They should have been full.
Always, until recently, he’d been able to keep the cribs full.
But for the last few years it hadn’t been possible.
Too many babies had been born dead in the swamp, and too many fathers had insisted on being in the delivery room in town.
It had been easy before, working with only a nurse who paid most of her attention to the mother.
But the fathers paid attention only to their babies, never letting them out of their sight even for a moment, taking them from him almost at the moment he delivered them.
Still, last night Amelie had delivered her child, and already the baby had produced nearly ten cc’s of the precious fluid. For the next several months, there would be nearly as much each day.
After that, as the baby grew, there would be less of the fluid, and he would be able to milk it only occasionally.
Eventually, as it approached adulthood, there would be only a few drops each year.
And finally nothing.
By that time, though, the child would be old enough to breed, and he would find it a mate from among the Circle, and the child would begin to procreate.
And there would be new babies to fill the cribs in the nursery, babies bred by him for a single purpose.
But for now, when only a few of the children were old enough to begin producing babies for him, the problem was becoming acute, for even as he was having trouble obtaining babies, he was finding that he needed more and more of the precious fluid with which they provided him.
Phillips disconnected the collecting bottle from the tube, replacing it with another. Nodding to Lavinia, he left the room.
In the lab, he began the refining process, filtering and concentrating the fluid he’d extracted from the babies, sealing it into the glass vials he would eventually move to the safe in his office. But there was so little of it now that he was going to have to make some decisions soon.
Decisions about who would live and who would not.
He knew the criteria upon which his decisions would be based, and to him they seemed eminently fair.
To extend old life, he needed new life. And as time moved inexorably on, he was finding he needed more and more new life to battle the ravages of age.
Therefore, those who died would be those who could not bring him children.
Babies, to fill the cribs in the nursery once again.
George Coulton had tried to renege on his promise of the child in the nursery, and the Dark Man had punished him. George’s death had served another purpose as welclass="underline" it would serve as a warning to the others.
When his work was completed, Phillips left the lab. Half an hour later, at the helm of his own boat, he pulled up in front of Clarey Lambert’s shanty. There, he listened silently as Clarey told him what had happened to Jonas Cox.
Though he said nothing to Clarey, by the time he left her, he’d already made up his mind.
Judd Duval had allowed one of the children to be interviewed by an outsider.
Judd would have to be punished.
And Warren Phillips knew how to punish Judd in the worst possible way.
13
Kelly was waiting for Michael when he finished work. At first he barely recognized her, but as he approached the motorcycle — on which she was seated — he gazed at her quizzically. “What’d you do to your hair?”
She grinned uncertainly. “I dyed it. Well, actually your mom dyed it.”
Michael’s mouth dropped open. “My mom?” he repeated.
Kelly explained what had happened, and listening, Michael rolled his eyes. “Weird,” he pronounced when she had finished. “I mean, that doesn’t sound like my mom at all.”
Kelly giggled. “I like her. She’s nice, and—” Abruptly, she fell silent.
“And what?” Michael pressed.
Kelly’s eyes shifted to the ground. “She … well, she doesn’t make me feel like a freak,” she finished.
“Who said you’re a freak?” Michael asked.
Kelly looked at him impatiently. “I didn’t say anyone said I was a freak. It — It’s just the way I feel sometimes. I mean, don’t you ever feel like that? Like maybe you’re going nuts or something?”
Michael slowly nodded. In fact, it had happened just this morning, when he’d awakened with a vivid memory of a dream.
So vivid that he was afraid it hadn’t been a dream.
Then, when he’d looked at himself in the mirror this morning and seen the angry red mark on his chest, he’d become frightened.
Had everything he’d remembered really happened? Or was he going crazy?
All day, as he’d gone about his job at the swamp tour, he’d kept thinking about Kelly and wanting to talk to her. He’d put his thoughts aside, sure that she’d think he was crazy. But after what she’d just said …
Now it was he who found himself unable to meet her eyes. “I–I had a dream last night,” he said. “It was really weird. It was about what we did in the swamp last night.”
Kelly’s pulse quickened. If he remembered the same thing she did — She stopped herself, not even wanting to think about what it might mean.
Michael’s eyes met hers. Even before he spoke, she knew what he was going to say.
“There’s a spot on your chest, isn’t there?” she asked. “Like a mosquito bite, only bigger.”
Michael nodded slowly. “It’s … well, it’s like someone stuck a needle into me. And it’s sore.”
Kelly glanced nervously around. There were still a few tourists coming out the gate, and she suddenly felt self-conscious. “Can we go somewhere?” she asked. Sliding back onto the buddy seat of the bike, she made room for Michael.
“Where do you want to go?” Michael called back over his shoulder as they took off.
“I don’t know. Just someplace where we can talk, I guess.” Her arms tightened around his chest. “Michael, I’m scared.”
Michael made no reply, unwilling to admit that he, too, was frightened. If she also had a mark on her chest, then the dream hadn’t been a dream at all.
• • •
An hour later, as they sat side by side on the edge of one of the ubiquitous drainage canals, staring across at the swamp, Kelly slid her hand into Michael’s.
Today, unlike last night or the night before, the swamp had taken on an eerie look, with its moss-laden cypresses and clumps of palmetto lining the shallow bayous that seemed to lead off into nowhere. Kelly gazed into it, wondering how they could have felt so comfortable in its depths the night before, drifting through the darkness in Michael’s boat. Even now she could glimpse snakes coiled in the trees, and see alligators basking in the mud, lying still, as if waiting for something — anything — to cross their path. Right now, with the sun still high in the sky, she couldn’t imagine wanting to go into the suddenly terrifying wilderness.
They’d talked about what had happened last night, slowly and tentatively at first, but soon established that both of them remembered the same thing.
The ceremony, and the Dark Man, clad all in black, and the needles that had been inserted into their chests.
And the other kids.
The children who were nothing like either of them, who neither of them even remembered having seen before. Children with whom both Kelly and Michael somehow felt a strange kinship.
“But they’re swamp rats,” Michael had finally said. “They’re not like us at all.”
But what if they were? Kelly wondered, a thought suddenly coming to her. What if that was where she’d actually come from? She found herself cringing at the thought. In her fantasies, her natural mother was beautiful, not like the women in the swamp, with their pinched faces and stringy, lank hair.
“Did you ever think about being adopted?” she asked Michael now.