Her back was turned to the doorway as he stepped through. She was reaching up to the shelf where he kept the insulin.

When she turned around, she had a plastic-wrapped syringe in her hand. She stared vacantly at Monks, and then jerked in delayed surprise.

So that was where the syringes had been going.

Probably she was crushing the oxycodone pills into a liquid solution, then shooting it. Monks had heard that it was a quicker and more powerful rush than from taking them orally.

“Mandrake’s going to need all of those,” he said.

“Okay. I won’t take any more.” She moved toward the door, still holding the syringe.

“That one, too.”

Her face took on a sullen, hostile look-a transformation so abrupt and complete from her earlier placidness that it was like a special effect in a movie.

“Hey, man, you don’t own this place, okay?” she said. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“We’re talking about your son.”

She glanced over at the bed, where Mandrake might or might not have been awake and listening. Then she shoved the syringe into Monks’s hand and pushed petulantly through the hanging blanket into the main room.

“Why don’t you stay here?” Monks said, following her. “Play with him, read to him.”

“I can’t right now.”

“Are you HIV positive?” Monks demanded.

She spun to face him, as if she had been shot.

“No,” she spat out. She hurried on outside without looking back.

Mandrake hadn’t moved, but his eyes were open. Monks sat down beside him on the bed and started reading aloud from The Runaway Bunny.

Shrinkwrap walked toward the lodge with a small flashlight in her hand, flicking it on and off in the three-two-three code the group used to identify themselves. Dusk had turned to full night, the moon a faint smudge behind the thick clouds rolling in from the Pacific. Hammerhead was in that darkness somewhere, standing guard, watching her approach. She shone the light on her own face.

“It’s me, HH,” she said. “We need to talk.”

His shape separated from the shadows beside the lodge, rifle in hand, barrel pointed down. Hammerhead trusted her absolutely, and she understood him far better than he understood himself. She had found him, like the others-troubled young men whose aimless aggressiveness would almost certainly have led them to prison. She counseled them as a psychologist, bullied them like a drill sergeant, and nurtured them like a mother. Once that intimacy was established, she took them to bed, deepening the bond by deliciously violating the taboo. Then she weaned them to the care of Freeboot and Taxman, who would channel their wild energy into purpose.

Although once in a while one would come along, with just the right combination of boyishness and insolence, and she would keep him for as long as it was convenient. Right now, that one was Monks’s son.

“You sure we’re alone?” she asked Hammerhead.

He nodded. Still, she spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.

“Freeboot sent me to tell you there’s going to be a scalp hunt tonight. And a chance for you to make maquis.” She smiled. “So if you bring home the hair of a certain person, you’ll be initiated. I think you know who I mean.”

His reaction surprised her. She had expected a show of fierce elation. Making maquis would mean that he would finally have what he wanted most-Marguerite. And a chance to get even with Captain America in the process.

But he only licked his lips anxiously. His big face looked pale, and his eyes were troubled, even frightened. Hammerhead followed orders well but didn’t think fast, and when he was faced with a decision, he tended to get nervous. But she had never seen him scared before.

She stepped closer and touched his face, concerned. “Hey, sweetie. What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing,” he mumbled.

“Come on, you can tell me. You know I’ll stay cool.”

Hammerhead looked around unhappily, as if reassuring himself that no one else was nearby.

“He said I got this thing in my eye. A tic.” His finger rose and touched his face.

“Who said?”

“Him.” Hammerhead jerked his head toward the lodge. “Coil’s old man.”

“A tic?”

“Yeah. You know.” He fluttered his eyelid clumsily.

“Well, what about it?”

Hammerhead swallowed hard. “It means I’m gonna die.”

Shrinkwrap stared at him, hands coming to rest on her hips. “He told you what?”

Monks had discovered, twenty-some years earlier, that he made a pretty good mattress whale-stretched out on a bed, rising and falling in undulating motions, with much thrashing and loud blubbering sounds. The clowning had delighted his own kids, and now, for the first time, Mandrake was sitting up and giggling.

“Okay, hop on my back,” Monks said. “We’re going to dive down really deep and try to find a treasure. But the only thing I’m worried about is, there might be a mermaid guarding it. You know what those are?”

Wide-eyed, Mandrake shook his head.

“They’re very pretty ladies who are half fish,” Monks said solemnly. “And they’re usually really nice, but if they catch somebody coming after their treasure…”

Mandrake started to look worried. Monks feared that he had pushed too far. He was doing his best to maintain a humorous face, but he knew that as he had gotten older his smile had taken on a crocodilian look.

“They’ll tickle us-like this,” he declared, and gently scrabbled his fingertips along the little boy’s rib cage.

Mandrake chortled gleefully, grabbing at his hands.

“So you have to tell me if you see a mermaid, okay?” Monks said. “We can get away, but we’ll have to go really fast.”

“Okay,” Mandrake agreed, in a very small voice.

It was the first time that he had spoken to Monks.

Three or four minutes later, whale and rider took a breather. It had been a harrowing journey. A treasure had been sighted, but just before they could seize it-there was a mermaid! They’d escaped, but not without a desperate battle, both of them being tickled to the limits of endurance.

“We’ll go again, real soon,” Monks promised the panting little boy. “Now you have to drink some water.” Getting Mandrake active and engaged was good; tiring him out was not.

Monks got up to get the water pitcher. The blanket hanging in the doorway moved aside. Monks stared, in unpleasant shock, at the etched, intense face of Taxman. There was no telling how long he had been standing there behind the blanket.

“Freeboot wants you,” Taxman said.

“Mandrake needs attention.”

“It won’t take long.”

Monks hesitated. He had already decided that he could check the boy’s blood sugar level every two hours now-it had remained stable, and Mandrake clearly was feeling better.

“Let me just get him to drink first,” Monks said.

Taxman nodded and stepped back, letting the blanket fall into place again.

Monks gave Mandrake the water cup. “Think you can do this yourself now, buddy?” he said. Mandrake took it in both hands and drank thirstily.

“Good boy,” Monks said. “I’ll be right back. We’re going to eat some more soup and rest up. Then we’ll go get that treasure.”

Outside, the night sky was thick with impending rain. The erratic breeze had turned cold, and the treetops waved restlessly. When they reached the camp’s perimeter, Monks realized that they weren’t headed toward one of the buildings. Instead, they kept walking on a trail into the forest. Monks blundered along at first, barely able to see the path beneath his feet. Except for the wind and the rustling trees, the woods were silent, without the night birds and creatures that he was used to at his home’s lower, warmer altitude. Taxman flanked him silently. Unlike the other guards, Taxman did not carry a gun. But Monks had no doubt that he was very quick with his knife.