas, and then over at Dr. Gershmann. She felt a lot more at ease with him than Cardiff, but Gershmann was a pediatrician.

Still, it was Gershmann who explained, hands on his belly as usual, as though he were keeping it from exploding even further. "Your ex-husband experienced respiratory failure shortly after you brought him in. He's stabilized now, so it probably won't happen again."

"Probably?" Emily asked.

"At this point, we're doing everything we can to get him out of this," Dr. Cardiff explained. "Maybe I'm an optimist, but given the actual number of pills he took, I'd have thought he might have come around already. The longer he stays in a coma, the less of a chance that he'll simply wake up. It's really just a wait and see situation now."

Emily shook her head slowly, sighed, and tried to keep the tears at bay. "Just like Nathan," she said.

"Not exactly," Dr. Gershmann replied. "That's one of the reasons I wanted to come down here and speak with you. Nathan's case differs significantly from his father's. Mr. Randall has done something radical to his body. The reaction is severe and possibly fatal."

Emily blinked at that.

"Nathan is perfectly healthy," Gershmann added. "All our tests confirm it. We've sent his MRI results and other lab reports to specialists in Boston and Chicago, and nobody has ever seen anything like it. For all intents and purposes, Nathan is fine. His brain activity shows a very normal and very wide-awake pattern. Now it isn't unusual for a comatose person to show high brain activity — the imagination and the sub-conscious are powerful things. But the level here is extraordinary."

"Which all boils down to you still not knowing what's wrong with my son," Emily said bitterly. "There's nothing wrong with him except that he won't wake up. You're just waiting on a visit from Princess Charming, is that it?"

Gershmann frowned, seemed put off, and Dr. Cardiff picked up Thomas's chart, completely ignoring her.

"Now, Ms. Randall," Dr. Gershmann said grumpily, stroking his mustache, "there's really no need to . . ."

"No need?" Emily said, her mind reeling. "You tell me the only thing that matters in my life has been taken away from me and you can't figure out why, and the only person who could understand what that's doing to me decides to overdose . . . and then you want me to be calm, never mind be fucking civil?"

Part of her was revolted by this tirade. The doctors were doing their best. She knew that. But another part of her needed it so desperately. Needed to vent on someone. Gershmann and Cardiff just looked at her a moment, matching looks of concern on their faces. Which only made it worse.

"I'm . . . I'm sorry, I . . ." Emily began. Then she waved at the air as though an insect had been harrying her.

"Not at all, Ms. Randall." Dr. Gershmann stepped toward her, effectively eclipsing Cardiff, who seemed relieved at the rescue. "Would you like to go upstairs and see Nathan now?"

Emily chewed her lower lip. Her purse sat on a brown cushioned chair in the corner of Thomas's hospital room. She stared at it for a long moment. Her flip phone was inside the purse. As was her small personal phone book.

"I'll be up in a little while," she said absently. "I've got some business to take care of, first, and I might as well do it here."

Emily went over to sit in a chair next to Thomas's bed. There was a strange smell in the room, as if something were burning. She frowned and leaned in toward Thomas, somehow not surprised when she realized the smell came from him. He'd been nowhere near a fire, of course, but his clothes smelled of smoke.

The doctors excused themselves and turned toward the door. When Gershmann held the door for Cardiff, Emily glanced over at Thomas and wondered what the odds were that something like this could happen to anyone. Her son and her ex-husband, so near to one another and yet far, far away from anyone.

What were the odds?

"Dr. Cardiff?" she asked sharply, causing both physicians to pause at the door to the room.

Out of the direct light from the room, Dr. Cardiff's skin looked even darker. Sable black, with a sheen so distracting that Emily felt the momentary urge to touch her face. Her eyes so dark, her nose so aquiline and perfect, her cheekbones high.

She looked like a bird.

A crow.

Emily blinked several times, then cleared her throat. "Have you performed an MRI on Thomas?"

"We have one scheduled for later today, actually," Dr. Cardiff replied. "We want to get an idea how much damage he may have done to himself."

"I'd like to know the results," Emily said. "I'd also like you to monitor his brain waves for patterns similar to what you're finding with Nathan."

Dr. Gershmann stepped more completely into the room now, and both of them looked at her oddly. "Ms. Randall," he said, "I've told you there's no similarity between your son's condition and his father's."

"Even if there were," Dr. Cardiff said, none too tenderly, "you're his ex-wife. We'd need his next of kin to make those kinds of requests."

Emily stared back. "My divorce was quite amiable. Thomas and I never revoked our mutual powers of attorney or our health care proxies. Unorthodox, but that's Thomas. That health care proxy makes this a request as if it were coming from your patient himself. Please do as I ask."

"To be honest, now that it seems we won't have a quick recovery, we'll be monitoring brain activity in any case," Cardiff replied. "But there's no reason to expect any similarity. Do you know of any reason we may be unaware of?"

"Just please keep me informed," Emily said, unwilling to respond to the question. To do so would mean asking herself the same question. And that was something she just couldn't do.

Not now.

"Will do," Cardiff agreed. Then she turned and walked from the room, casting a strange look at Gershmann. A look Emily was sure questioned her own mental stability.

Well they needn't worry, she thought. She wouldn't be doing anything as crazy and stupid as overdosing on barbiturates and booze. Once again, she looked at Thomas and smelled smoke, like wood burning in a fireplace. When she looked up, Dr. Gershmann had also left, and she was alone with her ex-husband.

Emily stood and went over to the ugly brown chair and reached into her purse to retrieve her cell phone. Her first call was to Lorena at work. Things were moving along fine, Lorena reported. Not as smoothly as they might have if Emily were in the office, but they were managing. There were questions to be answered, Emily's confirmation to be obtained regarding new hires. Lorena would messenger the paperwork to the house, and Emily could sign everything there. Lorena herself was hoping for a vacation in October, and Emily promised it to her, even if things hadn't changed with Nathan. At that point, she figured she'd be back at work anyway.

Nathan lay with his eyes taped shut in a bed two floors above her, and life went on around him. The doctors hadn't said anything yet, but Emily suspected that if Gershmann and his cronies weren't able to figure anything out soon, they would end up suggesting Nathan be moved to a chronic care facility.

They were thoughts of the future that Emily could barely afford to have at the moment. Not the way her eyes burned with uncried tears. Not the way her heart surged in her chest.

But they were questions that had to be dealt with. And she realized now, truly understood for the first time, that they were questions she was going to have to deal with alone, even if Thomas recovered.

If. Too many ifs, she thought. Thomas wasn't her husband anymore, but the thought of him dying was too much for her, so she pushed it away.

"You stupid son of a bitch," she whispered.

Then she withdrew the small black phone book from her purse and looked up the number for Chris Lebo, the attorney who had represented her during the divorce proceedings. She dialed his number on the cell, and got him on the third ring.

"Savage and Winter," he said.

"Hi, Chris, it's Emily Randall," she replied, and let her eyes drift across Thomas's still form and out the window. "How are you?"

"All work and no play, Emily," Lebo replied. "What can I do for you today?"

Emily paused. Her gaze shot back over to Thomas. She studied his face. His motionless eyelids. No dreams for Thomas — not right now. Maybe never again.

"Some things have happened that you should know about," she began. "I'm going to want to get paperwork going right away to get sole custody of Nathan."

She could almost hear Lebo's tiny gasp of surprise. "Wow," the lawyer said. "Maybe you'd better start at the beginning."

In the waning hours of the afternoon, most of which she had spent in Nathan's room reading aloud to him from a book of Grimm Fairy Tales, Emily realized she hadn't checked for messages all day. Once again breaking out her cell phone, she dialed her home number. There were seven messages: two from Joe; two from Lorena; one from Thomas's sister, just checking in; and two messages from Francesca Cavallaro. She was still trying to close the deal with Fox, and she needed to know who to speak to. She claimed to feel badly about disturbing Emily at such a difficult time, but the deal could be important for Nathan's future.

Or so she said.

And Emily had no doubt that she meant it all. But for Francesca, there was more at stake. There was her own commission, of course. But there was also the fact that, to Emily's knowledge, Frankie had never been involved in a deal this big. Fox was huge. And she wanted to make sure the deal didn't fall apart. Emily couldn't blame her.

With a long sigh and a shake of her head, Emily called Francesca, expecting her machine. She was unprepared when a live human being answered on the other end.

"Francesca Cavallaro."

"Oh. Hi. Frankie, it's Emily."

"Emily, thanks for calling back," Francesca said instantly. "How's Thomas?"

"For the moment, he's stable. They're still not sure what the long-term prognosis is," she replied.

Francesca let out a long breath that was audible over the phone. "Please keep me posted, okay? As for this other thing, I'm sorry, but I didn't know who else to call, and this is . . ."

"Huge. Yeah. I get it." Emily's voice was cold, but more from distraction than hostility.

There was a long pause on the other end. At length, Francesca said, "You know what? It can wait. I shouldn't have called. I just thought it was something that should be taken care of."

Emily heard the pain in the other woman's voice, and that broke the chill that had swept over her. How foolish she'd been. Frankie cared for Thomas. Not just for his work, or her commissions. She was afraid for him.

"Listen, Frankie, here's the deal," Emily said, emotion beginning to creep back into her voice. "I've got power of attorney still," she revealed. "You make the best deal that you can, and I will sign for Thomas. I'll want the blessings of his attorney, but I don't think Kym will argue. There's only one catch. Anyone involved in the deal, or in the production of the series, has to read the books."

Francesca grunted. "I can't put that in the contract," she balked.

"You'll have to," Emily told her. "It really isn't much to ask, Francesca. If they're working on Strangewood, they ought to at least know what the source material is. What they do after that is up to them."

"How are you going to enforce that?" the other woman asked, incredulous.

"I can't. But if I find out down the road that anybody didn't read the books, I'll sue them."

"Even Thomas never asked for that."

"He should have. There's magic in Strangewood. And a little bit of genius. It's reached the point where I have to wonder if that's all Thomas Randall is going to leave behind."

Then she couldn't even speak anymore. Words failed her completely. Thomas always looked at Nathan as his legacy. That might not be possible now.

Emily mumbled a good-bye into Francesca's mutterings and hung up the phone. She was done. She'd had enough for one day. Facing up to reality was a horrible necessity. Emily wished she could immerse herself in some kind of ignorance. But there was no way to escape the terrible truth of what had happened to her already fractured family.

No way but the one Thomas had chosen.

And Emily hated him for it. Or, at least, she wanted to. But how could you hate someone you loved?

Joe had left a message earlier that she should meet him at Horsefeathers for dinner if she wanted. Seven o'clock. It was half past five when she left the hospital, and she drove without really paying attention. It was a trip she had made so many times that a mile would pass without her remembering it. Her subconscious could guide the car the way that it guided her fingers when she typed.

The stop light at Main and Broadway brought her back to herself. Emily blinked several times, realized she hated the song on the radio, and punched a preset station button to excise it from her life. The station she had changed to played innocuous soft rock, and she let her mind go on autopilot once again.

A left at the lights took her up the hill toward Marymount once more. It was as she slowed to take the right that led toward Tappan Hill that Emily noticed movement in the trees to the left. Branches swayed without any breeze, but more than that . . . something hustled through the trees.

She slowed, stared into the trees, and tried to focus on whatever had been moving in there. It could have been anything, but though the horrors of the day had taken her mind off it, the odd event of that morning came back to her now. The strange face outside Joe's apartment.

Still, nothing seemed to move in the trees. A car came up behind Emily fast, so she took the turn and started along the road that led past the school. Something darted across the street in her rearview mirror, but when she tried to focus on it, the thing was gone.

After that, as cautious and observant as she was, Emily saw nothing.

"Getting a little paranoid, aren't we?" she said to herself as she pulled the car into the driveway.

But as soon as she was inside, she locked the door behind her. And when she went back out to the car to head down to Horsefeathers Bar, she hurried, her eyes darting into the shadows of the night.

* * * * *

In the darkness of Nathan Randall's hospital room, Dr. Frederick Gershmann squinted his eyes to see the boy's chart by the dim moonlight. There was nothing new, nothing he hadn't seen before. He hung the chart back on its peg, and stood looking down at the small boy, the pitiful figure with tape over his eyes.

He should be awake. There was no reason for him to still be comatose. And yet he merely lay there.

"Can you hear me, I wonder?" he asked Nathan. "Do you have any idea what's going on out here, in the real world?"

Nathan should be awake, and according to the activity in his brain, he was. He hadn't put it exactly that way for the boy's mother, but there it was. He didn't respond to any external stimuli, and for all intents and purposes, he was in a coma.

But, somehow, Nathan Randall was awake.

* * * * *

When Thomas had first stumbled along the Scratchy Path several hours earlier, he had barely noticed the ubiquitous chirping of crickets that seemed to blanket the wood. But, as they walked, the noise lessened a great deal and finally, as they followed the Winding Way into the deepest part of the Big Old Orchard, the cricket song stopped completely.

The Orchard was gone. Burned to a hellish stretch of charred tree trunks jutting skyward. It was a horrible scene, and the silence only made it more so.

Thomas walked beside Brownie, keeping pace with the enormous grizzly, even as he watched the muscles ripple beneath the bear's fur. That was power. Strength Thomas couldn't even conceive of. And yet Brownie was so amiable, Thomas wondered if, when the time came for the grizzly to do his part, Brownie would be capable of turning that incredible strength to violence. Thomas hoped it wouldn't be necessary. Such a thing would destroy the grizzly, that was certain. But if that was what it would take to get Nathan back . . . well, he hoped Brownie would be ready.

"Our Boy!" Mr. Tinklebum said excitedly, hurrying to catch up, as he had been throughout this first leg of their journey. "You would be so proud of Brownie if you saw him dance. He remembers everything you taught him, and does it so well."

The bell-bottom scurried after them, cling-clanging as he ran along the Winding Way. Thomas had been able to tune out the sound of the bell, but not the little lavender-striped creature's voice. Some of what he said was nonsense, but some things were actually helpful. This bit of gibberish was neither, but it hurt Thomas deeply.

It was his fault, he knew. Or at least, much of it was. Not that he was responsible, not that. They could have prevented all of this from happening if they'd only tried. But Thomas also knew that he could have stopped it. Could have prevented it from ever coming to pass. Whatever became of them now was not really his fault, but he could have made a difference.

"I love to waltz," Brownie said, confirming Tinklebum's assessment. "But I really want to learn to tango."

For a moment, sadness threatened to sweep over Thomas again. Then the wonderful absurdity of the moment claimed him, and he smiled broadly. A small chuckle escaped his lips and he shook his head as he patted Brownie on the back.

"Let me get my boy back first," he said. "Then I promise, I'll teach you how to tango."

Brownie smiled broadly, revealing long rows of huge, sharp, glistening teeth. Anyone else would have run in terror at that grin. Thomas only laughed gently and shook his head.

"We'll save him, Our Boy," Brownie said, his smile fading slightly.

They walked on in silence, with only the clanging of Tinklebum's clapper disturbing the quiet. The dead, blackened orchard on either side was ghostly, almost as if the spectres of the trees themselves were haunting the nighttime woods. It wasn't long before any trace of amusement had left Thomas's mind, and disappeared from his face as well.

A quarter mile on, he paused, glanced from side to side.

"This is the first station, isn't it?" he asked. "I recognize it."

"Indeed, indeed, Our Boy," Tinklebum confirmed. "The first of the Ranger stations. Or it was. Before . . ."

Mr. Tinklebum peered along the Winding Way as if it had only just occurred to him that, should they continue on their route, they would come to the smoldering remains of his entire hometown, where the corpses of his friends and family were only embers now. He stopped midsentence, wrapped his hands around his blue belly, and said no more.

Thomas didn't pursue the conversation. Instead, he glanced angrily about. In the light from the orange stars, he saw that several charred tree husks had been downed off to the left. Without wasting a moment, he diverged from the path, and set off into the dead orchard. A second later, Brownie and Tinklebum ambled after him.

Fifty yards into the scorched forest, Thomas stopped. He glanced around at the downed trees, and then he looked up at Brownie. The grizzly's gentle eyes met his own, the question in them obvious but unspoken.

"I know the odor of the fire is a bit overwhelming," Thomas said to Brownie, "but do you think you can catch Redleaf's scent?"

The bear stood up to his full height, which was a very imposing eight and a half feet, and sniffed the air. He gazed about through the crisped tops of trees that would never again produce apples. Tinklebum stopped moving, and thus was silent.

After a time, Brownie slouched down again. "Just to the northeast," he confirmed. "Not more than a couple hundred yards."

Redleaf was weeping. He stood in a small stream that had once separated the Big Old Orchard from the rest of Strangewood. It had served as a firebreak, and Redleaf shivered with the thought of what might have happened otherwise. The devastation was horrible.

Worse, however, was the unknowing. Redleaf could not decide what to do. If he returned to his post, might the fire not come again? He thought that perhaps he ought to report to Captain Broadbough, but he had heard on the wind that Broadbough had gone out. Had left Strangewood. Something the Forest Rangers were simply not allowed to do. Dereliction of duty and all that.

But now he was one to talk.

In the end, though, Redleaf was merely afraid. He had many good reasons for this fear, but the thought that he might be a coward was so foreign to him that Redleaf could do nothing but stand frozen, roots in the stream, and weep the tears of trees.

He did not see the strange company that emerged from the burned orchard a short way down the stream from where he stood. Nor, in the depths of his self-pity, did he hear them as they approached along the edge of the stream.

"You deserted your post, Redleaf," came a voice.

Startled, Redleaf splashed his roots a bit as he turned to face them. Brownie was among them. Redleaf had always liked Brownie, but at the moment, the grizzly looked quite displeased, even angry. Upon his shoulder rested a bell-bottom, and Redleaf was greatly relieved to see him. He'd thought all the bell-bottoms dead after the firestorm that had destroyed the Land of Bells and Whistles.

It didn't occur to him to wonder why the bear was carrying the bell.

Redleaf wasn't very bright. Though he was bright enough to know that much, at least.

With them was the other. The one who had spoken. The anger on this other's face could not be mistaken for anything else. He looked familiar, this other. But, well, he just couldn't be.

"Halt!" Redleaf said, straightening his limbs. "I am Redleaf of the Forest Rangers. Make no hostile move, 'less you wish a swift reprisal."

"Not much of a Forest Ranger," said the other.

Redleaf was offended, even though he didn't think this newcomer was wrong. He watched as the grizzly put the bell-bottom down on the soft earth by the side of the stream. He regarded this other more carefully, uncertain how to respond to such anger.

"You know, I could arrest you," said Redleaf.

"You're an idiot," said the newcomer.

Redleaf trembled. That was enough. Now he was angry. With a cry of frustration, humiliation, and even a bit of fury, he whipped an upper limb down toward the man. Brownie shoved the man aside, ducked under the offending limb, and roared loudly in Redleaf's face.

"Stop that, you fool!" Brownie growled.

Redleaf stopped.

"Don't you recognize him?" the bear asked.

"I don't want to," Redleaf confessed.

"It's Our Boy," said the little bell-bottom.

"I was afraid of that," admitted the Forest Ranger.

He quivered a moment, then stopped himself and stood tall, staring down at the bear and the bell and at The Boy. The Boy glared up at him, but Redleaf did his best to feign courage. It wasn't as if Our Boy could do anything to him, hurt him in any way. But it was obvious that leaving his post had angered Our Boy. Worse, Redleaf had disappointed him.

For it was Our Boy who had first conceived the idea of the Forest Rangers, oh so long ago.

"I'm sorry," Redleaf said, defeated by his own train of thought.

"Sorry isn't enough," The Boy said. "You abandoned your post, but you've done no worse than the others. Where are they all? How can all this . . . horror have happened here without the Rangers putting a stop to it? That's what you are here for! How can the Jackal Lantern have . . .”

"The fires," Redleaf said quickly. "That's what the fires are for. The Lantern uses them to frighten us. Split Trunk and Short Branch were . . .” the Forest Ranger glanced quickly at the little bell bottom. "They were burned in the fires, trying to stop the flames that came for the Land of Bells and Whistles and the Big Old Orchard."

The tree's branches drooped.

"I ran," he confessed.

"And now you're here," Brownie growled. "You've lived to fight another day. Perhaps that's best."

"The best," chimed the bell-bottom. "All the other Rangers will help."

"I don't know," Redleaf said doubtfully. "The Lantern has fire. I know he has the little boy." He looked at The Boy. "Your sapling. But maybe it's something the two of you can work out amongst yourselves."

Our Boy, whom Redleaf knew was named Thomas, though he would never presume to use that name, shook his head sadly. He snorted, though in disgust or grief, Redleaf did not know.

"If anything happens to Nathan . . . if the Jackal Lantern is not stopped . . . I don't think Strangewood will survive much longer. If we go against old Jack and lose, you'll probably burn in the end anyway."

The grizzly stared up at the tree, but The Boy looked away. Redleaf chose to look at the back of The Boy's head, and he felt a terrible sadness. He had been a coward before, and he was still afraid. But fear would drive him. If the choice was fight or die . . .

"I'll send the word through the wood," Redleaf said. "The other Rangers will have to choose for themselves. Most of them are more courageous than I, so perhaps . . ."

The Boy turned away and began to walk across the stream and up toward the still pristine forest beyond.

"Do what you must," The Boy commanded. "When we reach the Jackal Lantern's fortress, we'll need all of you."

The bell-bottom's clapper cling-clanged as he hurried across the stream and followed The Boy into the forest. Brownie the Grizzly gave Redleaf one last glance, and then he, too disappeared into the forest. Through it all, Redleaf said nothing more.

He had nothing to say.

When the battle came, they would live or die. When the fight was so real, the choice so clear, even a coward could feel brave.

What other choice did he have?

CHAPTER 14

With a dry, stale mouth and a very full bladder, Emily rolled over and stared for several moments through heavily lidded eyes at her alarm clock. It was twenty-one minutes past three o'clock on Friday morning. She was barely cognizant of the low droning of voices from the flickering television screen. Upon her return to the house late the previous night, she had locked the place up tight and fidgeted nervously for some time before finally drifting off.

In her dreams, a hideous face had peered through leaves and branches at her, taking on ever more monstrous proportions as the dream repeated itself, changing and mutating as the night wore on. It wasn't quite a nightmare, since nothing beyond that took place in the dream. Still, it unsettled her sleeping mind and now, as she woke, she felt grumpy; even a bit edgy. The sound of the television cut through to her conscious mind now, and she found it aggravating.

Pushing herself up to a sitting position, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and winced as a sharp pain spiked through her head. There was Advil in the drawer in her nightstand, and she made a mental note to take some just as soon as she had relieved the pressure in her bladder.

Eyes open only enough so that she wouldn't smash into a wall or the door frame, she shuffled into the master bathroom, leaving the light off. The flickering from the television was enough to guide her nocturnal excursion. With her panties around her ankles, she let her eyes close once more, and sighed softly with relief as she let her bladder go.

From somewhere downstairs came a muffled thump.

Emily's eyes snapped open; she was wide awake now. The stream of her urine stopped instantly, and she forgot any urge she might have had to continue. Forgot her headache. Forgot her dreams.

This was no dream.

As silently as she was able, she stood and pulled her cotton panties up her legs, fitting them into place. Gently, soundlessly, she stepped back into the master bedroom. On the TV screen she saw a large ship with sails flying, and thought she remembered the film: Green Dolphin Street, or something like that. She reached out to snap the set off, and then held back. That was sure to draw attention. Instead, she walked around the bed — not wanting to make any springs creak by laying across it — and picked up the phone. She dialed 911 as quickly as she was able and waited far too long for the line to be answered.

When the operator finally picked up, Emily spoke in a low voice, praying the TV noise would cover for her.

"There's someone in my house," she said, then quickly added her name and address before hanging up. No need to stay on the line now, she knew. The police would be on their way soon.

But what if it wasn't soon enough? That was the overriding thought in Emily's mind, the one that prompted her to slip silently to her bedroom door. It was open, and she was grateful for that. She'd meant to get around to squirting some WD-40 on the hinges, but just hadn't had the chance. That was the kind of thing that Thomas had always done. Theirs had been a good partnership, a comfortable division of labor, for a long time. Before it all went to hell. She still didn't quite understand why that was. The Thomas and Emily of ten, even five years before, wouldn't have let that happen.

Entropy. Shit happens. Things rot.

When you aren't looking, the world turns and your whole life is fucked up beyond recognition and first your son and then your ex-husband get taken off the chessboard without any warning whatsoever.

And then some insidious little motherfucker with a cruel glint to his eye and a stupid smile on his face sneaks into your house in the middle of the night, and the world just keeps sliding down the greased pole of life into . . . shit.

"No," Emily whispered, anger mixing potently with fear.

It was all catching up to her now, as she stood with her back to her bedroom wall, ears attuned to even the slightest sound. But there were no sounds. Not the thump of someone moving below, or the creak of a foot on the stairs, or the distant wail of police sirens. She had a moment where she wondered if she hadn't overreacted. Perhaps it had been nothing. Some local punk throwing an egg at the house or her purse sliding off the edge of a chair where she hadn't placed it as firmly as she'd thought.

That's what she wanted to believe.

Then she tasted copper in her mouth and realized that she'd bit her own lip and blood flowed into her throat. Emily began to cry and could not understand why. She was angry, and she was afraid, but the crying made no sense to her.

Quickly, she wiped the tears away. It felt like her eardrums pulsed with her rapid heartbeat. Silently, she slid around and bent over slightly so that she could peek out into the hallway.

Nothing. No one in the hall. No one, as far as she could see, on the stairs. Her decision was made and her body was moving before she even realized what she was doing. Emily moved across the hall and into Nathan's room without making a sound. Her eyes darted back and forth, scanning the toys for one particular object, something she'd been convinced he was too young for when Thomas had first brought it over. She'd been right, too. The thing was too unwieldy for the boy. At least for now. But Nathan wouldn't let Emily stick it in the basement for when he got bigger. He'd insisted that it stay right there in his room at all times.

It stood against the wall next to Nathan's bookcase. Emily reached out and grabbed the shaft, then hefted the classic wooden Louisville Slugger over her shoulder.

Out in the hall, one of the steps creaked. Third from the top. Emily recognized the sound well. The creak had been there since the Randalls had first moved into the house.

Emily nearly squealed with fright but caught herself. She stood for a moment, breathing deeply, trying to calm down and slow her heart, which seemed to be about to shatter in her chest. She tossed her blonde hair over her left shoulder and crept to the wall inside Nathan's room. For a moment, she saw herself in the mirror over her son's bureau, and her eyes widened at how ridiculous she looked. She had a Tweety Bird t-shirt and her panties on, and that was all. With the bat over her shoulder, she looked absurd.

Somehow that only terrified her more.

She could feel him. Out in the hallway. So close. With her back to the wall, she stood just inside the door and waited for the intruder to come into Nathan's room. She could hear the TV from her bedroom, and for a moment it distracted her. Then she tried to listen to what might be there beneath that sound. It was crazy, of course. She wouldn't be able to hear him breathing or anything.

Then, as if on cue, she was proven wrong. Out in the hall, just outside Nathan's room, probably, she surmised, at the door to her own bedroom, she heard someone snickering. A low chuckle, but going on and on. It wasn't something on the television, either. This was real, and close by, and terrifying. She felt like she might throw up, but when the sound stopped, it brought her up short, and Emily stood up straight again, ready to bring the bat down at the first sign of someone entering the room.

As she straightened, the bat gently bumped the wall behind her. Emily closed her eyes tightly, squeezed out a few last tears, and then held her breath. She'd given herself away for sure, telegraphed her position to some lunatic who was truly enjoying the dread and terror he was inspiring in her.

In the darkness of Nathan's bedroom, with only the dim light from outside to offer any illumination in the room, the intruder appeared suddenly at the door. He walked straight in, with no deviation. He was short, but lean, and she could make out facial hair, like a heavy beard, or something. And his face . . . his face was so strange . . . and the way he walked, hunched over just a bit. She couldn't see him very well, but he seemed somehow freakish, and all the more frightening for it.

Emily ran out of air. She had to breathe, and she allowed herself a quick, sharp intake of breath.

He turned.

Emily's scream felt to her like a roar. She swung the bat as hard as she was able, pulling a muscle in her right bicep while doing so. The wooden bat cracked over his forehead, splitting it in two. The intruder's head snapped back, and he yelped in pain like an injured dog before stumbling backward to sprawl with a crash into Nathan's bureau.

In the darkened room, she could only make out the bulk of his body as the intruder drew up on all fours, scrambling to get to his feet. For a moment, she hesitated. Her body seemed to be pulling at her to run, to flee out into the hall, down the stairs and . . . but no, he would catch her. Emily forced herself to move toward him, bat raised once again. As the intruder struggled to rise, a growl came from his throat. Emily thought of a Doberman that had lived in her neighborhood when she was a girl. A dangerous, vicious dog. The growl was the same.

With a whimper of her own, Emily brought the bat down with all her strength, ignoring the sharp, needle pain in her bicep where she'd already torn a muscle.

Without raising his head, the intruder's hand snapped up and stopped the bat in mid-descent. She thought she heard bones crack in his hand and his growl grew louder. The intruder yanked the bat from her hand, and stood quickly, effortlessly.

Emily stood frozen in the room as this . . . beast was the only word that came to mind . . . turned his back on her. The growling subsided, and he grunted softly.

"Don't do that," the intruder said, his voice higher, less savage and more boyish than she would have imagined.

Then he lifted the bat and, with a powerful swing so fast she could barely follow it, he shattered Nathan's bedroom window. The screen popped out when the bat struck it and fell soundlessly to the lawn below. Half a dozen large glass shards bounced off the screen and back into the room. The rest of the shattered window showered out onto the grass.

The intruder began to laugh. A cackle, really, like nothing Emily had ever heard.

He dropped the bat to the floor, seemed to pause a moment, and then hurled himself bodily through the broken window. Emily screamed. They were two stories up. She ran to the window, but in those precious seconds, he had already struck the ground and was now up again, sprinting across the lawn faster than she had ever seen anyone run.

Ever.

"Oh my God," Emily whispered to herself.

Blue police lights flickered as a pair of prowl cars slid silently into her driveway. Eyes still wide with astonishment, she went down to open the door for them.

It occurred to her for just a moment, as she was unlatching the front door, that it was possible she had simply never woken from her dreams, now nightmares. All of this might be a bad dream, she thought, almost hysterical. Nathan. Thomas. Her intruder. All of it.

It was a blissful thought.

Then she tasted the blood from her lip once again, and reality returned without delay. Without mercy.

* * * * *

In a clearing at the heart of Strangewood, where a cairn of large stones burned with blue fire, stood an enormous oak tree. In the branches of the tree sat the small dragon called Fiddlestick. The dragon stared down in horror as the Peanut Butter General, with whom he was now allied, raised his sword against the Queen of the Wood herself.

It was blasphemy.

The General cried out to Fiddlestick for his aid in this battle, but the dragon would not move. Could not move. She was the Queen, after all, and if she wanted them dead, then dead they would be. Smoke filtered out of Fiddlestick's nostrils as the little dragon began to cry. The General shouted for his aid once more, and Fiddlestick did nothing.

The Peanut Butter General was bleeding.

Through the thick swirls of sticky peanut butter, blood seeped through where the sharp wooden talons of the Queen had slashed. Bees buzzed round his body, agitated and unsettled, the conflict keeping them moving. The General breathed deeply and paused a moment, waiting for the peanut butter to cover the wounds. After a moment, it did so, soothing and cool. But he ached there, and he had to wonder if the bleeding continued, deep within.

Behind him, the cairn burned blue. Before him, the Queen snarled angrily, her back to the tree that was her home. He stared at her, noted where the edge of his sword had chipped a chunk of bark off her right breast, scoring the wood beneath deeply, but apparently not enough to truly hurt her.

"You defile the wood with your arrogance," the Queen of the Wood sneered. "Even the bees desert you now."

And it was true, he noted. One by one, and then in tiny swarms, the bees moved away from the General into the trees. They knew something he refused to acknowledge. He shouldn't be here. Not at all. It mattered very little or not at all that he had not entered this clearing of his own free will. The Queen would not suffer his presence, nor his quest. And the General would not allow himself to be stopped, or even delayed a single moment longer than necessary.

He would die before he would be diverted from rescuing Nathan.

Even as that determination crystallized in his mind, another thought gained strength within him. He stared into the white, glaring eyes of the Queen and knew that he would indeed die.

"Fiddlestick!" he shouted. "Dragon, come to me now! Before it is too late!"

At the edge of the clearing, all around the circle, wood nymphs with burning red eyes tittered in amusement, then shied back with fear as the Queen's gaze passed over them. But Fiddlestick did not respond.

"Come then, my Queen," the General said, brandishing his sword with practiced casualness. "Let us finish this, then."

Her body was covered with huge thorns. Her talons were wood sharp as razors. Her willow branch hair moved as if of its own volition, whipping from side to side, like the tail of a scorpion, positioning itself to strike. The Queen of the Wood drew herself up to her fullest height, more than seven feet, and she smiled at the Peanut Butter General. He held his breath a moment, drinking in her beauty. For, surely, she was the most alluring creature who had ever set foot within Strangewood. She was its Queen, after all.

Her natural state, her nakedness, drew him now. But the General had fought too many battles, engaged in too many pointless wars, to be distracted from his task for long. This war was about something more precious to him than patriotism or politics, or even life itself.

With a grunt, and then silence, the General stepped toward the Queen, sword raised and out to one side, its hilt gripped in both hands. The Queen seemed to glide away and off to his left, and then she darted in at him, talons before her, rending the air as they would rend the General himself. His sword, glinting in blue flame and orange starlight, whickered out and slipped between the fingers of the Queen's left hand. Her hand split down the middle, and two wooden talons were sliced off, dropped to the ground, and lay there, withering in seconds.

But the sacrifice of two fingers barely slowed her. The Queen's right hand gripped the General's sword hand. Her willow branch hair whipped out and pulled the sword from his grasp, tossing it aside in the clearing. The General tried to fight her off, his right palm splitting on a huge thorn.

Then the Queen took him into her embrace. Thorns pierced the peanut butter and whatever remained beneath it. The General felt weak instantly, and he wondered if the thorns themselves were poisoned, of if he had simply had enough. Then the Queen of the Wood gripped him around the throat with her whole hand and lifted the split appendage in the air for him to see. New green shoots had begun to sprout up where her fingers had been chopped off.

She hauled back the wounded hand, held the fingers straight and firm, and drove her hand as a projectile right through the General's chest. Ribs shattered. Organs were punctured.

The Peanut Butter General let out a long gasp of despair and pain and loneliness, and then the Queen of the Wood shoved him back. He tumbled onto the blue blaze and it began to melt and bubble the peanut butter that enshrouded him.

The General rolled away from the blaze and lay there, barely breathing, on the scrub grass and dirt of the clearing. He waited for the killing stroke, blinded by the pain of the fire and his wounds. After a moment, instead, he heard applause.

The Queen of the Wood spoke. "You dare?" she said, furious and frustrated as well. And somehow, the General knew that she did not speak to him.

"Ain't thisss a pretty sssight?" growled a familiar voice. "You've done my job for me, and I get to watch. It'sss a beautiful thing, ssso it isss. Glad to sssee you've landed on the right ssside of thisss thing."

The Queen was silent a moment. Then her voice came, but not from any one spot. It came from the trees themselves. From the wood, a whisper that any sane man would have known was prelude to bloodletting.

"I am Queen of the Wood," her voice rustled like wind in the trees. "I have no allies, only subjects. I am not here for your amusement. You will suffer, just as he, your enemy, has suffered."

The General was bleeding profusely now. The peanut butter was healing him, but with the scorched area on top of his skin, it wasn't as malleable as it ought to be. It was slowing down the process, possibly too much. Where the thorns had pierced him, new peanut butter had slipped in to knit the wounds. But where the Queen had impaled him on her talons, opened up his chest . . . he was not faring as well. Still, the General managed to moved a bit further from the blue flames and sit up enough to see the battle that was about to be joined. To see the other creature foolish enough to stumble into the Queen's lair . . . this one doing so with purpose, and without regard to her.

As he looked up, the General saw them standing opposite one another. The Queen of the Wood and Bob Longtooth, the saber-toothed tiger man. Longtooth's fur was matted, and his claws and mouth were crusted with gore. He had been living in the forest at least one full night. His eyes burned with malice and mischief.

"I'm not here to fight you, my Queen," Longtooth snarled. "Only to be certain the General and hisss companionsss never reach their dessstination."

Companions, the General thought. So much for Fiddlestick. His vision had begun to dim slightly, or, he thought, perhaps the blue fire from the tumble of stones had begun to flicker out. He preferred the latter, though he knew the possibility was likely pure fancy.

The Queen of the Wood snarled something nearly unintelligible to Longtooth. Clearly, this was a challenge. Longtooth laughed at her.

"The Jackal Lantern isss my massster, lady," the tiger man said bluntly.

"I have killed the General for his blasphemy, Robert of the Long Tooth," the Queen of the Wood said, clearly, rising to her full height, her willow hair sprouting thorns of its own. Each strand was more like a pricker branch now than a willow. "But the General is not of the wood, cub. You are, and thus, I will give you one final chance to bow and pay fealty to your Queen before I flay the fur and flesh from your bones."

The General lay on his side, only a yard or so from his sword. He wanted it back in his grasp, but the pain in his abdomen made the very thought of moving too agonizing to bear. His mind had begun to drift, to lose its focus, but still he stared at Longtooth and the Queen. The tiger growled, low and deep, and allowed air to fill his chest so that he looked every bit as vicious as the General knew him to be. His yellow eyes flashed in the blue light of the cairn fire and he took several steps to one side, taking the Queen's measure.

"I warn you, Robert. I played with you when you were a cub, but I will gut you without remorse if you . . ."

Longtooth growled. Hissed at her. "Ssshut your rotten trap, you ssstupid bitch."

The Queen froze, horrified. For a moment, the thorny tendrils hanging from her head dropped lifelessly to lie along her back. She stared at Longtooth in astonishment.

"You're nothing but a dim-witted wood nymph, a ssspritely ssslut with too much power and delusionsss of greater grandeur. You've been nothing but deadwood sssince Our Boy put you in this circle. You're Queen of the Wood? What a fucking joke. Queen of thisss circle, perhapsss. A patch of dirt, sssome burning rocks, and a big oak tree. Half the creaturesss in the Wood have forgotten all about you, little ssstump. Little sssapling. The Jackal Lantern didn't even consider asssking for your aid becaussse you're uselesss."

On the ground, the General was as stunned as the Queen seemed to be. In the forest around the clearing, the real wood nymphs buzzed with what passed for conversation among them. They must have also been shocked, for they had let Longtooth into the circle, and now he was challenging their Queen. But perhaps after all this time, and all the fear she had inspired in them, the nymphs were uncertain how to respond.

This was the General's thought as the Queen of the Wood began to scream. It seemed, almost, a scream of suffering, of horrible agony. In truth, it was the scream of a tree being uprooted, branches snapping and whipping the air as it fell toward the forest floor. That was the sound that was emitted from her mouth as she flew at Bob Longtooth in a rage unlike anything the General had ever seen. She was out of control.

Which was the only reason, as far as the General was concerned, that Longtooth cut her as badly as he did. Her face was his target. Green and new as a raw shoot bursting through the earth after the last snow before spring comes on full bloom. It was her vanity, he knew. The softness of her face.

Longtooth tore half of the Queen's face off with his claws. One of her eyes burst, spouting sticky sap. She screamed. And then she attacked him, the thorny strands of her hair wrapping around him, tearing at his fur. Blood began to flow.

While the General watched, failing. Dying.

Then a bee landed on the tip of his nose.

Simple as that, the swarm returned. They covered him. Filled him. Worked their way into the cavity in his belly, bolstering the peanut butter, working with it the way they might have with honey. And the fabric of his form, the sticky sweet flesh of him, responded. The peanut butter flowed over him, covering the opening in his gut, trapping the bees inside to buzz around in there forever, or as long as they could keep him alive.

The General struggled to his knees. He held out one hand and a tendril of peanut butter flew from his palm to wrap around the hilt of his sword and bring it flashing, flying through the air to lodge comfortably in his grip.

He stood, sword at the ready.

Bob Longtooth broke free, and ran screaming from the clearing, bleeding, stumbling, cursing weakly. The wood nymphs flew off after him, and the General smiled thinly and offered up a little prayer for the saber-tooth's death.

The Queen turned, saw the General newly risen, and scowled at him with her ruined face. She was maddened now, beyond reason. Her talons extended, grew thorns of their own, until they were like ragged tentacles. The General thought to retreat. There was no sense in continuing this fight. With the wood nymphs gone, he could go on to Old Jack's fortress and find Nathan, save the boy.

Sword in front of him, the General moved backward as quickly as he was able. He moved around the flaming blue cairn, the pile of stones blazing high. He could feel the heat on the part of his body that had been scorched before, but he ignored the discomfort. He had to. The Queen was coming for him.

Like serpents, her long fingers moved in front of her, reaching for him. The General hacked one tentacle clean through. Then he turned and dove for the edge of the clearing. Thorns wrapped around his legs. Cutting. Crushing.

"No," he said furiously. "Not now."

The General's head and shoulders and arms were beyond the edge of the clearing. But even now, she was dragging him back in. Despair began to creep over him. The bees within him were silenced for the moment. He heard no buzzing and wondered if they had somehow abandoned him once more. But no, he could feel them crawling over his ribs from the inside.

"No!" he roared. "My Queen, you know not what you do! If I don't save Nathan, Strangewood may be destroyed forever! Don't you see? Our Boy might scour us from existence, as vengeance, or merely in his grief! We may cease to be entirely!"

But the Queen was not listening. She hauled him back into the clearing.

The Queen was not listening.

But someone was.

From the tree high above came the sound, incongruous amidst the horror, of harp chord and wind chime, of violin and piano key, and the General turned over and stared above him as Fiddlestick the dragon swooped down low over the clearing. His orange belly glowed purple-red in the blue firelight and his green skin looked black. But the General would not mistake him for any other.

The dragon flew at the Queen of the Wood. Her thorny pricker hair swept up behind her and reached out for his flapping wings. Fiddlestick opened his mouth, and fire jetted from his gullet in a blaze of crackling red. It burnt her hair to cinders before it reached her tattered face. Then, as Fiddlestick flew on, past the Queen, she burst into flame completely, the fire crawling swiftly over her body.

The Queen of the Wood shrieked in sorrow and surrender.

And she burned.

Moments later, as Fiddlestick settled once more on the Peanut Butter General's shoulder, all they could see of her was the fresh, moist, blackening green of the unruined half of her face. It was too green, too young to burn so quickly. But in the end, she would be gone entirely.

Fiddlestick wept little tears of fire.

The General walked from the clearing, straight and true on a makeshift path for the Up-River and the fortress beyond. The dragon snorted sadly.

"You did what you had to do to save the wood," the General said, unused to offering such comforts. It had been hard enough with Nathan, and now the dragon . . . the General had never been a very compassionate man. Even when his own children had been small, he had rarely kissed their wounds or soothed their sorrows.

"I slayed the Heart of the Wood," Fiddlestick replied.

"The wood could not live without its heart," the General reassured him. "Perhaps that is what all of this is about. I've thought Our Boy was the Heart of the Wood, in his way. But now, I wonder, if all of this has put that on Nathan."

They walked through the trees for some time before the dragon spoke again. At length, Fiddlestick said, "Will we die, do you think? In this battle, I mean? The Jackal Lantern is fierce, you know."

"We may," the General replied. "That is the nature of war. Are you afraid?"

The dragon seemed almost to laugh, and spread his wings a bit. The music no longer sounded as sweet, but instead made a mournful dirge.

"I was afraid of pain, before, but not afraid to die," Fiddlestick said reasonably. "I thought I would be with my parents then. Now the pain holds no fear for me. I am numb. But of death . . . I am terrified. I don't know what lies beyond the wood for one who is damned. Do you?"

It was the General's turn for silence now. He walked on several yards, the dragon on his shoulder, and then he stopped a moment. He turned so that, craning his neck, he was eye to eye with the dragon.

"We'll find out together, my friend," said the Peanut Butter General.

Together, they walked on.

* * * * *

It was half past eight in the morning when Walt Sarbacker arrived at Emily Randall's home in Tarrytown. He hadn't even gone into the office yet. He'd received a call from the lieutenant just after seven with the full story on the break-in at the Randall house earlier that morning. The lieutenant didn't see any connection, but the Randall woman had asked for Walt.

Before he went up to the front door, he walked around the side of the house to look at the shattered second story window. The rain of previous days had passed and the sun shone brightly that morning, a clear blue sky above and a nice breeze to go with it. Walt thought for a moment about the beach and how nice it would have been to be with Jenny and their boy, Alex, right then. He'd bought a new kite for Alex in the springtime, one with dinosaurs on it, and they flew it every chance they got.

Then he thought again of Emily Randall's son in that hospital bed, and his heart broke a little bit. On the job, his heart broke a little bit nearly every damned day.

With a disgruntled sigh, Walt ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and turned back toward the front of the house. He was surprised the carpenters hadn't shown up to board the window yet, and he made a mental note to track the guys down for Mrs. Randall if she needed the help.

He went up the front steps and rang the bell, then stood and waited patiently with the Dunkin' Donuts bag in his left hand. Two cups of coffee, black. If she wanted cream and sugar, she could add it on her own.

But when the door opened and Walt saw the look on the poor, stricken woman's face, he forgot all about the coffee. He searched for a word in his own mind, some way to describe the pale face and hollow eyes, the lost and searching gaze. And then he found it. Emily Randall looked haunted. As if all the ghosts of her life had visited her in the night, and now she could barely face the day without expecting a new specter to arise.

"Mrs. Randall, do you remember me?" Walt asked her. "Detective Sarbacker?"

Her eyes cleared a moment, and she opened the door further. "Yes, Detective. Thanks for coming so early. I . . . I need to speak with you."

She glanced momentarily down at the Dunkin' Donuts bag, and Walt felt suddenly very self-conscious, almost stupid, for having it in his hand. He held it up, almost as an offering.

"I brought us coffee," he said lamely. "After the shock you had last night, I thought you might need a cup."

Mrs. Randall gamely attempted a smile then and failed miserably. "I think I'm long past coffee, Detective. But thanks for the thought."

Then she turned and walked into her home, her vulnerable and violated home, and left Walt to shut the door behind them and follow her in. In the living room, she sat on a sofa and gestured for him to take a chair opposite her.

"I think my ex-husband was right," she said, without preamble. "I think there is a stalker, someone obsessed somehow with Strangewood, and I think he's the one responsible for what's been done to Nathan and to Thomas."

Walt felt a sadness overtake him, and he struggled not to let it show.

"Before we get into that, Mrs. Randall . . "

"Call me Emily."

"Emily. Before we get to that, I know you've already given a statement about last night, but I'd like to hear it directly from you, if you don't mind. Everything you can think of."

She blinked, paused, and then told him, beginning to end, her version of the events of the early hours of that morning. The part Walt hadn't heard already was the episode of the previous morning, at the apartment of the man she was seeing. Her tone of voice indicated she expected him to be judgmental about that relationship, but Walt kept silent. Then there was her certainty that someone had been following her.

"I sound paranoid, I know," she said. "And maybe I am. Maybe I should go see someone. But it's all too coincidental."

Walt agreed. But he had to wonder if some of the coincidences might not be imaginary. He didn't voice this possibility, though. No need to agitate the woman.

"Well?" she demanded. "What do you think?"

After a long sip of his coffee, Walt sat forward and forced the woman to meet his eyes.

"I'm going to be frank with you, Emily," he told her. But he was lying. He was only going to be as frank as he thought she could handle.

"Please do," she replied, somewhat defensively.

"Our investigative team that was here this morning picked up hair and blood samples, and some fingerprints as well. If this guy has ever been picked up for anything, anywhere in the free world, we should be able to identify him. If he hasn't, we don't stand a chance in hell if he just goes away."

Emily chuckled darkly. "He isn't going away, Detective."

"Call me Walt," Sarbacker offered. "All we can do, at this point, is have a prowl car make regular passes by your house and notify hospital security that you might be in danger so that when you're there, we have extra eyes looking after you."

The misery in Emily's face was obvious. Walt felt it echoed somewhat in himself. After what this poor woman had been through recently, he began to feel very profoundly that he needed to do something to keep her from suffering any further.

Walt Sarbacker was not a man who got personal with his cases. In fact, until now, it wasn't really much of a case. But he was a human being, and this woman had already lost so much.

"As to your theory," he told her, "I've talked to the doctors about your ex and your son. Neither of their medical conditions indicates foul play of any kind. More than likely, this was all just a simple burglary, and the guy won't be back. But if there is some kind of stalker out there with a thing for your ex-husband's work, it doesn't have anything to do with what's happened to Mr. Randall, or to Nathan.

"If that makes all of this more difficult for you, I'm sorry. But there's just no connection. On the other hand . . ." Walt paused, realized he was straying, and shook his head.

"What?" Emily asked.

"Nothing. No relation to the case."

"What?" she repeated, this time as a demand.

Walt shrugged. "Well, according to Dr. Gershmann, there has apparently been some kind of connection between Thomas and Nathan's conditions. Something to do with brainwaves."

The woman's eyes went wide. "But . . . they told me there was no similarity. They . . ." she stared at Walt. "Look, Detective, the doctors obviously don't know their asses from their elbows. Something's going on here. They don't know why Nathan hasn't woken up. Now there's some kind of relationship to what's happened to Thomas . . ."

"Your ex-husband tried to kill himself, Emily," Walt said bluntly.

When the woman winced, he felt nauseous.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But it's true."

"Maybe," she said. "But in his whole life, Thomas Randall never did anything halfway. I can't imagine he'd fuck up something as simple as suicide."

"The medical oddities you'll have to take up with Dr. Cardiff or Dr. Gershmann," Walt said, trying to rein the conversation in. "I'm here to tell you that, whatever they are, they have no correlation to what happened here this morning."

Emily stared at him a long moment before dropping her head and sighing. "I know you're probably right. No. I know you are right. But it's just . . . all the logic in the world can't take away how weird this all is. I feel like, even with all the terrible things that have happened, it's all just a part of something else. Like something really horrible is going to happen, and there isn't anything I can do about it."

Walt opened his mouth, then closed it again. He didn't have a response for that.

* * * * *

In the cold, drafty stone of the fortress of the Jackal Lantern, Grumbler stood in the corridor outside Nathan's cell. Even from out here, he could hear the boy's soft snoring. As gently as he was able, he unbarred the door and opened it. The dwarf in the pinstriped suit noted an odd new weight to the guns he wore under his arms as he stepped into Nathan's room. Instruments of death, they were. Always had been. But now, for some reason, they felt foreign to him.

Atop the filthy blanket, shivering in the deep chill of the seeping stone, Nathan lay sleeping. His naked body was covered with deep, angry purple and black bruises. Blood was caked beneath his nose and there was a recent splash of red on the blanket beneath him that Grumbler could not see the source of. The boy began to hack and cough in his sleep, and a bit of blood dribbled out of his mouth and down across his cheek.

His gut and his heart as cold as the fortress tone, Grumbler stepped back into the hall and retrieved a heavy fur blanket he had carried from his own chambers. With a quick glance about him to be certain he was not watched, he re-entered the boy's cell and draped the fur over him.

Grumbler's stomach churned as he noted the stench coming off the boy. Blood and filth and illness — all were part of that odor. But there was something else there. Something darker. Something coming very soon, coming to take the boy away from here, to save him in a way that Grumbler himself could not.

The dwarf looked at him, at the sweet, jaundiced, pained face of a boy not yet six years old. He was just a boy.

"I'm sorry, Nathan," he whispered. "It wasn't supposed to be like this."

In his sleep, Nathan's entire body spasmed once, and a ripple of awareness passed over his features.

"Daddy," the boy whimpered. Then his face went slack once more and sleep claimed him again.

Grumbler watched him another moment, unable to speak another word. After a time, he left Nathan to his illness, and his cell.

But, he thought, at least the boy wasn't cold anymore.

CHAPTER 15

The forest thinned out as Thomas and his traveling companions approached the Up-River. Here, in the northeast region of Strangewood, the river was bordered with a wide expanse of glittering sandy shore, and the water moved more leisurely than in other areas in its meandering circle around the wood.

Tinklebum didn't like the sand. He complained vociferously about the manner in which it slid from beneath his feet and pushed between his toes. Brownie was unhappy about it as well. The shifting sand was a poor surface should he be inspired to dance. Thomas ignored their complaints. The bell-bottom wasn't quite sane, and the bear hadn't been in much of a dancing mood, at least since Thomas had arrived in Strangewood.

They had other problems to deal with. Saying as much, Thomas had set off up the shoreline toward the Bald Mountains in the distance, and the others had followed, in spite of the shifting sands. Far off to the south, the sky above the wood began to lighten. It would be dawn soon. Thomas would be glad for the sunshine.

The sky was a textured azure today, with streaks of yellow and green that might have been shifting strings of cloud, or merely the whimsy of the air. The breeze off the river was a bit chilly and Thomas shivered a little. It made him recall the many trips he had taken here in the past, both awake, as he was now, and in dreams, as he had done for so many years. He didn't recall ever being cold before. Not in Strangewood. It wasn't a place where discomfort — real discomfort — had ever been particularly welcome. All of that had changed now. Possibly forever.

Thomas knew, in any case, that it wasn't really all that cold. Where he had come from, where he belonged, it was still a steamy, scalding July. In Strangewood, it seemed to be perpetually autumn. Early autumn, but just at that moment where, as beautiful as everything was, the air shimmered with the foreknowledge of the moment, coming too soon, when everything would begin to wither and die; a fleeting moment, preserved forever. Or so he had thought, once upon a time. Forever, it seemed, was not as eternal a concept as he had always believed.

They walked westward for several hours, along the sandy banks of the wide river as it curled at the outer edges of Strangewood. Though Thomas had expected Mr. Tinklebum to be a constant source of whining complaints, the bell-bottom was — save for the bonging of his tummy — oddly silent. Perhaps, Thomas thought, the gravity of their situation had finally reached him, a creature who had lost his entire race in a single blaze.

To a single enemy.

With that thought, Thomas glanced over at Tinklebum's face, saw a cold glint in his eye, and realized that there might be more sanity in the little lavender man than he'd thought. A lust for vengeance did not expressly dictate insanity after all. He began to think of Tinklebum differently after that.

They reached a stretch of shore that was quite rocky. A small jetty had been built thrusting out into the river, but there was no sign of any vessel. Nor, Thomas found as he glanced into the wood off to their left, was there any sign of a dwelling. No sign of life at all, save for that jetty.

A curious thing, he thought.

After the span of rocky bank, they rounded a corner, and there above them, though still far ahead, were the Bald Mountains. Thomas paused a moment, staring up at the windswept peaks with an overwhelming mixture of emotions: fear, anger, anticipation. And a deep, abiding sadness, as he wondered once again how it had all come down to this.

"There it is, then," said Brownie, and halfheartedly danced a little jig. There was a certain cynicism, even sarcasm, to the dance that Thomas could not respond to.

"Perhaps we ought to rest a few minutes before continuing on?" he suggested.

"True enough," Tinklebum chimed in. "I could use a washout, and a drink, for that matter."

The bell-bottom waddled, clapper bonging all the way down to the river's edge. Without preamble, he simply leaped from the river bank into the water, and sank like a stone. A large air bubble gurgled to the surface, displaced, perhaps, by the open bell shape of his body.

"I suppose I could use a drink," Brownie agreed, but as he moved to the water's edge, his eyes kept returning to the forbidding peaks of the Bald Mountains.

A silent communication seemed to pass between them. A desperate sense of imminent destiny that brought Thomas up short and had him staring at the grizzly. From the expression on the bear's face, Thomas was certain that he felt it too.

"It won't be long," Brownie said grimly.

"No. Tomorrow morning, I should think," Thomas observed.

Neither of them said a word after that. Brownie crouched at the edge of the river and dipped his huge head down to drink. Thomas removed his shoes and rolled up the legs of his pants and tentatively put one foot into the chilly water. It was cold, but it felt good, the current sweeping over the fine hairs on his leg and his foot sinking into the sand beneath the water. The sand would give way to real silt only a few more inches into the river, he knew. The sand itself should not have been there, but Thomas never questioned anything in Strangewood. There were certain things, such as that sand, that had seemed out of place to him even the first time he'd visited this odd, other place.

But there it was. Beneath his feet and real as every nerve and synapse knew it to be. For all that it could not be, Strangewood was as real as the world Thomas had been born into. In many ways, he'd often thought, it was more real. More . . . the word escaped him a moment, but eventually seemed to flutter back into his mind. It was even more normal than the world of his birth.

Several minutes had passed since Tinklebum had dropped beneath the surface, but Thomas and Brownie were not terribly concerned for him. The bell bottom was not going to float, and he was most certainly not going to be able to swim. So it was with no surprise at all that Brownie and Thomas heard a cling-clang clatter from down along the shore — admittedly somewhat muted as Tinklebum was a bit waterlogged as yet — and looked up to see the bell bottom moving toward them once more. Despite his girth, the hollowness of his body had naturally caused the current to drag him a short way downstream, back the way they'd come.

The bell-bottom clanged over the stony patch they'd crossed some short time before and approached with a demeanor even darker than Thomas had previously noted. He'd been amiable previously, but in a slightly psychotic way. Now, despite the refreshing bath, he seemed to have sunken into an anger and depression from which he might never recover. It was as though he were seething, burning, a bomb instead of a bell. Ready to explode.

It worried Thomas greatly, even having him along. Tinklebum's behavior from here on out would be impossible to predict.

As he looked over at Brownie and heard the snuffling chuckle that came from deep in the grizzly's belly as he too watched Tinklebum's approach, Thomas became uneasy at the realization that the bear didn't see it. Brownie was his ally, yes. They were comrades-at-arms. And Tinklebum was supposed to be his ally as well. But the horrors he had experienced served to make him more of a liability than anything.

Before they reached the Jackal Lantern's fortress, he would have to determine if it was even safe to have Tinklebum along. And if he could count on Brownie’s allegiance should he try to send the bell-bottom away.

Still, in spite of Tinklebum's tenuous sanity, a certain fellowship had begun to form. Though only a child when he'd first visited the wood, Thomas had always been the decision maker, the only one among them mature enough to give voice to reason. There was a power in that, but he'd always felt something of a loss from being placed in that position. As if something, somehow, had been taken from him.

This was something altogether new. This joint purpose they now shared made all the frivolous years before seem to dissipate. As a writer, Thomas had felt quite alone at various times over the years. It was a solitary profession. But aside from the tenderest moments with Emily, he had never felt a more intimate bond than this.

Despite his doubts about Tinklebum, he knew that for the life of his son and the future of Strangewood, they would stand or fall, live or die, together. It was like a dream. A form of companionship so pure that he would previously have doubted its existence. But here it was.

And, just as this thought was completing itself in his mind, the sand began to shift beneath his toes. He stared down at the surface of the river as it rushed past his bare legs — the rolled up cuffs of his pants had been twice submerged an inch or so, and lay heavily on his skin — but nothing moved under the water.

The sand and soil of the riverbed buckled suddenly, roiling beneath him so that Thomas lost his balance. Over he went, arms flailing as he fell backward, away from the shore and into the deeper water, with just enough time to see the look of pure astonishment on Brownie's face as he splashed into the cold river.

The river closed around him. Thankfully, he'd managed to hold his breath. But the water had made Thomas deaf and the pressure on his eardrums was eerie. He was comfortable, as some people were not, with opening his eyes under water, but he was angry and embarrassed and frustrated by his fall.

As Thomas struggled to get his feet under him, he looked back under the water toward the riverbank. The sun cut the water enough to cause a certain amount of glittering glare beneath the surface, and his fumbling feet had stirred up some of the silt so he could not see much. But he could see that there was something coming up out of the sand. It had thick claws and a hard blue shell.

In a voice that, underwater, could have been an anchor striking stone, Thomas said, "Shit."

With a single thrust, he propelled himself to the surface and found that, on tiptoe, he could put his face out of the water.

"Sand crabs!" he screamed.

He'd forgotten all about the things. From the look on Brownie's face — amusement turning swiftly to alarm — he wondered if the bear had ever even heard of the creatures. Tinklebum was running along the shore toward where Thomas had fallen in — where the sand crab was emerging — and it was decidedly surreal. Thomas's ears were still underwater, so while he could see the bell-bottom waddling quickly along, there was no sound to accompany him. It made the shore seem that much farther away.

A flash of blue beneath the water, and Thomas knew the sand crab was coming for him. Brownie roared and leaped into the water behind the thing, and Thomas turned and dove into the current. As he did, he felt something try to grip his leg and spun in the water to see that another of the sand crabs had come up behind him when he was not paying attention.

That was two.

There would be more.

Brownie ducked his entire upper body into the water, head, shoulders, and arms disappearing into the river. With a splash, he pulled backward, hauling from the water the snapping, hissing crab who had first unbalanced Thomas. Its trio of dark blue claws clicked together with dangerous precision and one of them closed on Brownie's right arm, not far from the shoulder. The bear growled.

Quickly he turned, stomped two large steps to the shore, and tore the sand crab's grip away. He held it over his head and beat it mercilessly against the ground, shell cracking, small eyes popping, claws shattering, until only green and red entrails and shards of blue shell were left.

By then, Thomas had scrabbled up the stony portion of the riverbank, where he saw not a single claw erupting from the ground. The stony portion of the shore must be safe, he guessed. At least from attack from below.

"Tinklebum! Brownie! Here!" he cried loudly, even as the sand crab he'd managed to swim past poked its stalk eyes out of the water along with its two foreclaws and began snapping at him.

Moving closer.

"Brownie!" Thomas shouted again.

But the grizzly had other troubles. The sand just at the edge of the water had begun to churn as though the earth were about to split. Several sets of claws emerged along the shore, and Thomas could see at least two other sand crabs moving up out of the water toward the riverbank. The current didn't seem to be bothering the crabs at all.

Lucky them, Thomas thought. This was what they were made for.

Without another moment's hesitation, Thomas glanced around and found the largest stone he thought he could lift. He gripped it with two hands, hefted it, and under its burden, he stomped along the stony shore to where the sand began.

Tinklebum was going a little berserk. He stood still, screaming at the crabs, his whole body shaking so much that his clapper bonged against his insides loud enough to make Thomas wince in pain. But it kept the crabs at bay for a brief moment. Long enough for Thomas to come up behind the nearest one and drop the rock.

It crushed the crab's shell, pinning it to the sand. But even as Tinklebum saw Thomas and decided it was time to move, the crab reached a quivering claw out to clamp down on the bell-bottom's leg. Whatever Tinklebum was made of, however — porcelain or steel, Thomas didn't have a clue — the claw did no real damage save a minor scratch. Then it fell away as the crab at last died.

The others were moving in.

The river burbled by at what seemed a quickened pace. The clouds were uncaring wisps above as the breeze caressed both innocent and vicious alike. It was a beautiful day to die. But Thomas was determined not to oblige.

"Brownie, come on!" he shouted at the bear, who even now was bleeding from several minor wounds as he used one flailing crab to batter another. "We've got to get out of here or we're fucking dead!"

The grizzly winced, turned his attention from the crabs for a moment, and then tossed two of them aside. With the lumbering stride of a furry freight train, he pounded along the sand toward them. In seconds, he stood at their side, bleeding and sweating, despite the chilly wind. And the crabs moved in from sand and water alike.

"Please try not to be profane," Brownie asked Thomas. "It doesn't become you."

Thomas glanced at the bear as though he were insane, but saw that Brownie was quite serious. "I'm afraid it has become me," he said sadly. "I'm not eight years old anymore."

"I think we're all well aware of that, Thomas," Brownie snapped.

For a moment, Thomas was taken aback by the bear's use of his given name, rather than the seemingly more intimate but in truth more formal name they all called him here. But then he smiled. For wasn't this just another example of the bond he had been contemplating just as they were attacked?

"Our Boy!" Tinklebum shouted. "Pay attention!"

Thomas snapped out of his momentary distraction just as a sand crab attempted to flank him from the east.

"To the wood?" Brownie asked.

"It will cost us time," Thomas hesitated.

As he spoke those words, there was a splash further out on the river. Though he was busy reaching down to heft another large stone, and urging the others to do the same, Thomas glanced out across the river. A flat black figure skimmed along the rolling water. Another broke the surface. And another, and another, and soon there were an even dozen of the broad black things gliding across the river.

"Look!" Tinklebum cried. "Oh, Our Boy, look!"

"Flying mantas," Thomas whispered.

His mind connected instantly to that moment in Philipse Manor, when he'd been sitting alone the Hudson and had seen one of these creatures on the river. He'd doubted his sanity then.

He realized now he'd only doubted it because he had forgotten so much. Lost so much that was vital to everything he was, everything he had. Strangewood was as close to him as his heart and soul, and he'd nearly let it all slip away.

With their long, thin, whiplike stinger tails hanging beneath them, the mantas swept over the crabs and attacked. Though Brownie retreated a ways toward the wood thirty or forty yards distant, Thomas did not move an inch. He knew they were in no danger from the mantas. The flying things had come to the rescue.

Moments later, the sand crabs were all dead or retreating into the river. The flying mantas glided over the sand briefly, then banked and returned to the river, slicing the water as neatly as the hook of a careful fisherman.

Then they were gone.

The three comrades stood alone on the shore, staring at the Up-River flowing by. After a long moment, Thomas turned to Brownie and, without putting voice to his inquiry, began examining the bear's wounds. They would need to be cleaned and dressed, but none of them were terribly serious. He would be all right, if a bit sore.

Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw the Bald Mountains looming far ahead in the western sky, and he had a dreadful thought. These would hardly be the worst injuries Brownie would sustain on this journey.

Suddenly, the air was split by the sound of wind chimes and carillon bells, and Thomas froze, a smile spreading slowly over his face. Brownie grunted with pleasure and Tinklebum opened his mouth to shout his happiness at this reunion.

"Our Boy, Our Boy, I knew you'd come!" Fiddlestick cried gleefully, and Thomas felt a surge of love and hope in his heart. Where some of his other friends here might be glad of his presence because they thought he held the key to Strangewood's future, he knew that Fiddlestick had genuinely missed him.

He felt the same. "It's so good to see you, little dragon!" he said loudly, over the music of the dragon's wings, as Fiddlestick's leathery green wings slowed and he settled on Brownie's shoulder, his orange belly a bit larger than Thomas remembered.

"What's this then?" the bear growled, sniffing something on the air. "You haven't come alone, have you, little one?"

There was a moment's pause, and then they all turned to see the figure standing at the edge of the wood, not yet venturing out onto the barren scrub between trees and sand. At last, the figure spoke.

"That's a brave little dragon," said the Peanut Butter General. "I'd likely be dead if not for him."

With great care, he stepped out of the wood and walked with a slight limp down the river bank toward the stony stretch of shore where they were gathered. When he was twenty feet away, he stopped, as if waiting to be invited to join them.

"It's good to see you, Thomas," the General said, with a tenderness in his voice the others had surely never heard before, if one were to judge by the expressions on their faces.

Thomas bit his lip a moment, emotions at war within his breast. Then, voice cracking, he spent all those emotions on two words.

He said, "Hello, Dad."

* * * * *

On Saturday morning, the sun shone brightly through the window of Nathan Randall's hospital room. The flowers that had come from Sentinel Software had a wonderful scent; sweet, but not overpowering. They were a peach color, but Emily couldn't remember what they were called. Something Lorena had picked out, she was sure.

But she didn't really care about flowers. Not right now.

She glanced once at Nathan, who lay unmoving on his hospital bed just as he had for what seemed like forever now, though the time could still be counted in days. Emily was frayed at the edges. It wasn't enough that she had to see her son and his father reduced to such total helplessness; now there was the break-in to deal with and the stalker, if that's what he was.

And what was he? Emily didn't want to think about it, but her mind kept coming back again and again to that face in the darkness. It terrified her, not because of the danger it represented, but because it made her wonder about the state of her own mind, and the things Thomas had said before he . . . before he'd been hospitalized.

Her jaw set and brow creased, she turned back to Dr. Gershmann, who stood leaning against the windowsill, watching her expectantly.

"I'm sorry, Doc," Emily said, her voice quavering, hands fluttering madly. "'I don't know' just doesn't cut it any more. It just isn't good enough. You people are the doctors. You're supposed to know these things."

Gershmann sighed. A bead of sweat appeared on his gleaming pate.

"Mrs. Randall, I'm sorry, there's nothing else I can tell you. As I've told you, we've been in contact with a number of specialists. Aaron Levitz at New England Memorial in Boston was so taken by the case that he's driving down next week on his own time. But so far, we simply have no idea what this brain activity means."

It was so silent in the room, despite the noise from the hall, that Emily realized she could hear her watch ticking. She stared at Dr. Gershmann for nearly a minute, at a loss for some kind of cogent response. Until she realized there was no cogent response. Then she looked down at Nathan, at the tape over his eyelids, at the way he seemed to have shrunk in his days confined to that narrow, comfortless bed. She sat down beside him, wanting to touch him, to stroke his hair and kiss his little fingers the way she had done when he was a baby.

But she didn't. With Nathan there in the bed and Gershmann standing by, and with the overwhelming feeling she'd had for the past couple of days that she was being observed . . . Emily simply felt too exposed. She hoped that Gershmann would get the hint, but he seemed to be waiting for some kind of response from her. Something more.

Emily turned her gaze to meet the doctor's. "If you'll excuse me," she said weakly, "I'd just like to be alone with my son."

The morning had passed that way, with Emily sitting quietly by Nathan's bedside. The previous day, she had spent a great deal of time on the phone. Lorena had called several times from the office. The detective, Walt Sarbacker, had called to say that they'd found no useable fingerprints, but the hair fibers were still being analyzed. Francesca had called to say the Fox deal was going to happen and wasn't that good news?

"Wonderful," Emily had said, without conviction.

But she hadn't heard from the one person whose voice she most needed to hear. She'd left Joe a message before leaving for the hospital this morning, but hadn't shared any of the urgency she felt. She hadn't told him anything about the break-in. As the morning passed, she began to wish she had told him how badly she needed him. How intensely she felt the desire simply to be held. Embraced.

Midmorning, she had two calls from Lorena. She was in the office on a Saturday, which made Emily realize she would have to return to work soon. It wasn't fair to the other woman, whatever her own personal tragedies.

The next time her phone rang, she was certain it would be Joe. But when she answered, her tone hopeful, she was disappointed to discover that it was not Joe, but Chris Lebo, her attorney. As Chris spoke to her, Emily began to feel numb. By the time he said good-bye, tears of anguish were streaming down her face. She leaned against her son and wept for several moments, until a nurse came in to bathe Nathan.

It was nearly one o'clock when Emily left Nathan in the nurse's care. An errant thought ran through her mind, a reminder that she'd had nothing to eat save a nibble at breakfast. But she wasn't hungry. After leaving her son's room, she went downstairs to see Thomas.

In his bed, her ex-husband seemed diminished. The imagination that had once thrilled her so now simply disconnected. As she entered his room, she sniffed the air, without truly understanding why she would do such a thing. She didn't know what she expected to smell. But there was a scent there. An aroma not generally associated with hospital wards.

The air in Thomas's room smelled wild, like the sky pregnant with imminent showers and the animals running for some shelter from the angry storm.

It stopped her, there in the doorway.

She looked into Thomas's face and saw Nathan's. Never had the two shared so much, looked so alike. And yet, where Nathan's face had looked serene and unlined, Thomas's expression was troubled. Perhaps, she thought in a fleeting moment of fancy, he too had the scent of the coming storm.

"Emmy, you're losing it," she told herself, and forced a dry chuckle that even she did not believe.

She would not believe.

Emily walked into Thomas's room and over to his bedside. She stood there for a moment, love and sorrow in her heart, though she was still angry with him for what she thought a cowardly action. But she could not remain angry with him. For whatever he might have done to her, what she was even now doing seemed, to her at least, to be so much worse.

With a sigh, she crouched down beside Thomas and put her hand on his bicep. She studied the stubbled face and the way his salt and pepper hair had gone over to more salt than pepper in the past week or so.

Biting her lip, she said, "I'm sorry."

Behind her, someone cleared their throat.

Emily stood, face flushed at this interruption of the closest thing to intimacy she and Thomas had had in nearly a year. When she turned, her eyes were cold and hard. Until she saw the familiar figure framed by the door, the burnt blond hair and tender gray eyes.

"Oh, Joe . . .” she whispered, feeling suddenly weak.

He moved to her swiftly. Emily drew him close and held him as tightly as she was able, her face pressed against his chest. Though she tried her best to fight them, fresh tears sprang to her eyes as she told him what had happened the night before. For the first time, Emily began to realize just how frightened she had been. And she was forced to admit that the terror had not departed.

She told him about the man who had broken in, and he was furious with her for not telling him sooner. Emily felt a bit angry. Did he actually expect her to leave that kind of a message on his machine? Besides, when he didn't call, she had thought he needed some space.

When her crying had subsided somewhat, Joe whispered to her. "You're okay, sweetheart," he said. "I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."

Emily stiffened. Joe felt her sudden tension and stepped back from her a bit, studying her face. She didn't know what to say to him. Was he aware, she wondered, of what he'd just promised? And was it a genuine promise, or merely spoken to calm her?

At length, she relaxed a bit and offered a wan smile. "I'm glad," she said. "After yesterday morning, I don't want you going anywhere. Not that I need protection, mind you."

"Oh no," Joe agreed, shaking his head. "But there's strength in numbers."

"Exactly," Emily agreed.

This time, her smile was warmer, more natural. She embraced Joe again, and it felt better than she could have imagined. Whatever was coming, he planned to stick by her. That was what had really transpired here, and it was exactly what she needed at the moment. The night before, alone in her house, she had been terrified that the intruder would return.

Joe asked, "So what are you apologizing to Thomas for? It isn't like you're the one who gave him that booze-and-pills cocktail."

With a small shudder, Emily pushed gently away from Joe, allowing the fingers of her right hand to stay entwined with his as she turned to look at Thomas again. He had not moved, of course. But unless it was her imagination, his face seemed even more troubled than before.

"I heard from my attorney today," she said. "He believes my motion for sole custody will be approved. Of course, when Thomas recovers, they'll give him a psychiatric evaluation to see if he's fit, but . . . for now . . ."

Her words trailed off, and Emily let her head fall, her eyes closed as she said a silent prayer. She pulled her hand away from Thomas and ran her fingers through her messy blonde cascade of hair.

"You make it sound like that's a bad thing," Joe said tentatively. "I thought . . . I mean, isn't that what you wanted?"

Without turning to face Joe, Emily nodded slowly. "It was. But now, I just don't know. I don't know what's best for Nathan, and if I don't . . . then who does? I've reached the point where I can't be sure if Thomas's raving was just him losing it, or if it was . . ."

Emily froze. Her eyes were wide and she looked down upon Thomas without really seeing him. It felt as though she and Joe were both holding their breath. She had just realized what she had been about to say, and she knew that Joe realized it as well.

Then he put voice to it.

"Real?" he asked, his voice barely hiding the derision he obviously felt. "We are talking about the same lunacy, right? That whole business about him receiving secret messages from the characters in his books? I know you're under intense pressure, honey, but please don't tell me that you actually think . . ."

She erupted then, turning on him in a rage. "I don't know what to think!" Emily shouted, glaring at him for a moment before burying her face in her hands, all the energy passing from her in a single instant.

Joe reached out, grabbed her hands, and pulled them gingerly away. Emily looked up, unwilling to meet his eyes at first. Finally, she gazed into the calm gray there, and she saw how much he cared, despite himself. She knew what a trial it must have been for him to be with her of late. A lot of guys would have cut and run. But Joe didn't want to go. He wanted to stay with her. That meant a lot.

"It's crazy, Emmy," he said gently, eyes imploring. "You know that, right? I'm sorry, but Thomas went off the deep end, and then he tried to kill himself. That's what happened. If you want to stay by him until he gets his head back together, that's okay. But don't get sucked into the asylum. Don't stare too long into the abyss, Emily."

Later, Emily wouldn't be able to recall what exactly had changed in her at that moment. Perhaps it was the eloquence in Joe's words, the presence of an English teacher rearing its erudite head. It might merely have been his tenderness. Whatever the reason, she felt both the sudden need, and the sudden ability, to share with him the source of her troubled mind.

"Sit down, please," she said, taking him by the hand. "I want to tell you a story."

She led him to a chair by the window and, though he hesitated, Joe sat. Emily looked out the window for several long moments, and then she turned to look at Thomas. Her back was to Joe. That seemed important for some reason, as though she could pretend that he wasn't there. That she was speaking only to Thomas, who could not hear her.

"When he was seven years old, Thomas's family moved to Virginia. His father, Sean, was a career army officer, and they were living on base at that time. One afternoon, after his father had been gone for several days, Thomas was playing with several other children just down the street from his family's home. His mother, Annie, was inside making dinner. Thomas remembers, even now, that she was making liver that day, and he was desperately hoping he'd be able to stay out so late that she'd feed his to the dog."

Emily smiled. "He used to say there were times he didn't mind going to bed without his supper."

She turned to look at Joe now. His face was rapt. The story was simple enough, but she knew that he could hear in her voice that it was more than that.

"I'm sure you see where this is going," she said, and then her eyes drifted out the window as her voice dropped to just above a whisper. "Or you think you do."

In the corridor, a nurse began to shout. Several pairs of feet ran past Thomas's room. A phone rang at the nurses' station just down the hall. Life went on. Death went on. Out the window, the afternoon sun cast long shadows. In his bed, Thomas Randall didn't move a muscle; didn't even twitch. But the sensors registering his brain waves continued their impossible analysis.

Joe began to speak, apparently thinking Emily had paused, expecting him to respond in some way. But the first sound that came from his mouth was squelched when she went on.

"It was getting late. Thomas was happy his mother hadn't called him yet for dinner. For liver. Many parents had come home already, and there were cars parked along the street. The ball they were playing with sailed out into the road . . ."

That was as far as Emily could go at the moment. She bit her lip and wiped her eyes and turned to smile at Joe and shrug.

"Happens every day," she said.

Joe looked at her oddly, uncomprehendingly. "Thomas ran after the ball. He was hit by a car?" Joe surmised. "So . . . what? He's been in a coma before?"

Emily nodded. "Actually, that's why he had those pills in the house. He's had seizures off and on for years, ever since that accident."

"I'm sorry, Em. I don't understand. It's a damn shame, but like you said, it happens every day. And Thomas obviously recovered." He shrugged. "I'm not trying to be insensitive, but what does this have to do with anything?"

The word "nothing" came to Emily's lips, but she pressed them tight to keep it from escaping. Then she swallowed it back down. These things were swirling around her head, tearing up her mind with needles for claws, and she needed to let them out, to share them with someone or she really would go insane.

She remembered the first time Thomas had told her this story. They'd been married less than a year, and she'd laughingly related a run-in she'd had with an old friend who, upon learning she had married the famed children's author TJ Randall, asked where her husband got his ideas. It was widely regarded as the dumbest question anyone could ask of a writer — mainly because none of them had a real answer — and Emily was aware of the notorious quality the question had.

But Thomas hadn't laughed. Instead, he'd said, very quietly, "I want to tell you a story." And his story had begun with the words, "When I was seven years old, my family moved to Virginia."

She'd never forgotten the story. But there were parts of it she had never quite believed, either.

"The driver of the car was General Sean Randall," she said quickly. "Thomas's father."

She saw the pain in Joe's eyes, pain for a little boy he'd never known, not even as the man that little boy had become, and Emily found that she loved him a little then. Maybe more than a little. She took the three steps to the chair where he was sitting and took his hand, leaning against the wall for support as she continued.

"Thomas's mother hadn't called him for dinner because she wanted to surprise him. His father was coming home a few days early. It was dark, and the General was driving a little too fast, looking forward to seeing his family. At first, he'd thought Thomas was dead. But, obviously, Thomas wasn't."

They both looked at the prone form of Emily's ex-husband. Joe muttered, "Obviously," under his breath. Emily smiled thinly, and quite purposely kept her eyes on Thomas.

"No. He wasn't dead," she repeated. "He was in Strangewood."

She felt Joe's eyes upon her, but he said nothing. What could he say, after all, to such a statement?

"With his parents dead, and the doctors who treated him likely passed on or not long for this world, you're the only person besides myself who knows this part of the story," Emily admitted. "I shouldn't even be telling you, but maybe you'll start to understand why all this is frightening me so much. Why the fact that the doctors can't give me a single clue as to what's happening to my boy is scaring the hell out of me.

"Thomas spent nearly a month in that coma. When he recovered, all he could talk about was Strangewood, a wonderful and yet scary place where he had lived while his body lay in that bed. All the ideas for those books came from there, don't you understand?

"Why do you think he never wrote anything else?"

As she had expected, it was this last thought that made Joe's brow crease with denial. It was impossible, that's what he'd say. But it was true that TJ Randall had never published anything but Strangewood in the entirety of his career as a writer.

Joe shivered a little, and Emily didn't think he even noticed it. Then he stood up from the chair, reached for her hands, and pulled her near to him. Near enough that she could smell his cologne, a sweet manly scent.

And she thought of that other odor, the wild smell of . . . of the wood.

"Writers create out of their dreams all the time, Emily," Joe said. "At seven, in a coma, who's to say what Thomas's mind whipped up to entertain him. But what you're implying . . ."

"I'm not implying anything."

Joe glanced over at Thomas, and a new understanding began to dawn on his face. "Wait," he said. "Are you saying you think that right now, he and Nathan . . ."

"Of course not," Emily snapped, and Joe's shoulders sagged with relief at the certainty in her voice. "I'm freaking out, Joe, but I'm not nuts. I'm a rational woman. All I'm saying is, you can understand how I would find all of this really, really difficult to deal with."

Joe nodded. "Absolutely. God, what a horrible story."

"Yeah. But it made him rich."

They both laughed at her irreverence, which was Emily's intention. She moved into Joe's arms and relaxed there.

"I just need you here with me, to talk to me and tell me I'm not going nuts, okay?"

"I'm not going anywhere," Joe confirmed.

But his face was lined with thought, a question forming within him.

"What?" she asked.

"I was just curious what happened to the general. Thomas's father?" Joe said, the story obviously still haunting him.

Emily felt a chill run through her. She gnawed her lip a moment and looked over at Thomas again, wishing for nothing more than to hear his voice and Nathan's voice again.

"Sean came into Thomas's room in uniform one night. The story goes that he hadn’t waited long enough for Thomas to come around. Convinced that he'd killed his only child, the General shot himself in the head. The doctors found his corpse lying across Thomas's comatose body, blood and everything else sprayed all over the place.

"An hour later," Emily added grimly, "Thomas woke up from his coma."

* * * * *

On the banks of the Up-River: the burble of the rushing water, the contented growl of a dancing bear, the rhythmless bonging of a living bell, and the wild music of a dragon's wings all joined together to create an extraordinary orchestra of love and anxiety and companionship. It should have been a horrible cacophony. Instead, it was music.

Brownie and Fiddlestick and Mr. Tinklebum kept to themselves near the river's edge, though each with an eye out for the return of the sand crabs. They did not feel it appropriate to interrupt, or even overhear, the conversation their other companions were having several yards away, nearer to the trees. Nearer to the wood.

Thomas Randall and the Peanut Butter General embraced tightly. Though Thomas wept openly, the General did not. Perhaps he could not.

After a time, during which the General told him over and over that all would be well, Thomas spoke haltingly.

"I'm . . . I'm sorry that you're here," he confessed, his anguish plain. "I'm sorry I put you here."

Quite firmly, the General replied, "I'm not."

He placed a peanut butter encrusted hand on the shoulder of Our Boy, "We're together, TJ. That's all that matters."

This use of his hated nickname didn't rouse any objection from Thomas. It seemed perfectly natural to him. He nodded, pulled himself away from the General, the peanut butter leaving an oily film behind, and looked up toward the Bald Mountains.

"You're right," Thomas said. "Let's go get my son."

Together, they set off toward the west, along the Up-River, headed for the fortress of the Jackal Lantern.

CHAPTER 16

On Monday morning, Emily sat in her car in the parking lot of Sentinel Software for nearly fifteen minutes before she managed to get out of the car and walk inside. More than anything, she needed some stability in her life at the moment. The only way she could think of to get that was to go back to work, albeit part time.

She hadn't called first, so when she walked into the warmly decorated reception area, Bedelia, behind the desk, was wide-eyed. Then her demeanor changed to such an odd combination of sympathy and genuine pleasure at her return that Emily could not help but be soothed. She was also relieved to learn that Arthur Hobbs, Sentinel's CEO, was in the office that day.

First thing, she stopped by Art's office and requested a meeting later in the day. He had a late morning opening, and she gladly took it.

When she walked into HR, Lorena was ecstatic.

"Oh my God!" the diminutive dyed redhead screeched, rushing up to hug Emily. "What are you doing here?"

Emily grinned, unable to help herself. "I work here, remember?"

Lorena clapped her hands together like a little girl. "Oh, I'm so glad to have you back," she said in a rush. Then, with a crease in her brow, she added, "Wait, are you back?"

"I have a meeting with Art at eleven-thirty," Emily confirmed. "I'm hoping I can do two or three days at first, split my time between here and the hospital. I'm not doing anyone any good over there, and I'd like to get back into the swing of things."

A little human contact couldn't hurt, either, Emily thought. And already, that feeling was paying off. Lorena's welcome had solidified her feeling that this was a good idea indeed. Just what she needed. People to talk to, to make her feel useful again. It had only been ten days or so since she'd last been in the office — they probably hadn't even missed her that much — but the tragedies of the past week had made her feel aimless, useless. And recently, she had begun to feel vulnerable.

Emily didn't want that. Her mother didn't raise her to be a victim.

"Can we have lunch?" Lorena asked excitedly. "I know Sandra and Allis will be thrilled you're back as well."

"Is it okay if we wait until Friday? I'd just like to sit at my desk for a bit, go through some paperwork, and get reacclimated. That sort of thing."

Lorena smiled. "You got it." Then she kissed Emily's cheek and went back to her desk, leaving her boss to get on with the process of jump-starting her life outside of the hospital.

With a smile of her own, Emily went into her office and immediately was comforted by the overpowering familiarity of the place. There was the jar of Jolly Rancher candies she always kept on her desk. The floral calendar she ordered once a year from an Italian import company in Boston. The huge spider plant that Lorena had — quite obviously — been watering during her absence.

After several moments of appreciating the space, she slid into the leather chair behind her desk. For more than an hour, she sorted paperwork, read over résumés, and returned phone calls that Lorena had been unable to deal with. It was after ten thirty when she leaned back in her chair, swiveled slightly, and glanced out the window to enjoy the view of the forest beyond.

Then she screamed.

Outside her office, she heard Lorena shout, and the sound of a phone clattering onto the top of a desk or chair. Emily was staring out the window in horror when Lorena ran into her office.

"Emily, my God, what . . ."

"Out the window. At the edge of the lot, by the trees . . . do you see him?" Emily muttered and felt like she was babbling.

Lorena came over to the window next to her and peered out. Emily's heart beat wildly in her chest. She was afraid, for just a moment, that she was imagining it. That Lorena would see nothing.

Then the other woman said, "Jesus, who the fuck is that?"

She'd seen him, all right.

And somehow, that was worse.

Under the canopy of trees, Laughing Boy stood and stared up at the window of Emily Randall's office. His eyes were excellent, and he had circled the building searching the windows until he spotted her, about twenty minutes after she had first entered the building.

And now she had spotted him.

He began to giggle madly. He couldn't help it, really. Laughing Boy was a hyena after all, or part of him was. It wasn't even really a laugh, so much as a nervous, guttural response he could not control. And he was certainly nervous. He had been ever since he had first left Strangewood, first walked the Scratchy Path out to the world that Our Boy had come from. They had given him a job he didn't know how to perform. They wanted him to talk to her, to make her believe. Laughing Boy wasn't even really sure he knew why it was important, only that Fiddlestick and the others had said it was.

For the little one, Nathan, to come back, and for Our Boy to prevail, she was supposed to believe.

But Laughing Boy had screwed up. He'd frightened her at first, and how could they have thought she wouldn't be frightened? They ought to have sent little Tinklebum, or Fiddlestick ought to have come himself. But the bell-bottom was not stable, the dragon had said. And Brownie and Fiddlestick were needed in Strangewood.

It had to be Laughing Boy.

But he'd scared her. And she'd screamed at him and hit him and he'd cut himself crashing out her window.

Now he'd scared her again. Even now she was looking down at him from her office window. He'd been careless, come too far out of the trees, and now there were two women up there.

With a cackle of guttural laughter, he drew back into the trees and began to wind his way back through the forest. He would return to her town. To her home — or perhaps the hospital. He would simply wait until he could get close to her again, and then he would grab her, and tell her. Explain. He would make her believe.

A chill ran through him.

Laughing Boy wasn't just nervous anymore. He was a little scared. Time was passing too quickly, now. They'd told him to be quick about it, and already it had been days. He'd begun to realize that whatever it took, he was going to have to get close enough to her to make her listen. He might be a bit “tetched,” as Brownie always said, but Laughing Boy was no fool. He knew the woman was not going to listen by choice.

He would have to make her.

* * * * *

"That's extraordinary," the Peanut Butter General said, sticky-webbed eyes wide.

He stood next to Thomas, with Fiddlestick resting on his shoulder once more. Brownie and Tinklebum stumbled up behind them, the bell-bottom ringing loudly. The General wondered if they couldn't do something about that without killing the poor little fellow. He also wondered if Tinklebum wasn't going to turn out to be a liability in other ways. It was obvious, at least to the General, that the bell-bottom wasn't at all sane. He'd seen it before, the horror in the eyes of a soldier who'd seen too much.

They snapped so easily.

This was war. They couldn't afford to have Tinklebum announcing their arrival, or going completely over the edge at the wrong moment. It was one of many things he and Thomas would have to discuss before the attack. But for now, the sun would be down soon, and the attack would have to wait until the morning. They still had a ways to go before they would be in the foothills of the Bald Mountains. That was where they would make camp for the night.

Still, he could not have passed by this sight without pausing, at least momentarily, to appreciate it.

"It was here before I first visited," Thomas told him.

"It's . . .” the General searched for the word, a word he hadn't used in such a long time. Then he found it. "It's beautiful," he said.

And it was. A huge fountain of water pluming up into the air above a small lake, it was the source of the Up-River. From there, the water flowed uphill in a circle all around Strangewood, until it cut across the western edge of the wood and was forced up a water rise, and then on up into the mountains, where it finally tumbled off into the Misty Nothing.

"I believe the water goes into the Nothing and then pops up here again," Thomas explained. "Just part of the cycle."

"Indeed," the General said, studying the hundred-foot fountain. "And if that wasn't the explanation before your first visit, it became so when you started writing about it."

Thomas winced as if he'd been slapped. He looked penitent, an expression the General remembered well from his son's childhood.

"Is that how it works?" Thomas asked.

"You tell me," the General said and smiled amiably. He reached out and ruffled his son's hair. "You're the one who put me here, remember?"

That didn't help, though. It only made Thomas more sullen.

"Dad, I told you, I . . ."

"That's not what I meant, TJ," said the General. "Believe me, I never believed in anything . . . after. I wasn't much for religion, as I'm sure you remember. When you first came here . . .” and now it was the General's turn to grow somber, for he could not help but recall the circumstances of Thomas's accident.

He let his eyes drift back to the fountain. The others stood several yards away, so only Fiddlestick was privy to this conversation. And the dragon seemed to be doing his best not to pay attention. The General glanced at him, reached up, and stroked his leathery green wings with sticky fingers. Fiddlestick nodded once.

"When you first came here," he began again, "the doctors were sure you were going to die. I guess I always figured that somehow, Strangewood patched you up the same way this ridiculous peanut butter takes care of my injuries.

"From then on, it was a part of you in a way that made it impossible for your fates not to be intertwined. And then, when you started writing about it, well, that just changed everything."

Thomas glanced around, catching Brownie's eye. Tinklebum wasn't looking at anyone, but his eyes darted round and he seemed to be mumbling to himself. The General was growing even more worried about him.

"I'm glad I'm here, Thomas," the General said at length. "You saved me, in a way. Though I know you had no real reason to. I wasn't much of a father."

Though a part of him wanted desperately for Thomas to disagree, he didn't really expect it. And he didn't get it. Thomas remained silent, staring at the water spout. He was no fool. He knew there was love between himself and his son. But love didn't mean Thomas was going to lie just to assuage his guilt.

They stood together in silence for some time.

"I'm sorry about all this," he said at last. "We'll get Nathan back, TJ. I only wish I'd had the foresight to see it coming. I might have prevented it completely."

Thomas shook his head now. "It's my fault," he said. "I'd forgotten about Strangewood, I guess. It was just dreams to me after a while, and over time, I started taking the dreams for granted. When Nathan was born, it just didn't seem that important anymore.

"It never occurred to me that I might be . . . hurting anyone."

Suddenly, Fiddlestick fluttered his wings. The General winced at the loud music in his ear, and father and son both raised their eyebrows and looked at the dragon. In that moment, the General didn't think Thomas had ever looked so much like him, and he smiled just a bit.

"Fiddlestick?" Thomas asked.

"You didn't do anything, Our Boy," Fiddlestick said gravely. "We could have gotten on without you. The General has explained a lot to me on our journey together, things I supposed I always knew but never understood. We were here before you. And maybe some of us would be gone, or things would change drastically, but I think we'd be here after you. But even if that weren't true, what the Lantern has done is evil. Your Nathan has done nothing. Yet it is he who suffers for our fears."

Thomas nodded grimly. The Peanut Butter General reached out and placed a hand on his son's shoulder, gripping it firmly. Brownie came up then, and it seemed he had overheard at least part of the conversation.

"Let us go, then," he said. "We'll find the foothills tonight, and tomorrow morning, we save the boy Nathan."

"Tomorrow morning," Tinklebum said merrily, madly, "the Jackal Lantern dies."

Several hours later, they broke through a stretch of trees to find the earth turned hard. Scrub grass led to stone and earth, and ahead, the mountains rose to the sky. The tallest of the Bald Mountains was straight ahead.

"Well, then, here we are," said Brownie.

"So where are the Rangers?" Thomas asked. "It seems that Redleaf has let us down."

Behind them, the wood came alive with thudding steps and whispering branches, with blowing leaves and crackling roots. Thomas whirled to see six trees separate themselves and walk forward. Redleaf was there. So were Whippor Will and Black Bark. Ahead of them all, Captain Broadbough stepped forward and lowered his branches in a kind of salute.

"You underestimate us, Our Boy," Broadbough said. "Many of our number have died by fire, but we are with you. The Jackal Lantern must be stopped, not merely because of the threat he represents to the wood entire, but for the evil he has already done."

Thomas was nearly overcome with emotion. Relief, honor, fear, hope, and so many other feelings warred within him.

"Thank you, Captain," he said. "You give me faith."

That night, they slept safely beneath the branches of the guardians of the wood.

Dawn would come too soon.

* * * * *

Torchlight flickered off the damp walls of the Jackal Lantern's audience chamber. On all fours, he paced the stone floor, the flame inside his pumpkin head blazing more brightly than usual. A low growl escaped him as he moved about the room.

It was the heart of his fortress. The place where he was accustomed to retreating from the wood, from the world. He could not be touched here, not ever. Or, at least, that was what he had believed before Our Boy turned away from Strangewood and it all began to fall apart. The Lantern was the king of fear in the wood, but he had suddenly begun to grow fearful himself, which was why he had stolen the child; to force Our Boy to pay attention.

But now, deep within his fortress, the Jackal Lantern had never felt so vulnerable. He would kill the child if he had to, if Our Boy would not listen to reason. If he cared so little for the wood, at the very least, he ought to give that power to old Jack. As far as old Jack was concerned.

"Mmm," the Lantern moaned with a grin of his jagged pumpkin teeth, the light throwing grotesque shadows from within his head, the horrid dreams that shone from his mind.

If Our Boy would not cooperate, then old Jack had nothing to lose. He would tear Thomas Randall's heart from his chest and fry it for his supper. He would pop The Boy's eyes between his teeth. He would make sausage of his viscera, and salad from his brains.

And then, along with the rest of Strangewood, the Jackal Lantern would rot.

It was this very real possibility that was swirling around his brain when the door to his chamber burst open, iron and wood slamming against stone. Cragskull stood in the open doorway, ragged beard flecked with spittle as if from a rabid dog, and a noxious cloud of smoke wisping from his split skull.

"My Lord Jack!" Cragskull shouted.

The Lantern snarled and leaped across the room, fire blazing in his head. He slammed into Cragskull, knocking the filthy man to the floor. Old Jack's claws tore Cragskull's clothing and slashed his chest, and he growled and snapped at the intruder's face.

"No, please, stop!" Cragskull whined. "I . . . I'm sorry, but I . . ."

"Silence!" the Jackal Lantern hissed. "You dare much, fool."

"No . . . please," Cragskull whimpered. "It's Bob, my Lord."

But then the need for words was over. For the Jackal Lantern heard the grunting and snuffling of one of the Simian Sisters and looked up to see the dark shape of a huge mountain gorilla in the corridor. A moment later, she entered his chamber carrying the limp form of Bob Longtooth. His fur was matted with dried blood.

"Longtooth," old Jack whispered. "Shit."

Then he roared, loud and long, the flame inside his pumpkin skull fluttering weakly as he let all his energy fly from him. The gorilla gently lay Longtooth on the stone floor and left the room as quickly as she was able. Cragskull sat by Longtooth's still form, but the Jackal Lantern ignored them both, raging and stalking across the room, back and forth, mind awhirl.

In a flash, he was next to Cragskull again, staring down at Longtooth. He noticed the tiger man's chest rising and falling.

"He lives," said the Jackal Lantern.

"Yes," Cragskull said weakly, the relief obvious in his voice, usually so vicious and cynical.

"Then he will fight," the Lantern said confidently. "Clean him up and put him in a bed somewhere."

Green fire flickered from Cragskull's cracked head as he hauled Longtooth up.

"This is his fault," Cragskull grunted. "The Boy's."

The Lantern froze. "Our Boy did this?" he asked, incredulously.

"The Queen of the Wood gave Bob these wounds," Cragskull said. "But it would never have happened if it weren't for that stupid piece of meat."

The Lantern nodded, relieved. He didn't see Thomas as much of a fighter, but Cragskull's words had given him pause. No, he would prevail. He would rend the Boy's flesh if that was what it took.

But he wouldn't need to. Not at all. Not as long as he had the child, Nathan, upstairs. With Nathan in his possession, Thomas would do whatever old Jack desired.

A sudden fluttering of wings drew his attention, and the Lantern turned to see Barry Crow settling onto the stone floor of the corridor outside his door.

"Permission to enter, my Lord," said Barry.

Ah, thought the Lantern, some of my servants know a bit about protocol.

"Enter."

Barry flew into the chamber and settled on the high back of Jack's chair.

"What is it, bird?"

"It's the boy," replied Barry. "He's dying."

Despite the fact that he was deeply troubled, the Jackal Lantern did not rush up to the chamber where the boy was being held. It would not do for his subjects to witness him in a panic, which was, indeed, what he felt at that moment. No. Rather than lope up the winding stone stairs and run, scrabbling, down the corridor, old Jack walked upright on his hind legs, chest thrust out, fire flickering in his pumpkin eyes.

Even when Cragskull had gone off with Longtooth to tend to the tiger man's wounds, the Lantern did not relax his self-control. Things were not going as planned, but he wasn't about to share his concern. Not even with the crow, who'd been the first of the denizens of Strangewood to pledge loyalty to old Jack, and to his plan.

Barry Crow had killed his own brother at the Lantern's order. As far as old Jack was concerned, that had been a beautiful gesture.

When he reached the corridor upon which Nathan had been housed, he could see candlelight shining brightly from the chamber some way down. Before he arrived at that door, however, he heard the clack of hooves upon stone, and knew that Feathertop was with the sickly lad. And where he found Feathertop, he suspected he would find Grumbler.

The Lantern paused and held up a hand to indicate that Barry should do the same.

". . . not good. If he doesn't get some medicine, at least some food in him or something, and soon, he's gonna die," Grumbler was saying.

"We knew that was a possibility," Feathertop replied, though his voice did not sound as confident as the Jackal Lantern would have liked.

"Yeah, but . . .” Grumbler said grimly. "I don't know. What I do know is that I never signed on for this."

At that moment, the Jackal Lantern chose to storm into the room. The door was open only halfway, and he used all of his considerable strength to slam it open, so that the entire room shook as with thunder to recognize his presence. Fire licked from his eyes and his jagged mouth and his orange skin seemed to glow with the flames therein.

"Idiot!" he roared. "You come to me for my protection and enter into my service, knowing full well the obscenity I am capable of! And here you are, whining like some malingering rodent."

He began to take a breath, and froze. Barry Crow had settled on the footboard of the child's bed. Feathertop and Grumbler merely stared at him openmouthed. Under the disgusting blankets, the child, painfully thin now, began to cough and wheeze horribly. Yet his eyes did not open. His skin had a tinge of green and yellow, colors not usual to the palette of human flesh.

Then Jackal Lantern’s gaze ticked back toward Grumbler, and he leaped across the room as though he might fall upon the dwarf and shred him. Instead, he stopped just in front of the diminutive curmudgeon and, with the back of his right forepaw, cuffed him hard across the bridge of the nose, shattering it.

Grumbler shouted; blood spurted from both nostrils.

The dwarf's right hand twitched, moved a quarter of an inch toward the holstered weapons the Lantern knew he wore under his coat. They moved no further. Instead, Grumbler stared at him in silence.

"All of Strangewood hangs in the balance, dwarf," the Jackal Lantern sneered. "The life of one child is nothing in comparison. As long as he lives until Our Boy arrives, that's all that matters. If you are such the coward that you cannot stand at my side in this coming conflict, then leave now. Please. The sight of a coward sickens me."

Old Jack thought it best not to mention that he needed Grumbler. Nor that, should the dwarf decide to leave, he would be dead before he reached the door. But, though he was obviously furious at both the blow and the insult, Grumbler made no reply, either verbal or physical.

"So," the Lantern said, as if the confrontation had never taken place, "you think he needs food."

"When he's not delirious, he refuses to eat a damn thing," Feathertop said, and neighed quietly, then stamped his hooves. "He may well die if he doesn't eat."

In the corner was a small wooden platter upon which sat a too-moist block of cheese and several slices of grainy, dark bread. The Lantern retrieved the cheese and began to use his claws to cut the slightly moldy edges off of it. When that task was completed, he broke off a small piece, walked to Nathan's bed, and put the food to the boy's mouth.

Nathan did not even open his eyes.

The Jackal Lantern pressed the point of a claw against the boy's cheek, puncturing his flesh and causing Nathan to awaken with a startled cry of pain.

The boy whimpered. His eyes widened when he saw old Jack, and he seemed to dig himself deeper into the mattress, moving as far away as he could manage while staying on the bed.

"Please," the boy croaked. "Please don't . . ."

But that was all he could manage before his body was wracked once more with coughs that made him visibly weaker with each passing moment.

"You will eat," the Jackal Lantern said.

That was all.

Then he brought the small piece of cheese to the boy's lips. The boy flinched, but after a moment, staring at the Lantern and quivering with fear, he opened his mouth and allowed himself to be fed. He chewed, slowly, painfully. After several moments, he tried to swallow; an effort that brought about the most severe bout of coughs yet. The cheese was spit up on the filthy bedclothes.

Nathan clutched his throat, tears streaming down his cheeks, even as his eyes began to lose their focus.

"I can't swallow," he said weakly. "It just hurts so much. Like it . . . shrank."

Then he fainted, there on the mattress. The Jackal Lantern felt the need to retaliate somehow for the insult of having the cheese regurgitated in such appalling fashion. But the boy was clearly beyond punishment. No, as difficult as it was for him to consider, it was up to old Jack to keep the little meatbag alive. At least until his father arrived.

Which would be soon, no doubt.

"Take care of him," the Jackal Lantern growled, glaring at Feathertop and Grumbler. "If he dies, so do you."

* * * * *

An hour before dawn, the Forest Rangers lifted the others up into their branches and began to climb. It was a long and arduous task for the Rangers, but at least the small band joined together to storm the fortress would be fresh for battle by the time they arrived at the peak.

Mr. Tinklebum sat in the foothills and watched them go. It had been decided by all — and the news broken to him by his good friend Fiddlestick — that it would be next to impossible to keep him quiet during the approach to the fortress. The way that the General and Our Boy had whispered together beforehand, and the way that Brownie had objected, and Fiddlestick had made mournful music with his wings, Mr. Tinklebum wondered if there were more to it than that. He wondered if they didn't trust him.

But Fiddlestick promised him that wasn't the case. And Fiddlestick never lied. Not ever.

Tinklebum had wanted to kill the Jackal Lantern, but he did not want to endanger the lives of his friends with the tolling of his bell-bottom. So he stayed behind. He sat and wept and watched them climb for nearly half an hour before he lost sight of them. Then he stood and began the long, dreadful, lonesome journey back to the burned out remains of his home in the Land of Bells and Whistles, where he imagined he would sit and weep for some time before he began to rebuild.

Every morning, he thought, he would rise and begin to toll for the dead. One clang of the bell for every loved one he had lost to the depravations of the Jackal Lantern.

An hour after dawn, he turned and looked back at the rising peak of Bald Mountain behind him. He imagined he could see Our Boy up there on the mountain, with the General and Brownie and the others.

"Kill him," Mr. Tinklebum whispered. "For me. For us all."

Once upon a time, Strangewood had been a happy home for him.

Now, it was hell.

At the same time that Tinklebum made his whispered plea, the Forest Rangers completed their climb, standing up to their full height on the lifeless plateau where the Jackal Lantern's fortress had been built up out of the mountaintop. The highest point in Strangewood. To one side, the Up-River reached its apex, and then tumbled off into the void to begin its journey once more. To the other, the flat and ugly face of old Jack's home.

Captain Broadbough of the Forest Rangers set Thomas down gently on the windswept peak.

"What are your orders, Our Boy?" asked the Captain.

Thomas glanced at the face in Broadbough's bark. "My father is the military man," he said. "All I want to know is how we get in."

Broadbough smiled. "No fear, Thomas," Broadbough said kindly. "We shall get you in."

Thomas looked at his father and saw the way the General's eyes were slitted and sticky with brown sugary webs.

"Once we're inside?" he asked.

The General was silent for a moment. He stared at the face of the fortress, studying it. At length, he turned his attention back to his son.

"There are only four of us. We stay together and we search the place from bottom to top. All we want is Nathan. Anyone gets in the way, we kill them," he said simply, then glanced at them one at a time. "Do any of you have a problem with that?"

"For Strangewood," Brownie said grimly.

"For Our Boy," Fiddlestick said, still in Redleaf's branches.

"For life," said the trees, all in a chorus.

Broadbough then bent, and several of his higher branches brought a gift down to Thomas.

"What is this?" Thomas asked, as the Captain of the Forest Rangers handed him a longbow and a quiver of arrows.

"All made from my own branches, long, long ago," Broadbough said. "They belonged to an archer of some renown. Now they are for you. You cannot be without a weapon."

"It's very kind. Really. But I've never shot a bow in my life," Thomas replied, staring at the thing quizzically.

Broadbough laughed, as did all the others.

"TJ, think," his father said. "Maybe you've lost control of this place. Maybe you were never really in control. But you did alter things sometimes, right?"

"It's your story, Our Boy," Brownie said, bowing deeply. "You may not be able to say how it will end, but surely you can write yourself a bowman."

Thomas stared at the feathers on the arrows in the quiver.

"I'll try," he said tentatively.

Which was when the massive lower doors of the fortress opened, and an enormous black mountain gorilla came shambling out and started toward them with a screeching charge.

Thomas removed an arrow from the quiver, nocked it on the bow, pulled back the string and let the shaft fly. It felt good to him. So natural. The others watched in awe as the red and green feathers whistled in the air.

The arrow missed the gorilla by several yards. Screaming its fury, the savage ape came on. The Peanut Butter General drew his sword. Thomas reached for another arrow.

Two more gorillas emerged from the fortress.

The battle had been joined.

CHAPTER 17

After the shock Emily had received from seeing her stalker out the window of her office, she had simply shut down. Her entire body and her mind had felt numb, as if ice had begun to form within her. Ice only slightly warmed, slightly melted, by the shimmering aura of anger that surrounded it. She was tired of being afraid. Exhausted by the tragedy that her life had become and frustrated by this new addition to it.

The local police had come, of course. They'd done a sweep of the grounds and come up empty, and then one of them, an Officer Whitney, had had a conversation with Detective Sarbacker in Tarrytown, who'd asked that she meet with him to discuss some kind of protection program. She'd arranged to meet at the hospital, so that she could check on Nathan and Thomas, and Sarbacker had readily agreed.

When she'd calmed down slightly, and the police had taken their leave, Emily called Joe, just to touch base. She told him what had happened, and he offered to go by her place and get some things so that she could spend the night at his apartment. And that was that.

Lorena had corralled Dorian from marketing and Garth from the mail room, bother particularly large and imposing men, and the three of them had walked Emily to her car. There was no sign of her pursuer, but Emily was not comforted by his absence. He had been persistent enough so far. She knew that he would show himself again. And again.

Later, during her conversation with Sarbacker at the hospital, Emily couldn't even remember the drive from her office. It was as though she were on autopilot, her entire body just following along with the most basic of impulses. She went in to see Nathan first and kissed his forehead before going to check on Thomas. Nothing had changed.

When Sarbacker arrived, they sat down for coffee in the cafeteria. They must have been between shifts, she thought, because there were a great many people eating and drinking around them, and they had a hell of a time finding a table.

After she'd gone over the events of the day, the detective looked at her with warmth and sympathy. Then his expression became pained, and he ran his fingers through his hair with a sigh of obvious exasperation.

"I've seen this a million times," he said, "though mostly with angry exes and such. If that were the case, it would actually be easier to protect you."

"What are you saying, Walt?" she asked, remembering that he'd asked her to use his first name. She liked the familiarity. It made her feel more valuable to him and, consequently, somehow safer, which was ridiculous, she knew. But that didn't change the feeling.

"I'm sorry, Emily," Sarbacker said, leaning back in his chair and regarding her gravely. "But you have to know that nobody can guarantee your safety."

"Of course I do," Emily snapped. She rolled her eyes. "But, Jesus, what the hell am I supposed to do? This guy hasn't really done anything to me. Not yet. But he's there, all the time. He was in my house. He might be fixing a fucking sandwich in my kitchen right now. What the hell am I supposed to do?"

There were tears struggling to be born at the corners of her eyes, but Emily fought them desperately, nibbling on the inside of her mouth.

"You should leave," Sarbacker said seriously, leaning forward now and forcing her to meet his gaze. "Get away for a while. He'll lose interest in time."

Emily shook her head with a slight smile, then tossed her blonde hair back and regarded him with pained amusement. She could tell by his expression and the tone in his voice that he didn't for a moment believe she would leave town, not with Nathan and Thomas still comatose.

"I can't leave," she said, unnecessarily. "You know that."

Sarbacker sighed. "There isn't a hell of lot we can do for you, then," he informed her bluntly. "I'll try to up the frequency of the prowl car passes by your place. I'll give you my personal beeper number. It's always on. If you like, I can set you up with a self-defense instructor we recommend from time to time. He's local and he's good."

She stared into his kind, sad eyes. His hair seemed a bit more gray today, but she suspected it was just a trick of the horrible cafeteria lighting.

"That's all you can do?" she asked weakly.

The way he'd insisted upon meeting with her, Emily had somehow thought there was more to it, that the police would pay more attention to her plight now that someone else had seen the man who was stalking her. Lorena had provided a horrified description of the man, whose beard, she said, covered so much of his face that he "looked like a werewolf."

"That's it?" Emily prodded, when Sarbacker didn't respond immediately.

"It's a sad truth," Sarbacker confessed, with obvious regret, "but since we have no idea if this freak's got bad intentions or is just obsessed, no one is going to approve protective custody or observation."

"So he has to kill me for anyone to think they ought to protect me?" she'd asked.

Sarbacker didn't respond to that.

With the detective's departure, Emily had spent the rest of the afternoon in with Nathan, just sitting, sometimes reading to him from a book she'd brought from home that he liked to have read to him at Christmas time: The Polar Express, it was called. It wasn't anywhere near Christmas, but he didn't know that. Or at least, she didn't think he did. The only thing that mattered were the words, the soothing, sweet words, and the promise of hope.

Several times, she thought about going back down to see Thomas again, but she didn't. He was responsible for his own condition, and her boy needed her more. Nathan hadn't ever done anything to hurt anyone. Emily sat with him vigilantly, as though in some way she could do for her son what the police could not possibly do for her.

At six thirty-seven, her cell phone rang. She withdrew it from her purse and flipped it open.

"Hello?"

"Hey. You're still at the hospital?"

"Hi, Joe. Yes, I was about to call you, actually."

"I've got your things. I'm not going anywhere else. I thought we'd have Chinese delivered, and then we'll hole up here until the end of the world."

There was humor in his voice, but it was forced. He wanted to lighten her mood, relieve some of the tension in the conversation, in her situation, but he failed miserably. Still, she gave him points for trying. He truly was a good man.

"Tell you what," she said. "Call the order into Beijing Gardens, and I'll pick it up on the way."

There was a pause on the line. At length, Joe asked, "Are you sure? It's going to be dark pretty soon and it's just as easy to have it delivered."

"No, I'll do it," she confirmed.

Emily felt as though she had been submerged in her fear the entire day, as though she were holding her breath under water, hiding from the light above. It would do her good, she thought, to see that light, at least for a moment, to join the real world for a handful of stolen minutes, time not spent in her car or the hospital or barricaded inside her boyfriend's bedroom. It was a tiny thing — picking up take-out Chinese food — but it would put her in contact with people.

"All right," Joe agreed. "I'll call it in. Sesame Chicken?"

"Kung Pao," Emily said. "I'm in the mood for something with a little spice. Maybe it'll wake me up a little. What if I stop and get us some beer, too?"

"Beer will put you to sleep," Joe said, genuinely pleased with her change in tone. "But if you want some, by all means. You're sure you don't want me to go out?"

"As long as I don't have to go to my house," she told him. "I think I'll be all right, at least for tonight."

They broke off the connection after that, and Emily still wore a small smile on her face. It wasn't over. She felt that quite keenly. Inside, she could not escape the fear that had grown exponentially in the past two days. But even if it took Herculean efforts, she was determined to be a real person again, just for a night.

It was nearly seven-thirty by the time she pulled into the parking lot at Beijing Gardens. Emily hadn't been in a rush, mainly because the restaurant was notorious for taking forever to prepare its take-out orders. Thus, when she went inside to discover that the food still wasn't ready, she wasn't really surprised, just a bit annoyed.

She sat, with her stomach grumbling, on a red faux-leather bench and tried desperately not to listen to the cracked and straining voices singing bad karaoke in the next room. The owners were fortunate that their restaurant had the best Chinese food in Westchester County.

By the time her food was ready, a particularly enthusiastic young woman had savaged what seemed to be Barbra Streisand's entire catalog of music. Outside, night was quickly falling.

Carrying the large, brown paper bag with both hands, she felt the heat emanating from the bottom. From the crack at the top between the two staples the hostess had put through the bag came the most delicious of smells. Just from the aroma, she thought Joe might have asked them to make her Kung Pao chicken extra spicy, and she smiled. And salivated.

Down the four cement steps and into the parking lot, she walked with the bag clutched in both hands, held against her chest as though she were trying to keep it from harm. The sky had darkened considerably, and with the trees lining it, the parking lot was darker still. Yet it wasn't full night; not quite yet.

From off to her left there came a pop and crackle, and Emily jumped, startled by the noise. Her heart fluttered about in her chest a moment as she glanced over to realize that the noise had come from the electrical transformer up on the telephone pole, as the streetlight at the edge of the lot flickered on.

She laughed gently to herself.

But it wasn't funny. Her anxiety, her fear, those were real, and well-founded. Time to get to Joe's and lock things up tight, she thought. Shifting the bag to her right arm, she reached the left down to dig into her purse, which was slung over her left shoulder. She fished around a bit and finally came up with her keys. With the press of a button, the car's alarm system chirped to let her know it was disarmed.

She opened the back door and set the bag on the floor.

When she shut the door and turned to open the driver's door, he was standing right behind her.

"Emily, listen," he said, his voice a combination of grunt and whine.

Then he started to laugh, a nervous sound that came from somewhere deep inside him.

Emily slammed both hands against his chest, shoving him backward, and tried to run. But he was stronger and faster than she'd thought. He laughed even louder, even more wildly, as he grabbed her with both hands, spun her to face him, and slammed her so hard against the car that pain shot through her back and her neck snapped back uncontrollably.

"God, please, don't . . ."

"Look at me!" he growled.

She did.

"You've got to listen," he said, almost snarling at her. "You've got to believe, or they'll both die. We'll all die."

His entire face was covered with a light fur. His nose was pushed out from his face slightly. His teeth were fangs, glistening in the light from the streetlamp. His ears, though, were the worst. They were high up on his head and pointed, like those of a wolf or something. He was hideous.

"Don't you recognize me?" he asked.

Then that laughing again.

Emily started to scream.

"Step away from the woman!" a voice shouted.

Walt Sarbacker's voice.

Her mind reeling, pain shooting up her arms from where he held her so tightly, she glanced over to see that Sarbacker was approaching slowly, his gun leveled at her attacker. Relief flooded over her. He must have been tailing her himself, despite what he'd said. On his own.

But he had a gun, and this . . . thing didn't have any weapons at all.

"You have to believe," he growled again, and he slammed her against the car, staring into her eyes.

"Look at my face," he demanded. "You know me. You've read all the stories, I know you have."

"Step away from the woman! Now!" Sarbacker ordered again.

Emily's eyes widened as she stared at her attacker.

The detective had moved around so that he was standing less than ten feet away, just off to her right.

Once again, she was slammed against the car. She thought she heard one of her ribs crack, and a jolt of agony shot through her.

Emily shouted, reacted. She brought her knee up between his legs with all the force she could muster. It was all she could think of to do, and her attacker made no move to defend himself. He yelped like a wounded animal, stared at her with frightened eyes that made her, just for a moment, want to reach out to him.

"Down on the ground, now!" Sarbacker shouted.

He rushed the attacker, who turned on the detective, laughing with that high, keening, lunatic hysteria, and then leaped toward him as if to attack. Or defend himself.

Sarbacker fired once.

The thing with a man's body and the face of an animal fell to the parking lot in a tumble of limbs. The blood began to pool rather quickly under him.

Keeping his eyes and his gun on the attacker, Sarbacker slid over to stand beside Emily.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I think . . . I think so," she replied.

"Did he say anything? Do you have any idea why he was after you?"

Emily stared at the limp figure. "You didn't get a good look at him, did you?" she asked.

"Why, someone you know?"

"Maybe. In a way. Turn him over, please."

"What?" Sarbacker asked. "Why?"

"Please," Emily said.

With great caution, his weapon at the ready, Sarbacker used his right foot to flip the body over. He swore under his breath as he saw the fur, the fangs, the ears.

It was still alive. Still breathing. Though, judging by the amount of blood pouring from it, that situation was soon to be remedied.

"Jesus Christ, what the hell is he?" Sarbacker whispered, mostly to himself.

The wounded and dying thing began to giggle weakly.

Emily knelt down beside him, though Sarbacker shouted at her to keep away, motioning with his weapon.

"It's true, isn't it?" she asked, reaching out to touch his face. "You're . . . I'm sorry, it's been a long time. I can't remember your name. You haven't been in any of the books in a while. What was it they called you . . ." Emily thought for a moment.

In that moment, the creature died. Its eyes closed forever, its heart stopped pumping. Seconds later, it began to fade away. To diminish, the way the sunlight slipped over the edge of the world at the end of the day. Moments after that process had begun, it was as though he had never been there.

"Laughing Boy," Emily Randall said quietly.

Walt Sarbacker was still standing on that spot, staring at the empty pavement, when other officers arrived to back him up. Her attacker, Emily explained, had escaped. Detective Sarbacker had fired a single shot, which frightened him off. He'd saved her life, she said.

No, she couldn't explain why he refused to speak.

* * * * *

As if it were a call to arms, the music of Fiddlestick's wings filled the air. The dragon swept up into the sky high above the field of battle, and then he was gone. Upon their arrival, it had been agreed that Fiddlestick would infiltrate the fortress and try to gauge what kind of opposition they faced. If he could find Nathan quickly, all the better.

For some reason, when the dragon had flown in through a high window in the fortress, out of sight and now earshot, Thomas shuddered. The chill wind blowing across the rocky plateau at the top of the mountain cut through to the bone, but that wasn’t it.

Somewhere in that fortress, his son was still alive. He knew it. And somehow, they would get him out.

"TJ, pay attention!" a sticky voice roared.

Thomas turned his gaze back from the high walls of the fortress to the battle at hand.

The Simian Sisters had emerged from the fortress and were attacking. The huge mountain gorillas could tear a man apart in one motion. But to do that, they'd have to reach him. The Forest Rangers had moved in to prevent that from happening. Their branches dipped down to batter the Simians, keeping them back. Brownie had burst through their line and was even now grappling with one of the gorilla triplets. Thomas could hear the fury in his roar and saw the jagged gashes Brownie had already torn into the ape's face.

But now one of the Simians had broken through the Rangers. They were enormous, but it worked against them at times. Their swinging limbs tended to get in the way of one another.

"Which one is it?" the Peanut Butter General cried as he held his sword at the ready, moving to intercept the gorilla.

Thomas stared at her, the huge, slavering beast the Jackal Lantern had sent to destroy him. And he knew her. He had, after all, created her. When Thomas had first come to Strangewood, the Simian Sisters had not existed.

"Rebecca," he told his father.

The General stood in Rebecca Simian's path, and Thomas stared into her eyes. A great sadness descended upon him. She wanted him dead. The Jackal Lantern's orders, yes, but still, it was a horrible knowledge.

The Peanut Butter General raised his sword, hacking at Rebecca's hands and arms to keep her from striking him. She fell back and he stepped in and used all his strength to thrust the blade forward, impaling Rebecca as she roared her pain and fury.

She died then.

Thomas wept.

And the trees began to scream.

Two of the Forest Rangers — Black Bark and Redleaf, Thomas thought from a quick glance — were on fire. He stared in horror at them, and then at the rest of the battlefield. The General was running toward the burning trees even as Brownie still grappled with Abigail Simian, and Captain Broadbough attempted to trap her sister, Coretta, in his branches. Still defending Thomas, though his men were burning.

That was enough.

Thomas ran toward them, screaming for them to stop. For the dying to end. He didn't even recognize his own words, only the horror in his voice. The tears had dried and all he felt now was a numbness and a void within, a void where Nathan ought to be.

He was twenty feet from the battle, from the burning trees and from his father, who was, even now, climbing the screaming trees, hacking the flaming branches away, trying to save them by amputation. Thomas saw the way the sun shone off the brown, oily peanut butter that caked his father's entire body, and he was filled with revulsion.

This was not a fantasy world.

Suddenly, and instantly, he recalled a lunch with Francesca that seemed so long ago and far away. She had said that Strangewood frightened her, in a way. Thomas had not understood. But now he looked at his father, at this mad monster with flashing sword, and he knew it.

He knew that fear.

From above him came a mad cackling comprised of the cawing of a bird and the laughter of a vicious creature. They were one and the same. Barry Crow sailed above him on wings black as night, taking the rays of the sun and turning them away with disdain. Another creature Thomas had thought of as a friend, as good, who had turned to the Jackal Lantern's savagery when the moment of truth had arrived.

As to the fate of Dave Crow, Barry's brother, who had warned him, Thomas had no knowledge. Nor had he hope.

Barry held a long rope in his talons and water dripped from it. It had been soaked. But at the end of the rope was tied a blazing torch, wrapped in woolen rags. It was a massive thing, an improbably large ball of fire. And now, as Thomas stared, he knew how Black Bark and Redleaf had been caught on fire.

The crow swooped lower, about to drag that blazing torch through the upper branches of Captain Broadbough.

Ice in his heart, his lungs momentarily frozen, Thomas reached quickly behind him, withdrew an arrow from his quiver, nocked it on the bow, pulled, and released. He watched the arrow sail through the air, knowing that he had been a bystander thus far. They were here for him, for him and for Nathan, but he had purposely held back from the actual conflict.

The arrow found its mark. It spiked through Barry's body, stopping him in midair. The crow made no final sound as it plummeted to the ground, where it landed soundlessly.

Thomas had killed Barry Crow. And, in that, he had begun to murder Strangewood.

Redleaf and Black Bark had been forced to withdraw so that they would not catch their fellow Rangers on fire. Despite the best efforts of the Peanut Butter General, who had been forced to leap to the ground at the last possible moment, both trees went up in a horrible blaze.

Captain Broadbough and the other two surviving Forest Rangers, Whippor Will and Autumn, now surrounded the open entry gate to the fortress of the Jackal Lantern. They were far too large to enter, but they had cleared the way. Or nearly so. Abigail and Coretta Simian remained to bar their passage, while the General and Our Boy were flanking Coretta even now.

Abigail was pounding her chest and preparing to launch herself at Brownie. She was bleeding badly where he'd slashed her face. His own throat hurt where her fingers had wrapped about his neck, presumably trying to break it.

In his entire life, Brownie had never been forced to behave like what he was, a huge grizzly bear.

Abigail Simian dropped on him, her fat, leathery hands searching for a grip that would do the most damage. Brownie roared, drawing the attention of Thomas and the General. But they had their own fight. He spun, trying to throw the gorilla off, but she'd gotten both hands in his mouth now and was trying to break his jaw.

"No!" Brownie screamed.

He bucked beneath her horrible weight, attempting to shake her free. Her legs were wrapped around his girth, her hands pulling, stretching his jaw muscles to their fullest extent. The pain was great, but another few seconds, and . . . Brownie swung his paws wildly, desperate to be free.

Abigail Simian screamed as an arrow pierced her shoulder, its tip scratching Brownie's back. Her grip relaxed and Brownie's thrashing tossed her off. With a roar of pain and rage unlike anything he had ever felt, Brownie was on her. He had begun to slobber like a common dog and now it was like a dog that he kept her down, forepaws on her chest.

He reared up, reached for the tip of the arrow that Thomas had fired at him, and tore it from her chest. The blood spurted into his face, the copper tang of it on his lips maddening him even further. Seized by an atavistic frenzy, he lifted his right paw, and slashed open the gorilla's belly. More blood sprayed out, matting his fur, and his claws came down again and again.

Then his jaws dropped to her gut and he began to tear.

Thomas could only stare. He had no more tears. But as he watched Brownie ripping into Abigail, he knew that the bear would never dance again.

A moment later, Brownie was up, his roar splitting the sky like thunder, and he began to run toward the entrance to the fortress in a kind of primitive canter. Thomas felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see his father, staring at him in sympathy. Behind him, Coretta Simian lay dead. Her head had nearly been severed from her neck.

"Dear God, what have I done?" Thomas asked.

"You chose," the General replied. "You chose your life, and your son, and your own blood."

And now the peanut butter man looked profoundly sorrowful. "Whatever horrors it has wrought, TJ, you chose correctly. I made the wrong choice, but I'm here now, to make it up to you."

Then the General sprinted after Brownie, his sword at the ready.

Thomas followed, his bow in hand, though not with as much confidence. He had resigned himself to the thought that nothing good could be salvaged from what had been done to Strangewood. If he could only save Nathan, that would be enough.

Cragskull stood just inside the entrance to the fortress, where torchlight flickered off walls already brightened by the light of day outside. The walls were damp and gray, and the space a bit too confined for a true battle, but Cragskull didn't care.

He would fight where his master ordered. The Jackal Lantern had given him specific instructions. Whoever came through the door first was to die, and messily, as a warning to the others. His split skull was blazing with malodorous green flame. In each hand, he held a crudely crafted fighting pick: long, wooden sticks with razor sharp daggers fastened to the killing end. He had practiced with these weapons for many years.

Hurting people was the only thing he had ever been good at. But in Strangewood, he had never been allowed to kill. Not until the Jackal Lantern took him in.

He swung the fighting picks in front of him, like murderous clockwork, ready to follow his master's orders, no matter what his previous misgivings had been. He was ready to kill.

The slavering grizzly barreled through the entrance with the power and destructive capacity of an avalanche. The growl shook the walls as Brownie reared back slightly and lifted his right paw, claws glinting in the torchlight.

The claws came down, ripping open Cragskull's chest. His scream was high and piercing. He stumbled back, then, with the strength of his fear, brought one of the fighting picks around to bury it with a thunk into the bear's chest.

It didn't even slow Brownie down.

With both paws, he reached out and grabbed Cragskull, lifted the filthy man above his head, and roared so loud that Cragskull could hear nothing thereafter.

Weakly, he brought the other fighting pick down and buried it in the grizzly's back. Brownie staggered, wilted, and nearly fell. He began to drop Cragskull. But he held on. The grizzly hugged Cragskull to him tightly and reached his right paw up, only to plunge it into the green fire burning in the opening in Cragskull's head. Brownie's claws caught the edge of exposed skull, and, even as Cragskull began to smell the scent of the bear's burning fur, there came a horrid tearing sound and a massive crack.

Brownie tore off the left side of Cragskull's face.

Nothing but green fire came out, save for a flash of putrid smoke.

The bear stumbled. Fell. His blood spread like oil across the damp stone floor.

Tittering like a mischievous child, Cragskull began to cry and wheeze. He looked up with his one remaining eye to see the Peanut Butter General coming through the door with The Boy, then, pushing past them, ran off into the wood. The half of his head that was missing burned higher than ever.

When Fiddlestick flew down the stairwell and banked into the entry corridor, the music from his wings reflected his mood. It was like a mad, desperate calliope tune, played in three-fourths time.

The light from outside silhouetted the Peanut Butter General where he stood in the doorway. Past him, Fiddlestick could see the lower branches of one of the Forest Rangers — probably Captain Broadbough — who was now guarding the entrance to the fortress.

Then he saw Thomas, kneeling just in front of the General. Kneeling by the huge, still, bleeding form of Fiddlestick's greatest friend in the world. Thomas had the grizzly's blood on his hands, and he was silent and cold. Numb.

Fiddlestick was not numb, though he prayed for that curse.

"Brownie!" he cried, and the music from his wings, despite its rapidity, became a dirge.

A moment later, he fluttered his wings and settled down next to the grizzly. His eyes were closed tight, but he was breathing. Shallow, yes, but breathing was breathing.

"We've got to get him out of here," Fiddlestick said.

"As soon as we have Nathan," Thomas said.

The dragon fluttered his wings, the sound more like breaking glass than music now. Tiny jets of flame spurted from his nostrils. For a moment, he wanted to scream at Thomas, to blame him for all that had happened. That would have been the simplest thing to do. But then he looked down at the badly bleeding grizzly, at the glazed, half-open eyes of his friend, and he thought of what Brownie might say.

The blame belonged to all and none. To the Jackal Lantern most of all, and those who had been seduced by him. Yet, even they could not be held solely responsible for what had happened here. Sometimes, thought Fiddlestick, the storm came whether the land needed rain or not.

He looked at Thomas. "All right," he said. "We'll get Nathan out. But then you're on your own. If Brownie dies, I don't know if I want to save what's left of Strangewood."

A look of pain and grief crossed Thomas's face, but he only nodded.

"I'll be back," the dragon whispered to his gravely wounded friend.

Then he settled on the shoulder of the Peanut Butter General, and together, the three of them moved on.

The fortress echoed hollowly around them as they wound their way up a massive stone staircase that seemed to be the heart of the structure. Thomas was amazed that the Jackal Lantern didn't have more muscle to aid him. He'd expected dozens of warriors, shanghaied from all over Strangewood. But then, the wood had never been more than sparsely populated, and Thomas had done little to change that in the years during which he had been its rather unwitting caretaker.

His breathing echoed in the winding stairwell.

He glanced over at his father, thinking that perhaps he should say something. Perhaps there was a bit of knowledge, or intimacy, that they needed to share. But then he saw the way the General moved, the manner in which the consummate soldier went about the business of being at war. And he knew that this moment, fighting together side by side, was the closest they had ever been. The closest they would ever be.

They emerged on an upper floor into an enormous chamber with windows all around, looking out at the wood, and the mountain, and the Up-River where it tumbled over into the nothing beyond. From this place, the Jackal Lantern could see everything that happened around his fortress.

On the far side of the chamber was a high arch, and beyond that, another set of stairs leading up.

"This isn't the stairwell I took before," Fiddlestick said quietly. "While I was flying through the fortress, I heard Nathan calling out, but all the rooms on that floor were locked. But we're not high enough, yet. We've got to go up still."

They started across the chamber, Thomas glancing about, watching the windows for some sign of attack. Only when he was a handful of feet away did he glance back at the stairwell and seen the glow of hellish orange light in that dank space. Then he heard the click of claws on stone.

And the Jackal Lantern sprang into the chamber. His pumpkin face was aglow with slashed eyes and a mouth that shone with horrible glee. The jackal body, lithe and muscled, slunk back and forth in front of the archway leading to the stairs.

Behind him, Bob Longtooth came into the room. He was wounded, still, from his fight with the Queen of the Wood, but he seemed to have only been made more dangerous by it.

"You'll never reach him," old Jack whispered, his candle-brain burning brightly. "Not unless I allow it. And I won't do that until you repair all the damage you've caused, and make me the king of Strangewood."

Thomas gaped at him.

He didn't even pay attention when the sound of hooves clattering on stone echoed around the room, and Feathertop came up into the chamber using the same stairs they had walked moments before.

"You fucking maniac," the General snarled. "Thomas didn't cause any of this. All the burning, all the killing, all the insanity started with you!"

Thomas nocked an arrow into his bow, held it at the ready should old Jack make a move. He glanced over his shoulder at Feathertop, whom he had once loved so greatly.

"All I want is my son."

"And I want power. You will give it to me!"

A chill ran through Thomas. "I . . . I don't know how."

"Then you'll both die," said Old Jack.

Thomas drew back the string on his bow.

* * * * *

Nathan's fever had passed, but he still shivered beneath the filthy blankets. His stomach revolted and he tried to vomit, but nothing would come up. He coughed up something red and brown and wanted to cry. But he had no more tears.

There was the screech of rusty metal, and with a boom, the door to his chamber slammed open. His suit now rumpled and stained, Grumbler stepped into the room, one of his huge Colt revolvers drawn. His eyes darted nervously back into the corridor, and then he turned to stare at Nathan.

"Get up, kid," said Grumbler.

Weakly, Nathan half rose on his bed. His stomach roiled and lurched.

"Grumbler, please," the boy said. "I'm really sick. I . . . I can't. Don't hurt me."

The dwarf cocked his gun. "Get up."

Nathan tried. He sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and made an attempt to stand. He slid to the floor and began to cough and retch, and spit bloody phlegm.

Grumbler stared at Nathan. The boy's eyes were sunken black circles and his flesh was yellow. The fever had broken, but he might still die if he didn't have rest and food, and he wasn't likely to have either one any time soon. Not from Old Jack.

With a grunt, the dwarf strode to where Nathan lay on the floor, reached down with his free hand, and hefted the boy up and over his shoulder as though he were a sack of grain.

Colt cocked and at the ready, Grumbler stepped out into the corridor with Nathan over his shoulder.

"Grumbler, no . . . please . . .” Nathan whimpered. "I'm afraid."

"You should be," Grumbler said darkly. "But for now, keep your mouth shut. We're gonna get you out of here."

CHAPTER 18

In the hospital parking lot, Joe Hayes stared at Emily Randall with wide eyes. After she'd been attacked once again the night before, and had spent half the night giving a statement at the Tarrytown police station, she had come to Joe's house looking about as shell-shocked as he'd ever seen a human being. She'd twitched when he wanted to get close to her, and slept on her side, facing the wall, with plenty of space between them.

It wasn't him, she'd said, time and again.

Damn right it wasn't him. But what was it? That was what was killing him. The guy who'd attacked her — and who'd apparently still gotten away despite the fact that the cop who'd been on the scene got off a couple of shots at him — hadn't had time to violate more than her personal space. Joe wasn't insensitive. He knew she must be feeling incredibly vulnerable, the way the bastard had been stalking her. But in the past, she had come to him for comfort, and now, whatever she was seeking, she was searching for inside of her own head.

In the morning, she'd barely spoken a word. They'd eaten breakfast in relative silence and driven to the hospital in the rain, with only the rhythm of the windshield wipers to note the passage of time.

Several times he'd tried to ask her what was haunting her. She had mumbled some excuse, but never an answer.

Now, as they stepped out of the car into the rain, Emily brandishing her umbrella as if it might shield her from further questions, Joe reached the limit of his patience.

"Jesus God, Emily, talk to me!" He stared at her, waiting for a response that never came. "Please," he added as an afterthought. "I'm trying to be here for you, but you won't let me in."

Her hazel eyes softened, and she looked at him with something like pity, which only confused him more. Rain ran through his close-cropped hair and streamed down his face. He wiped it away with his hands, nearly overwrought.

"After all I've been through with you, I thought the least you would do is include me," he said, genuine sadness in his voice. "I wanted this to work. I want to be there to catch you when you fall, to hold you when you cry, and to kiss you when you laugh. Now I don't even know you."

Emily moved nearer to him, and Joe realized after a moment that it was only to share her umbrella, to shield him from the rain. She moved to go inside, but Joe couldn't do it. Not another step toward that hospital. The life that was inside belonged to Emily, and unless he was part of that life, he had no place inside those walls.

Finally, she opened her mouth. He thought she might be crying, but couldn't tell with the rain spattering her face.

"Em?" he asked.

"I'm going to call my lawyer this morning. I'm dropping the request for full custody," she said.

He could only stare. At length, he asked, "Is it Thomas? You still want to be with him?"

She smiled kindly. "Not at all," she said. "I love him. I've told you that. Part of me always will. But I can't do it to him. It's something that you could never understand."

Joe reddened. "Don't fucking patronize me, Emily," he snapped. "Maybe if you tried to explain it . . ."

She snapped. The lifelessness on her face was erased, subverted from within by a hysteria he had never seen in her before.

"I can't explain it!" she screamed. "Jesus Christ, Joe, please just stop! If I let myself think about it, really think about it, even for a second, I'd lose my mind completely. Please, just let it go!"

He blinked. She was breathing fast, nearly hyperventilating. Her eyes were wide, as though she were as astonished by her behavior as he was.

"God, Emily, what's wrong with you?" he asked, as gently as he could.

But the moment that he said it, he knew it was exactly the wrong thing to say. Emily hardened. Whatever raw emotion she had just shown him was bottled up now, tucked away inside the stone face of a heartless statue. As if he had reached out and simply turned her off, with the flick of a switch.

"You're a good man, Joe," she said. "But this is good-bye."

She turned and walked toward the hospital entrance. He started after her, but stopped after three steps. There wasn't a moment's hesitation in Emily's stride. Not once did she turn to see if he was following. Whatever had happened to her, whatever had broken inside of her, he tried to tell himself he could fix it, if only she would give him the chance.

But as she disappeared inside the hospital, Joe Hayes thought about how much work it was going to be to fix it. How much baggage he had already accepted, trying to love her.

She didn't want that from him.

With one final glance, he turned, got back into his car, started it up, and headed for home.

Inside the hospital, Emily walked rigidly to the elevator and rode up in silence. She strode to the nurses' station outside of Nathan's room, tears slowly tracking down her emotionless face.

"I need to see Dr. Gershmann immediately," she said.

Fortunately, Gershmann was doing rounds. She waited silently for nearly fifteen minutes before he appeared, and when he did, she acknowledged him only with her eyes before striding into Nathan's room, knowing that he would follow.

She did not look at the prone form of her son.

She could not.

It would make the impossible seem all that more ridiculous.

"Mrs. Randall, what's wrong? Has something more happened?"

"Isn't this enough?" she asked bitterly.

Gershmann blinked, as though she'd cursed.

"Doctor, I need you to do something for me," she told him. "I need you to get my ex-husband up here. Get some orderlies and wheel him up here, and put his bed right next to Nathan's."

With a grunt, Gershmann leaned back slightly, so that he could stare at her along the bridge of his nose. He ran a hand over his balding pate.

"Mrs. Randall . . . Emily . . . I'm sure you must realize that I can't just move Thomas. He's not even my patient. And hospital policy . . ."

She was in front of him in an instant, toe to toe, staring into his eyes despite the height differential.

"Do you know why my son is still in a coma?"

"You know that we don't."

"What about Thomas?"

Gershmann didn't respond.

"What if I told you that I believe putting them near to one another might help them recover?" she demanded.

"Why would you think that?" the doctor asked, frowning.

"You don't know what's wrong with either of them. You have no way to treat them. I'm giving you something to do. I have health care proxy for my ex-husband, and I am Nathan's mother. I'm telling you to put them in the same room together, and to do it now, or I'll take them home and do it there."

"Is this for them," Dr. Gershmann asked, "or is it for you?"

Emily glared at him. Then she softened. "I just think we need to be together. As a family."

The doctor looked at her a few moments longer. Then he shrugged.

"Let me see what I can arrange," he said and left the room.

When he was gone, Emily sat and sobbed and hugged herself, and at last, she put her arms around her baby boy and kissed him and whispered promises to him that she only prayed she would be able to keep.

* * * * *

It all happened rather quickly then.

Thomas released an arrow which tore the dank air of that chamber on its way toward its target: the Jackal Lantern. But old Jack was too fast. The arrow clattered against the stone wall, and the Lantern lunged toward Thomas.

The Peanut Butter General stood in his way. His sword flashed down, hacking a gash in old Jack's shoulder. The Lantern withdrew, and the General began to back him into a corner.

"You can't do this!" old Jack whined, the light in his pumpkin head flickering uncertainly now.

Feathertop charged Thomas from behind. Nocking another arrow as quickly as he was able, he whirled. The pony with the lime green feathers sprouting from his head looked far from gentle. All the love had gone from him now and instead he bore down on Thomas snorting like a wild stallion. Thomas hesitated.

How many times had he ridden on Feathertop's back?

The pony reared, hooves rising to crack Thomas's skull.

With the sound of trumpets and shattering glass, Fiddlestick flew into Feathertop's face. A burst of flame jetted from the dragon's mouth, but the horse reared back even further and it only singed his cheek.

It was all the time Thomas needed to discard sentiment. He let fly another arrow, and it caught Feathertop in the meat of his shoulder. The pony neighed loudly, furiously, but when he came down, he backed off a few paces.

Fiddlestick screamed, "Our Boy!" and then he dove at Thomas, fire leaking from his nostrils. His orange belly seemed so vulnerable, so bright for such a dark moment.

Thomas froze, wondering if the dragon had turned against him as well. But Fiddlestick flew over his head and Thomas heard the crackling whoosh of fire being expelled from his gut. Once again he turned, withdrawing another arrow from his quiver, nocking it, drawing back the bowstring, all in one swift motion.

Bob Longtooth was on fire, howling with agony and fear. He crumbled to the ground, and it was clear immediately what had happened. The saber-toothed tiger man had been lunging for Thomas from behind, to rip him open, to end his life. Fiddlestick the dragon had burned him alive.

Even now, with flames licking up the huge tusklike teeth that jutted from Bob's bottom jaw, with his fur and skin charring to black, the tiger tried to get his paws to move forward. Thomas stepped back as Bob made one final swipe at him. Then Longtooth was dead.

"Fiddlestick . . ." Thomas began.

But the dragon was flying toward a window.

"I'm going back down to help Brownie!" he cried. "I've done all I can for you."

Thomas's eyes went wide, but he didn't reply. The dragon had saved his life twice in seconds. What else could he ask for?

In a far corner, the Jackal Lantern waited for an opening and then swiped his claws at the Peanut Butter General, who dodged quickly and then brought his sword down again. Neither of them dared get much closer to the other.

Thomas held his bowstring back, despite the pressure, and spun to aim the arrow at Feathertop. But the pony was on the move. Injured though he was, he began to trot toward the door old Jack and Longtooth had come through. The back stairwell of the fortress.

Thomas frowned. He couldn't imagine that Feathertop would flee.

Then he heard a hacking cough and a whimper coming from the stairs beyond that arch. And he heard Grumbler whisper harshly to someone to be quiet.

And he knew.

"Grumbler, you traitorous bastard!" Feathertop shouted as he ran for the door.

"Nathan!" Thomas cried.

He was about to run for the archway when he heard a grunt behind him. A shout of pain, and a ripple of dark laughter. The hellish face of the Jackal Lantern flared brighter, throwing its evil shadows on the walls.

"Boy!" old Jack roared.

Thomas turned, feeling the magnetic pull of his son as the boy was hustled down the stairs and away from him. He was torn. But when he saw the Jackal Lantern standing over the still form of the Peanut Butter General, he could not move.

"Dad?" Thomas asked tentatively.

But his father lay still, his belly laid open. Peanut butter and flesh and muscle torn away, and his viscera pulled out in a tangle of pink and red and brown. Above him, standing on his hind legs, was the Jackal Lantern. There was blood smeared on the mouth of that pumpkin face, and on the monster's paws as well. But there was other blood, as well. The Lantern's own. He was bleeding freely from half a dozen wounds where the General's sword had hacked or sliced or stabbed him. Yet somehow, the Lantern remained steady on his feet. His low, arrogant, insinuating laughter echoed throughout the chamber.

Then he lifted his leg and he pissed on the floor, marking his territory, his urine mixing with the blood of Thomas Randall's father.

Thomas screamed something unintelligible, even to himself. He let fly the arrow that had been, for those odd, endless moments, resting on his bow. It stabbed through one of the Jackal Lantern's eyes, then burst through the back of his pumpkin skull and continued on its path, only to clunk ineffectually against the wall.

The candlelight in old Jack's head flickered slightly, then stabilized. Light now glowed sickeningly from the hole in the back of his head, casting the shadow of the wound on the wall.

"Our Boy," whispered the Lantern. "It was perfect here, before you came that first time. They knew to fear me. And then you came and you took all the fear away. You changed it all and made it your own.

"I'll kill you for that, if nothing else. You won't do as I wish, then you will die. Strangewood may die with you, but better that than to live without the fear of these beasts to sustain me. I was here before you. Perhaps I will still be here when you are gone."

Thomas shook his head. "You're insane. I gave you fear like you'd never imagined before. I gave you the fear of millions of children. To them, you were the worst thing their nightmares could conjure. Don't you know that?"

Old Jack laughed out loud, wincing at his wounds, finally showing some vulnerability.

"You're a fool, Thomas," said the horrible pumpkin mouth. "That isn't fear. You made me nothing but a story, a bit of evil between pages, terror in words alone. A story. There's no true fear in that. Nothing is safer than a story. Even the most terrified child can still close the book and put it down."

Thomas blinked. "You're right," he said, and he reached to draw another arrow from his quiver. "And maybe it's time for this story to end."

Just as Thomas nocked the arrow, the Jackal Lantern came for him. It roared, candlelight flashing grotesquely on the walls, and before he could even draw back the bowstring, old Jack's claws came down on him. He screamed as needles tore his face and chest.

He went down. Growling with fury, maw dripping hot wax instead of saliva, the Jackal Lantern began to savage him. Thomas screamed. The pain was more than his mind could cope with, and he began to shut down. Claws tore his belly and his groin, the muscles of his legs, and raked across his exposed ribcage.

The Jackal Lantern bounded away, some fleshy prize in its jaws. Then it crept back toward him. Whatever bit of self preservation remained in Thomas turned him over and he began to haul his body across the room. He barely realized that he was dragging bits of himself behind and beneath him.

Another few inches, and he collapsed, his cheek resting in a mixture of his father's blood and the Jackal Lantern's piss. He couldn't even smell it. As the dark shadow began to creep across his consciousness, eclipsing his mind, he thought of Nathan. Then his mind moved back to here, back to now, and he thought, it wasn't supposed to be like this.

His hand reached out a final time, and his fingertips touched his dead father's cheek.

The Jackal Lantern growled. The Jackal Lantern laughed.

Then Thomas Randall died.

* * * * *

Emily sat on a wooden chair between the two beds in Nathan's hospital room, half asleep with the afternoon sun streaming in the window. The soft rhythm of the twin monitors that kept track of Thomas and Nathan's heart rates was like a lullaby to her.

Thomas flatlined.

Emily's eyes snapped open.

She began to scream.

* * * * *

As Thomas died, a trill of fear ran through the Jackal Lantern's body, and he actually shivered. He glanced around at the walls, at the sunlight coming through the windows. The floor still felt solid beneath his feet.

The Jackal Lantern laughed again.

Thomas Randall was dead. Our Boy. He was gone, and Strangewood had survived. Now old Jack would have Strangewood for himself, and death itself awaited any who stood in his way.

He paused. Grinned. After this battle, there were few creatures left in the wood who would dare stand in his way. Of all of them, perhaps only the dragon. And that damned dwarf, Grumbler, who'd turned traitor and tried to carry the boy, Nathan, to safety. Oh, he'd seen them go down the stairs all right. Just as he'd seen Feathertop give chase.

Good pony. Old Jack thought that he'd have to give Feathertop a position of nobility in his new kingdom.

He walked to a window that looked down on the wide plateau and the Up-River below, his claws scraping stone. At first, he couldn't see them. The only things moving were the trio of surviving Forest Rangers who waited at the entrance to the fortress below.

But Grumbler wouldn't have gone out that way. The trees would have stopped him, not knowing he had again changed sides.

Jack moved to another window, with a slightly more direct view of the riverbank and the fall into nothing in the distance. And there they were. The dwarf with the boy over one shoulder, moving across the flat stone toward the water.

"Grumbler," he snarled. "I'll eat your heart."

Growling, candle flaring in his head, he spun and headed toward the door.

Father and son lay dead only inches from one another. The peanut butter, thick as it was, had begun to slide off of the General's body. Thomas's blood had begun to flow into his father's, to merge, to pool together. Already, their blood had started to cool.

Where Thomas's fingertips touched his father's face, they twitched, marking the peanut butter with the swirling patterns of his fingerprints. A sudden buzzing filled the room and the peanut butter covering the general's chest began to heave and bubble with life.

The peanut butter exploded, and the bees swarmed out. They had been made a part of his body before, helping him to survive. Now they were free, and frenzied. The swarm hung together, the sound of their rage creating a deafening din in the room.

The Jackal Lantern paused just at the top of the steps before descending. He heard the buzzing but ignored it and started down.

The swarm descended upon the corpse of the General, moving and molding and lifting the peanut butter that had kept him alive for so long, that was his shell. For what was beneath was not the body he had been born with. It was a form that had existed only in Strangewood. In his world, he had been dead before he set foot in the wood.

The bees moved swiftly, almost blindingly fast. Impossibly fast. And with their urging, the peanut butter began to move as well. It began to flow, leaping from the General's face to Thomas Randall's fingers. It ran up Thomas's fingers, wrapping itself around his entire body as the seconds ticked by. Only moments after the process had begun, the bees settled themselves into the wounds in Thomas's abdomen, the peanut butter flowed over them.

Thomas opened his eyes. Strings of peanut butter webbed his eyelids together, but he could still see. He opened his mouth, and his tongue flicked out, ripping the spiderwebbed peanut butter away from his lips. He tasted it.

It was life.

Thomas Randall, the Peanut Butter General, climbed to his feet. He glanced about, saw the corpse of his father on the floor, and hung his head for a brief moment, offering a prayer for a man who ought to have passed on to another life decades earlier, if only his son had been willing to let him go.

Light glinted off the steel of his father's sword where it lay on the damp, cold stone several feet away. Thomas held out his hand and the peanut butter whipped tendrils out across the room, twisted around the hilt, and pulled the sword into his hand.

Then he went after his son.

The river was in sight when Grumbler heard Feathertop's hooves thundering across the rocky plateau behind him. He didn't stop to think. He spun, slung the kid down from his shoulder to lay him none too gently on the hard, windswept ground, and pulled the other Colt.

He held one in either hand, Colt Peacemakers, the favored weapons of gunfighters in America's old West. He'd found them eons ago in the Heart of the Wood. Someone had visited. Someone had left them there, along with a belt loaded with bullets. The only bullets he would ever have.

The sun was behind the fortress now, and it cast a long, chilling shadow across the windy mountaintop. The Up-River sped by fifty or sixty yards away, and another hundred yards beyond that, it reached the edge of the mountaintop, and it fell off into a void of swirling light and mist that led nowhere. Perhaps everywhere.

Somewhere. Grumbler felt in his heart that he knew where it went.

Feathertop was bleeding down one leg from a wound in his chest as he came galloping up, snorting and sweating. The lime green feathers on top of his head blew about in the breeze.

Grumbler cocked both revolvers and pointed them at the pony who had once been his best friend.

"Not another goddamn step!" he said loudly.

With a grunt, Feathertop came clattering to a halt, stamping and snorting twenty feet away.

"Give me the boy," the pony said. "Old Jack will tear your heart out for this, but if you stop now, I might be able to convince him to spare you."

The dwarf in the pinstriped suit laughed bitterly and shook his head.

"You really believe that?" he asked. "He's insane, Feather. Open your fucking eyes, pally. I mean, if he really meant what he said at the beginning, if he was really trying to save the wood, to save us all, that was one thing. But look at him." He gestured with his head for Feathertop to look at Nathan.

The pony did.

"He wasn't supposed to be hurt," Grumbler said. "He's dying now. This isn't what you wanted, is it? This kid has been with us since the day he was born. He's pulled my beard and he's ridden on your back and he's laughed and he's never been a mewling pain in the ass like some kids can be. He's a good kid.

"He's Our Boy's son. And Thomas may have left us all behind, but that doesn't mean he stopped loving us, Feather. It just means that he had to live. He had to be what he was meant to be, had to be this boy's father. I've seen more of the world out there than you have. It isn't easy. Thomas didn't turn his back on us because he wanted to. It's just life, that's all. And for that, we're going to kill his only child?"

Feathertop's hooves clacked hollowly on the stone as he shifted from side to side. He looked down at Nathan, whose eyes suddenly fluttered open. The boy was sickly, and he stank of illness and worse. But he was just a boy.

"Feathertop?" Nathan asked.

"Thomas could make this place paradise if he wanted," Feathertop said, sounding suddenly unsure.

Grumbler let his arms relax a little. The barrels of his weapons lowered a bit. He tilted his head to one side and gazed imploringly into the pony's eyes.

"It's already paradise, you idiot," he said lovingly. "Or it was until old Jack started burning and killing."

"Things were dying, changing, already. And that was just neglect on Our Boy's part," Feathertop said angrily, though he would not look at Nathan any longer. Not even when the boy said his name again, weakly.

"Things die," Grumbler said. "Things change. That was the way it always was until Thomas came and started to dream us all, to wish us all. If it happens again, that can't be his fault.

"I don't want to die, Feather," said the dwarf. "But I can't let Nathan die. I can't let the Lantern have him."

"It's the only way," Feathertop said. "The only way to control Thomas. If you want to stop me from taking him, you'll have to kill me."

Feathertop charged. Grumbler was shocked for a heartbeat, and then his face was contorted with sorrow. He whipped the Colts up to where they were level with Feathertop's chest.

Then he fired.

The pony died. Grumbler wept over his corpse. Nathan was crying as well, and it was his coughing, his sniffing and wailing, that got Grumbler moving again.

He put the guns away and had just bent to pick up the boy when he heard the voice.

"I do value loyalty you know, dwarf," growled the Jackal Lantern.

Grumbler's head snapped up and he stared in fear at the approaching beast. In the shadow of his fortress, the Jackal Lantern looked especially haunting, candlelight illuminating the inside of his pumpkin skull. Grumbler could see through one eye and right out the back.

He could see through that hole that the remaining Forest Rangers were coming round the back of the castle and moving toward them. And beneath their branches, in the shade they provided, the Peanut Butter General ran, knees pumping, sword waving in his hand.

"Strangely," old Jack whispered. "I also value disloyalty. There's a lesson in it, don't you think? A lesson to the one who has been betrayed, and later, a lesson to others who might betray him. At least, if the traitor is dealt with right away. I'm going to make an example of you, traitor," said the Lantern as he closed in on Grumbler.

The dwarf stood in front of the boy. In the distance, the General was closing in. Grumbler reached under his arms and drew his guns just as the Lantern leaped toward him. He managed to get one clear of its holster and to fire, but the bullet only creased the pumpkin head, and then the Lantern was on him. Together they tumbled to the ground. Grumbler hit his head, hard, and was momentarily disoriented.

Old Jack slashed at his face, and Grumbler began to bleed.

Bleeding pissed Grumbler off to no end.

He brought a knee up into the Jackal Lantern's groin, with every ounce of strength he could muster. Old Jack let out a gasp of air and Grumbler threw him off. The Lantern rolled on the ground, not far from the gun Grumbler had been able to draw and then lost his grip on.

The other was still in its holster, and he drew it now. He fired, just once, and missed. The Jackal Lantern was still moving, keeping his distance now, afraid of the gun.

By its weight, Grumbler knew it was empty. And at the moment of recognition, he saw the light blaze in old Jack's eyes. For the Lantern had seen that realization in the dwarf's face.

"Shoot me," old Jack said happily.

He began once more to close in. To stalk them.

Empty gun trained on the Lantern, Grumbler stooped to grab Nathan. With one powerful effort, he lifted the boy up onto his shoulder again and felt the scratches in his face pull, opening even deeper.

"Shoot me," the Lantern said again. "Or I'll have to kill both of you."

Then the pumpkin eyes went wide, and they both could hear the rumbling of the approaching trees.

Grumbler smiled.

The Jackal Lantern laughed. "Honestly," he said. "You think those aging Rangers are going to get here in time to be of any help to you."

"They're not alone," said the dwarf.

For a moment, the Jackal Lantern hesitated. Then he turned toward the sound of the charging Rangers to see the Peanut Butter General bearing down on him, sword raised high.

The moment old Jack's back was turned, Grumbler bolted toward the Up-River.

With a snarl, the Jackal Lantern leaped at Thomas. Peanut butter pulled back from the sword like a sheath as he brought the blade to bear. One of the Lantern's claws raked his shoulder, but Thomas lopped the other off halfway up the leg. Blood spurted and old Jack wailed as he tumbled to the ground.

He whimpered, climbing first to three legs, then getting up on his haunches to walk on two once more. He held the truncated limb close to his torso, and he glared at Thomas, growling. Inside his pumpkin head, the candlelight flickered.

"There's no place for you here now," Thomas told him, his voice sticky with the peanut butter that coated the inside of his throat.

With a pained snort of amusement, the Lantern winced, a half smile on his horrid face. "You've destroyed it for me," he said. "You gave it rules. Good will triumph and evil must fail. That isn't life. That's mythology."

The candle in the Lantern's head flickered again and began to burn down. It grew dim inside his head now, in the shadow cast by his great fortress.

Wax leaked from his eyes and mouth.

"It's all a story, Jack," Thomas said coldly. "Mine. Yours. It doesn't matter. There's only one rule, that it comes from the heart. You never understood that."

Wax dribbling down his chin, the Lantern mumbled, "you're King of the Wood now."

"No," Thomas said, "that title belongs to another."

Heart heavy with sorrow, Thomas Randall, the Peanut Butter General, brought his sword down quickly, splitting old Jack's pumpkin head right in half, cleaving the candle in two, extinguishing the flame.

The two sides of the rotten pumpkin dropped away, and the headless jackal's corpse crumbled to the ground.

As the Forest Rangers finally reached him, Thomas turned his back on them. He stared across the rocky plateau toward the Up-River. He caught sight of Grumbler, Nathan held in his arms, just before the dwarf jumped into the rushing water.

"Grumbler wait!" he cried.

He began to run in a diagonal course, trying to keep up with the flow of the river. At the edge of the Up-River, he picked up speed. Thomas called his son's name over and over again. Finally, Grumbler's head bobbed up and his eyes locked on Thomas's.

Grumbler waved. And then, holding Nathan in his arms, the dwarf went over the falls. Thomas stopped abruptly at the cliff, and stared down into the water tumbling off into the Misty Nothing below.

They will be all right, he knew. Beyond that mist, whatever part of Nathan had been trapped here in Strangewood would find its way home. It was only that Thomas had wanted to say good-bye.

He stared down into the mist and wept.

* * * * *

Emily was crying silently as she stroked Nathan's hair. His father had just died — the orderlies had carted his body out on a gurney — and Nathan didn't even know. Couldn't know.

There was a numb place in her heart where grief was beginning, for she had always loved Thomas, no matter what had happened between them.

But the grief would have to wait. It was overshadowed by the fear that what happened to Thomas would happen to Nathan. Her ex-husband had experienced massive heart failure, and the doctors had no explanation. None. No reason.

So she sat and she stroked her son's hair and his beautiful face and she whispered to him that he should come back to her.

And then he did.

Nathan Randall began to murmur to himself. His hands moved slowly to his eyes and pulled away the tape that had been used to keep them closed.

"Oh, God, Nathan!" Emily cried, loud enough for the nurse at the station out in the corridor to hear.

Her baby boy opened those ice-blue Paul Newman eyes and looked at her with grave concern.

"Mommy, why are you crying?" Nathan asked innocently.

Emily could not answer. She could only hold him, rock him back and forth, and whisper countless thanks to whomever had answered her prayers.

EPILOGUE

One morning, several weeks after Thomas Randall's funeral, Nathan woke up very happy. It was the day his mother was going to sign the contract for Adventures in Strangewood to become a live-action film. But Nathan wasn't quite six years old yet, and he didn't know that. It was a happy day, of sorts, a bittersweet day for the family. But he didn't know that, either.

Still, he was smiling quite broadly when he came into the kitchen in his Batman pajamas and gave his mother as tight a hug as he could manage. He was still getting his strength back, but Emily smiled at the fervor in that embrace.

"How you doing, buddy?" she asked Nathan. "How'd you sleep?"

"Great," Nathan replied, sitting down in his usual chair as Emily poured him a bowl of Apple Jacks.

Then he said, "I had a dream about Daddy."

Emily blinked. Ice began to form on her heart. She put her hand on the back of Nathan's head and crouched beside him.

"You miss him, don't you, baby?" she asked. "It's okay. Mommy misses him too. But he'll be watching out for us. I know he will."

"Sure he will," Nathan said happily, through a mouthful of milk-moistened cereal. "He said he would."

Emily's hand stopped its slow movement across Nathan's head.

"What else did he say?" she asked.

"He said that I could dream him any time I wanted to. That I could come to Strangewood, and I could help him make it better," Nathan said happily. "And he told me that, maybe when I was bigger, and he was stronger, he'd come to see us if he could."

A chill ran through her, and Emily pulled Nathan into another tight embrace. She was annoying him with her attention and he tried to squirm away, to get back to the business of breakfast. She wouldn't let him go.

She didn't completely believe it. She didn't understand it at all. And it frightened her, even though it had made her son so happy. It gave him back his father, in a way she could only begin to imagine.

It existed.

There was such a thing as magic.

Outside the Randall house, a dwarf in a pinstriped suit took one last look, smiled to himself, and began walking down the road, heading for Broadway.

He'd hitch a ride, if he could, or he'd end up walking all the way down to Manhattan. He knew a store in Greenwich Village where he could buy a felt fedora in the perfect shade of green.

###

AFTERWORD BY BENTLEY LITTLE

Dark Fantasy is a term that gets bandied about far too frequently these days. Every writer afraid of being stigmatized by association with the dreaded word “horror,” every hack genre editor with literary pretensions and delusions of grandeur, every reviewer searching for another synonym for supernatural fiction seems to trot out that overused phrase and shove it in our faces.

But Christopher Golden really does write Dark Fantasy, and Strangewood is a prime example of how well he does it.

At a time when religious wackos are up in arms about the magic in Harry Potter books (what’s next? Will they want to ban The Wizard of Oz because it features a Good Witch of the North? Or Cinderella because there’s a fairy godmother?), Strangewood is a breath of fresh air, a terrific novel about a not-so-benign fantasy world that is far more real than anyone suspects.

As Pablo Picasso proved early in his career, you have to know the rules of art in order to break them, and Golden has not only mastered the form and substance of the adult fantasy novel, is not merely conversant with the rather rigid tropes of that particular genre, but also, and more impressively, he understands the specific dynamics and requirements of the children’s story.

He’s not afraid to throw a little horror into the mix as well.

It’s an exhilarating literary amalgam, made all the more so by the skill with which these elements are tied together. Golden is not merely a good horror writer or a good fantasy writer. He’s a good writer period. And in Strangewood, he utilizes the well-known conventions of different genres to concoct a tale that is unique, exciting, scary, and surprisingly moving.

The novel alternates between our reality and the fantastic Strangewood, and while the real world scenes have the potential to bog down with the redundancy of endless hospital vigils, they never do, primarily because Golden has crafted characters who, even in static situations, have an emotional complexity that keeps us interested and carries us through. The intrusion of this fantasy realm mirrors the problems in the lives of the protagonists, reflecting their inner turmoil, and Golden knows how to utilize the metaphoric possibilities of the situation without turning the story into an academic exercise.

More interestingly, though, the novel shows how children read sinister import into apparently safe and innocent tales — and the attraction that inevitably results. I myself had a picture book as a child that depicted a smiling moon that terrified me. I was afraid of the book but I loved it, and I returned to it again and again and again. Stephen King touched on this subject very effectively in Dark Tower III: The Waste Lands, where a sentient train from one of the characters’ childhood books appears to him as an adult, with all of its previously implied sinister attributes made manifest. Golden does the same thing here, just as effectively, showing us the mind’s dark twist on a happy fictional land, where familiar characters do unfamiliar things, and loyalties are not what one would have thought.

This is where the actions of those religious wackos come into play, for Golden makes a powerful argument for the necessity of fantasy. Children need imagination, they need magic, and, yes, they need to be scared. And if they can’t find what they need in existing pictures or text, well, then they’ll read it into characters and landscapes where it isn’t (A side note: it always amazes me that some people who call themselves Christians can be so shaky in their convictions that they honestly believe their children will eschew the teachings and values that have been ingrained in them since birth after reading one book. Don’t they have more faith in their religion that that? Don’t they have more faith in their kids?).

Strangewood contains a hint of The Talisman, as well as nods to Stephen Donaldson’s Thomas Covenant novels. The Fisher King motif so prevalent in alternate world fantasies also gets a good workout. But, ultimately, it is the strength of Golden’s own voice and his creation of believably complex characters that carry the novel and give it its power. I never do this, but the first time I read the book, I actually found myself looking ahead at one point to learn whether a particular character made it out of a scrape alive. I cannot give higher praise than that — breaking my own reading habits because I was so involved with the story — and I salute Golden for being able to make me do such a thing.

Strangewood is a wonderful book, a significant achievement by a talented writer whose pro-imagination message could not be more timely. Or timeless.

Bentley Little

2006

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This one was a long time in coming. Thanks, of course, to my wife, Connie, and to my sons, Nicholas and Daniel. To my agent, Lori Perkins, for her faith and perseverance. To my editor, Laura Anne Gilman. To my mother, Roberta Golden Poulos, for believing.

Thanks, also, to Tom Sniegoski, for some wonderfully absurd and invaluable contributions, and to Lucy Russo, José Nieto, Bob Tomko, Jeff Mariotte, Craig Shaw Gardner, and Lisa Clancy. To Dr. Brian M. Golden and Dr. F. Paul Wilson, for answering silly questions, to Clive Barker for his inspiring words on creation, and to Hank Wagner, with whom I was speaking when this story first occurred to me.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHRISTOPHER GOLDEN is the award-winning, New York Times bestselling author of such novels as Of Saints and Shadows, The Myth Hunters, The Boys Are Back in Town, and Strangewood. He has also written books for teens and young adults, including Soulless, Poison Ink, and The Secret Journeys of Jack London, co-authored with Tim Lebbon. His current work-in-progress is Cemetery Girl, a graphic novel trilogy collaboration with Charlaine Harris.

A lifelong fan of the “team-up,” Golden frequently collaborates with other writers on books, comics, and scripts. He has co-written three illustrated novels with Mike Mignola, the first of which, Baltimore, or, The Steadfast Tin Soldier and the Vampire, was the launching pad for the Eisner Award-nominated comic book series, Baltimore. With Thomas E. Sniegoski, he is the co-author of the book series Magic Zero and The Menagerie, as well as comic book miniseries such as Talent, currently in development as a feature film. With Amber Benson, he co-created the online animated series Ghosts of Albion for the BBC.

As an editor, he has worked on the short story anthologies The New Dead, The Monster’s Corner, and British Invasion, among others, and has also written and co-written comic books, video games, screenplays, and a network television pilot. Golden was born and raised in Massachusetts, where he still lives with his family. His original novels have been published in more than fourteen languages in countries around the world. Please visit him at http://www.ChristopherGolden.com.

CONNECT WITH CHRISTOPHER GOLDEN ONLINE

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http://www.ChristopherGolden.com

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No Rest for the Wicked Blog

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OTHER WORKS BY CHRISTOPHER GOLDEN

Strangewood

Straight On 'Til Morning

The Ferryman

The Boys Are Back in Town

Wildwood Road

The Secret Backs of Things

The Shell Collector

Bloodstained Oz [w/James A. Moore]

The Seven Whistlers [w/Amber Benson]

The Ocean Dark [As Jack Rogan]

The Collective [As Jack Rogan]

Baltimore, or The Steadfast Tin Soldier and the Vampire [w/Mike Mignola]

Joe Golem and the Drowning City [w/Mike Mignola]

Father Caetano’s Puppet Catechism [w/Mike Mignola]

THE VEIL

The Myth Hunters

The Borderkind

The Lost Ones

THE HIDDEN CITIES

Mind the Gap [w/Tim Lebbon]

The Map of Moments [w/Tim Lebbon]

The Chamber of Ten [w/Tim Lebbon]

The Shadow Men [w/Tim Lebbon]

THE SHADOW SAGA

Of Saints and Shadows

Angel Souls and Devil Hearts

Of Masques and Martyrs

The Gathering Dark

Waking Nightmares

THE MENAGERIE

The Nimble Man [w/Tom Sniegoski]

The Tears of Furies [w/Tom Sniegoski]

Stones Unturned [w/Tom Sniegoski]

Crashing Paradise [w/Tom Sniegoski]

GHOSTS OF ALBION

Astray [w/Amber Benson]

Initiation [w/Amber Benson]

Accursed [w/Amber Benson]

Witchery [w/Amber Benson]

THE WAKING

Dreams of the Dead [As Thomas Randall]

Spirits of the Noh [As Thomas Randall]

A Winter of Ghosts [As Thomas Randall and Christopher Golden]

WANT MORE

CHRISTOPHER GOLDEN?

VISIT HIM AT:

http://www.ChristopherGolden.com