"Bloody voodoo thing, I reckon," he muttered. "Must have heard it from the kids."

A flash of lightning lit the room, and every light in the house went dead.

"Papa Jacques, Papa Jacques, Papa Jacques," chanted Thea from the darkness. "The baka got in me."

Hoagie lit a cigarette lighter. In its flickering flame she saw Thea, lips distended, writhing sinuously on the mattress like a snake.

"Oh, my God, Hoagie. Oh, my God!"

He was staring at the child. "Steady, Ellen, steady...."

She picked Thea up in her arms. The child was as cold as ice and still twisting.

"Hoagie! Does Louisa live on the island here with Jake?"

"Louisa? The pretty Haitian?" he asked, puzzled. "Yes, she does."

The coldness had returned to Ellen, in her stomach and in her heart, and she knew what she must do.

"Get her, Hoagie, get her here."

"But—"

"Just do it, Hoagie, dammit! Please, for me?"

He touched her cheek. "Of course I shall."

She sat with the squirming, writhing child, listening to breakers crashing on the distant coral reef.

"Papa Jacques, Papa Jacques!"

"I know, baby," Ellen murmured softly. "I feel scared sometimes too."

"The baka is in me, Papa Jacques. Papa Jacques?"

"No, my darling, someone else. But she'll make the fright go away."

***

Carla Brody stood at the roulette wheel in the Loma Bella.

The place was jammed with natives, but very few Americans. Apparently tourism was suffering from the dollar's erratic course. She was bored, missed Mike and Thea already, and wished she'd made it back to Whiskey Cay.

When the storm had hit, trapping her in Nassau, she'd first taken refuge in the gallery on Rawson Square that showed her work. There she'd learned that they hadn't sold a piece in a week, hers or anyone else's. When the place had grown too depressing, she'd grabbed a cab through the pouring rain to her agent's home on Prospect Heights.

Her agent, Roger, was a white-haired, erudite Englishman. His wife had insisted on taking her here for dinner. The food was terrible, the music awful, the bunny-hop waitresses a tacky assault on women's rights. But she was a houseguest, her hosts were having fun, and she suffered in silence.

"Oh, bad luck, Roger," said the agent's wife, a big-busted Bahamian woman with chocolate skin and light gray eyes. "Try the double zero, there's a good lad."

He did, lips pursed, and lost. Reluctantly Carla placed a dollar on black, won, and let it ride, won again, then shifted the lot to red and won again. She had promised herself that she would not lose over five dollars, and that if she won, she'd pocket her winnings after three bets. She quit.

Her agent smiled at her. "I wish I had your willpower."

"It isn't willpower. That cutting head I bought today cost thirty bucks."