A couple of miles east of Napa, the road began to rise sharply, and twist and turn itself between scrub and rocks. The pickup’s tires howled and whinnied as Neil kept his foot flat on the floor and spun them around one tight curve after another. They passed by fields of dry grasses, fences, and dusty roadside pull-offs. They crossed bridges and culverts. And up above them, the sky grew heavier and darker, thick with inky clouds. A branch of lightning flickered momentarily in the distance, and dried leaves rushed across the road in the draft of the oncoming storm.

Harry said, “The goddamn sky’s threatening enough, let alone the situation.”

Singing Rock raised a hand to hush him. “We’re getting close now. Very close. I’m going to need all my concentration.”

They drove around a curving downward grade, and the lake at last appeared. Its waters were almost black, even darker than the lowering clouds up above it. A surface wind lifted the waves in plumes of white spray, like the scattered feathers of a fallen bird. They looked sinister and unsettled, impenetrable depths that were waiting for the dead and the drowned.

“The Pope Creek bridge is around here,” said Neil, driving them along the rocky shoreline. “Hardin and Maxwell and Burton creeks all run in together with Pope and they make quite an inlet.”

They rounded the corner toward the bridge, and they were confronted by a roadblock: half-a-dozen Highway Patrol cars, with their red lights flashing, a contingent of police from Napa, and a barricade of red-and-white sawhorses.

A cop in aviator sunglasses waved Neil to the side of the road.

“I’m sorry, fellow. You’re going to have to turn around and go back. The road’s going to be closed here for quite a while.”

Neil said, “My boy’s on that bus. I’m Neil Fenner. His name is Toby Fenner.”

The cop said, “You got some proof of that?”

Neil handed over his driver’s license. The cop scrutinized it, nodded, and gave it back. Then he pointed to the rough pull-off just before the bridge itself. “Park your vehicle there, please, off the highway. Then cross to the other side of the road and make yourself known to that officer with the bullhorn.”

Neil said, “Are they okay so far? The kids?”

The cop tugged at the peak of his cap. “As far as we know, sir. But nobody’s been able to get within fifty feet of the bus, and we can’t raise any answers with the bullhorn. A couple of officers got themselves hurt real bad.”

“I heard,” Neil told him.

Turning off the road, Neil parked the pickup where the cop had directed him. Then he and Harry and Singing Rock climbed out, and surveyed the place that Misquamacus had chosen for his battleground.