again when Michael had shown him a sketch of the sign he had in mind. “Now come on,” he’d protested. “We don’t let anyone touch anything but the nutrias, and old Martha wouldn’t bite a thing.”
“But the sign only says you can ‘almost’ touch them,” Michael pointed out.
So Stubbs had given in. The day after the sign went up, business had immediately improved. People were coming in with their kids, and spending a couple of hours wandering around the cages, watching the animals. A lot of them, after getting a preview of what was in the swamp, signed up for the tour as well. Business was booming, and for the last couple of days Stubbs had even been considering adding an admission fee for the people who just wanted to see the animals.
All in all, he decided as he unlocked the office and started getting ready for the first batch of tourists who were already on their way down from Orlando, hiring Michael hadn’t been a bad move at all. The boy worked harder than anyone he’d ever seen, and always seemed to be coming up with new ideas.
And yet, despite how hard the boy worked, there was something about Michael Sheffield that made Stubbs a little bit nervous. Not that he didn’t like the kid—he did. It was just that over the last month, as he’d gotten to know Michael, he’d gotten the feeling that there was something about Michael that he didn’t understand, something that Michael kept carefully hidden.
He’d finally talked to Craig about it last week, but Michael’s father had assured him there was nothing to worry about. “Michael’s always been like that. Sort of a loner, if you know what I mean. I think he’d rather go off into the swamp by himself than do practically anything else.”
Stubbs hadn’t pushed the matter, but he’d found himself watching Michael a little more carefully. And finally he’d figured out what it was. Sometimes, around dusk, as the light began to fade and the long shadows of evening darkened the wilderness, Michael seemed to have periods when he lost track of what he was doing.
A few days ago, for instance, Phil had been toting up the accounts in the office, and looked up to see Michael washing one of the tour boats. For a few minutes there had been nothing extraordinary about the scene at all. Using a bucket and a mop, Michael had been swabbing down the long benches that ran, back to back, down the center of the boat. But suddenly something invisible to Stubbs seemed to catch the boy’s attention, and he simply stopped what he was doing, the mop clenched tight in his hands, his eyes staring into the tangle of growth across the bayou. Stubbs had followed Michael’s gaze but still seen nothing. As the seconds turned into minutes, he’d begun to wonder if Michael was all right. Leaving the office, he’d walked down to the dock. Just as he arrived, Michael had suddenly come to life again, his grip on the mop relaxing. “Michael? You okay?” Stubbs had asked.
Turning, Michael looked puzzled. “What?”
Stubbs had repeated the question. “I saw you staring off into the mangroves over there,” he went on, nodding in the direction of the island across from the dock. “Thought you must have seen something.”
That was when Michael’s eyes had changed, a veil dropping over them as if he was afraid Stubbs might see something he wanted to conceal. “I—I don’t know,” he’d said. “I guess I was just daydreaming.”
Stubbs had let the matter go, but nonetheless had kept his eyes open. He’d seen the same thing happen three or four times more. Michael would be in the midst of doing something—always as night was gathering—and suddenly he would simply freeze, his hands clenching, as if he was looking at something, or hearing something. A few minutes later it would be over, and Michael would go on with his work as if nothing had happened.
Phil Stubbs was beginning to worry about Michael. What was he doing, those nights when he worked late, hanging around the little complex where the tours were headquartered long after everyone else had left? Of course Stubbs knew how most of Michael’s time had been occupied—the evidence of his work was usually obvious the next morning. But was there something else? Something Michael might not even be aware of, that held him there each evening?
Stubbs finished counting the morning till, observed with satisfaction that all the tour