And his father had looked different. He'd looked young, like Nathaniel, but even though he'd looked like Nathaniel, Michael had known it was his father. And Michael hadn't been there. At least, he hadn't felt like he'd been there. Instead, he'd just been sort of watching, almost as if he was standing in a corner but nobody could see him.
But it had started in the bedroom, the room that had been his father's and was now his. His father had been in the room, working on one of his model airplanes, when suddenly the door had opened, and his grandfather had come into the room. Michael had known right away that Amos was mad at his father. He'd tried to tell his father, but he couldn't speak. He'd opened his mouth, but when he'd tried to speak, his throat had tightened, and nothing had come out. And the harder he tried, the tighter his throat got, till he could hardly breathe. And then his grandfather had hit his father. Suddenly there'd been a razor strop in his hand, and without saying a word, Amos had raised it up over his head and brought it slashing down onto his father's back. But his father hadn't screamed. Instead, while Michael watched, his father's eyes widened, and his body stiffened and arched away from the pain. His hands, which had been holding one wing of the model, tightened, crushing the balsa wood and tissue paper into a crumpled mass. Twice more the razor strop had lashed down, but still his father had said nothing. And then it was over, and suddenly-Michael's father was in the living room, sitting on the old-fashioned sofa, and though he couldn't hear anything, Michael knew that somewhere in the house, someone was screaming.
Then his father was back in the bedroom again, and he was packing a suitcase, and Michael knew he was going away and never coming back.
And then, just before he'd awakened, his father had said something.
"He's alive. I know he's alive."
Now, as he lay in his bed, Michael wondered who his father had been talking about. Could it have been Nathaniel? Had his father known Nathaniel, too?
Michael got out of bed and went to the window. The night was clear, and the moon hung just above the horizon, editing long shadows over the prairie. Old man Findley's barn shimmered in the moonlight, its weathered siding glowing silver in the darkness. Michael stared at the barn for a long time, feeling it, feeling Nathaniel's presence there.
And then Nathaniel was once more inside his head, whispering to him.
"It is time, Michael. If we wait, it will be too late."
The night seemed to darken, the moonlight fade away, and for a moment Michael saw nothing. But then his vision cleared, and he saw a house, a house which he recognized, but couldn't quite place. And once again, he felt the familiar throbbing in his temples.
Then he knew. It was Dr. Potter's house. In one of the downstairs windows, a single light glowed. Outside the house, ranging across the yard, he saw a dark shape that he knew was Shadow…
Charles Potter had been sitting alone in the tiny room that was his private retreat. He had been there for hours now, sitting still in his large easy chair, moving only when the fire burned low and demanded more fuel to keep it going. The room was stiflingly hot, but the flames, Potter thought, were helping him think, helping him decide what he must do.
So far, he had done nothing. So far, he had talked to no one about Michael Hall. Nor had he yet decided exactly what had happened in his office that day.
It had been almost as if there were a third person there, a third person invisible to him, who was whispering to Michael. And yet, there had been something about the strange phenomenon that had told Potter there was more to that third person than an invention of Michael's mind.
It was as if Nathaniel had been there, speaking to the boy.
Of course it was impossible, and Potter knew it was impossible. But still, he had sat through the night, wondering if it could have been true, if Nathaniel could, indeed, have been in his office that day.
A sound disturbed his reverie, and Potter stirred in his chair, shifting his attention to the night.
He heard it again, a snuffling sound, as if some animal were outside. He got up from his chair and went to the window. Outside, he saw nothing but darkness.
The sound came again, and then once more. Frowning, Potter left his tiny den and moved quickly through the house to the front door. He opened it a few inches and looked out.
Suddenly there was a flicker of movement on the porch, and an angry growl. Startled, Potter took a step back, and as his hand fell away from the doorknob, the door itself flew open.
Crouched in the foyer, his fangs bared and his hackles raised, Shadow fixed his glowing eyes on Charles Potter.
Potter stared at the dog, his heart suddenly pounding. He took another step backward, and the dog rose from his crouch, one foreleg slightly raised, his tail slung low.
As he watched the dog, Charles Potter suddenly knew that it had been true.
Nathaniel had been there that day, and Nathaniel was here now. Charles Potter stared at Shadow, and knew that he was going to die.
Michael stood perfectly still in his room, absorbed only in what he was seeing and hearing within his head.
He was inside Dr. Potter's house now, and Nathaniel was with him. He was watching as Shadow slowly backed the old man through the house until they were in the tiny room where the fire blazed on the hearth.
Michael could smell the smoke of the fire and feel the heat of the room. It was hard to breathe, and the smoke seemed to be drifting out of the fireplace now, filling the room.
"lt is time," Nathaniel's voice whispered. "It is time for him to die. He knows, Michael. He knows about me, and now he knows about you. Help me, Michael. Help me make him die …"
Michael could see the fear in the old man's eyes, see the growing terror as the man came to know that there was no place to retreat, nowhere else for him to go. Silently, he released Shadow…
Charles Potter sank back into his chair, his eyes still fixed on the threatening visage of the snarling dog. And then, though he knew this, too, couldn't be happening, he began to feel another presence in the room. It was as if there were eyes on him, blue eyes, intense and angry, filled with hatred. He knew whose eyes they were, and knew why they were there.
His heart was pounding harder now, and suddenly there was a pain in his head, an intense pain-as intense as those staring eyes that now seemed to fill his vision-and he knew what was happening to him.
Then the vessel in his head, filled beyond capacity by his pounding heart, gave way, and blood began to spread through his brain. His face turned scarlet, and his head pitched forward to rest on his chest, as his arms went limp.
Only when the last of Charles Potter's life had drained out of his body did the great black dog let the tension go out of his muscles, let his snarl die in his throat, let his coat smooth down. Then, after sniffing once at the body in the chair, he turned away and trotted out of the house into the night.
In his room, Michael turned away from the window. His headache was easing now, and he was once more aware of where he was. In the back of his mind, there was a faint memory, like the memory of a dream, in which he and Nathaniel had made Dr. Potter die.
But it must have been a dream, like the dream he'd had about his father. It couldn't have been real.