a backhoe, believe me." Ed licked his lips as he spoke. He was edgy, acting as if he had done something wrong. Bobbie wondered why. If they were using inexperienced local workmen on the resort construction, they must have accidents all the time.
Manuel said, "Do you want lavage?"
"Yes," she said. "After you block him."
She bent lower, probed the wound with her fingertips. If an earth mover had rolled over him, dirt would be forced deep into the wound. But there wasn't any dirt, just a slippery, slimy foam. And the wound had a strange odor, a kind of rotten stench, a smell of death and decay. She had never smelled anything like it before.
"How long ago did this happen?"
"An hour."
Again she noticed how tense Ed Regis was. He was one of those eager, nervous types. And he didn't look like a construction foreman. More like an executive. He was obviously out of his depth.
Bobbie Carter turned back to the injuries. Somehow she didn't think she was seeing mechanical trauma. It just didn't look right. No soil contamination of the wound site, and no crush-injury component. Mechanical trauma of any sort-an auto injury, a factory accident-almost always had some component of crushing. But here there was none. Instead, the man's skin was shredded -ripped-across his shoulder, and again across his thigh.
It really did look like a maul. On the other hand, most of the body was unmarked, which was unusual for an animal attack. She looked again at the head, the arms, the hands -
The hands.
She felt a chill when she looked at the kid's bands. There were short slashing cuts on both palms, and bruises on the wrists and forearms. She had worked in Chicago long enough to know what that meant.
"All right," she said. "Wait outside."
"Why?" Ed said, alarmed. He didn't like that.
"Do you want me to help him, or not?" she said, and pushed him out the door and closed it on his face. She didn't know what was going on, but she didn't like it. Manuel hesitated. "I continue to wash?"
"Yes," she said. She reached for her little Olympus point-and-shoot. She took several snapshots of the injury, shifting her light for a better view. It really did look like bites, she thought. Then the kid groaned, and she put her camera aside and bent toward him. His lips moved, his tongue thick.
"Raptor," he said. "Lo sa raptor . . . "
At those words, Manuel froze, stepped back in horror.
"What does it mean?" Bobbie said.
Manuel shook his head. "I do not know, doctor. 'Lo sa raptor'-no es espa?ol "
"No?" It sounded to her like Spanish. "Then please continue to wash him."
"No, doctor." He wrinkled his nose. "Bad smell." And he crossed himself.
Bobbie looked again at the slippery foam streaked across the wound. She touched it, rubbing it between her fingers. It seemed almost like saliva. . . .
The injured boy's lips moved. "Raptor," he whispered.
In a tone of horror, Manuel said, "It bit him."
"What bit him?"
"Raptor."
"What's a raptor?"
"It means hupia."
Bobbie frowned. The Costa Ricans were not especially superstitious, but she had heard the hupia mentioned in the village before. They were said to be night ghosts, faceless vampires who kidnapped small children. According to the belief, the hupia had once lived in the mountains of Costa Rica, but now inhabited the islands offshore.
Manuel was backing away, murmuring and crossing himself. "It is not normal, this smell," he said. "It is the hupia."
Bobbie was about to order him back to work when the injured youth opened his eyes and sat straight up on the table. Manuel shrieked in terror. The injured boy moaned and twisted his head, looking left and right with wide staring eyes, and then he explosively vomited blood. He went immediately into convulsions, his body vibrating,