Phantoms

high-priced pieces. Bryce dug his hands into one of the piles of valuables the way a pirate, in the movies, always drenched his hands in the contents of a treasure chest. He stirred up the shining baubles and saw other kinds of jewelry: earrings, charm bracelets, loose pearls from a broken necklace or two, gold chains, a lovely cameo pendant…
    “This stuff can’t all belong to the Langes,” Tal said.
    “Wait,” Jenny said. She snatched a watch from the pile and examined it closely.
    “Recognize that one?” Bryce asked.
    “Yes. Cartier. A tank watch. Not the classic tank with Roman numerals. This has no numerals and a black face. Sylvia Kanarsky gave it to her husband, Dan, for their fifth wedding anniversary.”
    Bryce frowned. “Where do I know that name from?”
    “They own the Candleglow Inn,” Jenny said.
    “Oh, yes. Your friends.”
    “Among the missing,” Tal said.
    “Dan loved this watch,” Jenny said. “When Sylvia bought it for him, it was a terrible extravagance. The inn was still on rather shaky financial footing, and the watch cost three hundred and fifty dollars. Now of course, it’s worth considerably more. Dan used to joke that it was the best investment they’d ever made.”
    She held the watch up, so Tal and Bryce could see the back. At the top of the gold case, above the Cartier logo, was engraved: TO MY DAN. At the bottom, under the serial number, was LOVE, SYL.
    Bryce looked down at the sinkful of jewelry. “So the stuff probably belongs to people from all over Snowfield.”
    “Well, I’d say it belongs to those who’re missing, anyway,” Tal said. “The victims we’ve found so far were still wearing their jewelry.”
    Bryce nodded. “You’re right. So those who’re missing were stripped of all their valuables before they were taken to… to… well, to wherever the hell they were taken.”
    “Thieves wouldn’t let the loot lie around like this,” Jenny said. “They wouldn’t collect it and then just dump it in someone’s kitchen sink. They’d pack it up and take it with them.”
    “Then what’s all this stuff doing here?” Bryce said.
    “Beats me,” Jenny said.
    Tal shrugged.
    In the two sinks, the jewelry gleamed and flashed.
     
    The cries of sea gulls.
    Dogs barking.
    Galen Copperfield looked up from the computer terminal, where he had been reading data. He was sweaty inside his decon suit, tired and achy. For a moment, he wasn’t sure he was really hearing the birds and dogs.
    Then a cat squealed.
    A horse whinnied.
    The general glanced around the mobile lab, frowning.
    Rattlesnakes. A lot of them. The familiar, deadly sound: chicka-chicka-chicka-chicka .
    Buzzing bees.
    The others heard it, too. They looked at one another uneasily.
    Roberts said, “It’s coming through the suit-to-suit radio.”
    “Affirmative,” Dr. Bettenby said from over in the second motor home. “We hear it here, too.”
    “Okay,” Copperfield said, “let’s give it a chance to perform. If you want to speak to one another, use your external com systems.”
    The bees stopped buzzing.
    A child—the sex indeterminate; androgynous—began to sing very softly, far away:
     
    “ Jesus loves me, this I know,
    for the Bible tells me so.
    Little ones to Him are drawn.
    They are weak, but He is strong .”
     
    The voice was sweet. Melodic.
    Yet it was also blood-freezing.
    Copperfield had never heard anything quite like it. Although it was a child’s voice, tender and fragile, it nevertheless contained… something that shouldn’t be in a child’s voice. A profound lack of innocence. Knowledge, perhaps. Yes. Too much knowledge of too many terrible things. Menace. Hatred. Scorn. It wasn’t audible on the surface of the lilting song, but it was there beneath the surface, pulsing and dark and immeasurably disturbing.
     
    “ Yes, Jesus loves me.
    Yes, Jesus loves me.
    Yes, Jesus loves me—
    The Bible tells me so .”
     
    “They told us about this,” Goldstein said. “Dr. Paige and the sheriff. They heard it on the phone and coming out of the kitchen drains at the inn. We didn’t believe them; it sounded so ridiculous.”
    “Doesn’t sound ridiculous now,” Roberts said.
    “No,” Goldstein said. Even inside his bulky suit, his shivering was visible.
    “It’s broadcasting on the same wavelength as our suit radios,” Roberts said.
    “But how?” Copperfield wondered.
    “Velazquez,” Goldstein said suddenly.
    “Of course,” Roberts said. “Velazquez’s