"Can we talk about him yet?"

"Yes," she said bitterly. "His luck was up." She swallowed. "Talk over. Okay?"

"The bad luck's over. 'Cause you're staying forever, with us."

"I wish I could."

Carla wore shorts and a ponytail and walked up with a long, firm stride. She squeezed Ellen's hands. She was slim and narrow-waisted, but the welder's torch and heavy iron she muscled every day had given her the palm of a carpenter and a grip like a man's. "We want you, Ellen, we truly do."

"Well, you have me for two weeks," said Ellen. "For better or for worse."

"And you've got me too," said Hoagie. "At least into town. My jeep's under anesthesia at the Old Prince George garage."

Carla glanced at him, then at Ellen. Her eyes narrowed in thought, and a grin lit up her face. "You're invited for dinner, tonight, okay? Conch chowder, peas 'n' rice."

Hoagie glanced sidewise at Ellen, in his lazy, penetrating way, as if to see if she wanted him. I do, I do, she thought silently, and it must have shown, for he nodded and picked up her bag. He started toward the Cadillac.

She was conscious of Papa Jacques's wide black eyes staring into hers. "Madam," he said coldly, "I mus' thank you. Merci."

Michael tensed. His hostility was clear. "For what, Papa Jacques?"

The little man fingered his necklace. "She has made him bring me here."

"She didn't know any better. You charge too much, and you're not welcome on this island anymore."

"I was called here by a native, non?" Papa Jacques said tersely. "Can you say the same?"

He moved off toward the road, his gourd in one hand, his playing cards in the other.

Ellen followed Michael. The gleaming old Cadillac belonged to Romeo, a chubby, ebony Buddha with a flashing smile and a visored tour-guide cap. An ex-merchant seaman on the Cunard Line, Mike said, he spoke half a dozen languages—including classical Greek—and owned the local undertaking parlor and the island's only hearse. He swept open the rear door and helped her in.

As they started down the macadam road they passed the little Haitian. He stared at them as if he had never seen them before. His flat eyes glittered like onyx in the sun.

"What is he, really?" she asked Hoagie, shivering.

"Just another houngan witch doctor," he said with a grin. "Haiti's major import to the Bahamas. Pap Jacques is the worst of the lot."

"At least the others treat for free," agreed Michael from the front. "He's a bocor: a professional. He takes money from the poor."

"An evil mon," concurred Romeo from the wheel. "You're in danger if you cross him, Michael, lad."

"We're all in mortal danger, Romeo, with you behind the wheel."

Romeo reached across and tousled Michael's hair. But Ellen saw his eyes flash to the rearview mirror, and she caught a glint of fear.

***