Dema left the hen house the way she had come in and crawled back over the wall, this time in the presence of several curious chickens. She figured she had just got lucky. If one of the men had been armed it could have been ugly. But she had found that, in the circumstance, an ancient snake-form memory had surfaced, and she had known what to do almost instinctively. Porky was right. A normal snake would have remained passive in their hands. But she was not a normal snake.

She still had her mission. She proceeded on along the other side of the wall, frequently raising her head for another look into the compound, until she had scanned the entire perimeter.

The building was a sprawling, patched-together structure. A looping paved drive curved in front of the central part, which was clearly the oldest, with a stone foundation and stone facing around the entrance. To either side were somewhat newer wings, wooden structures with weathered shingles, built on a foundation of cinder blocks. Off these to the rear were even newer additions, with textured plywood siding and poured concrete foundations, making ells that formed an open courtyard between them behind the central section.

To the right, on the side she had approached from, was the gravel drive leading to the sheds, with the big stretch limo parked on it. But to the left the yard was not well tended, and the building was not far from the low stone wall and the trees.

Having made her survey, she began to retrace her path back along the wall, but with her head raised, hoping to spot something she had been looking for. She got lucky, and quickly slid over the wall and through the tall grass and weeds between there and the building for a closer look. Sure enough, where the cinder-block foundation met the poured concrete, there was a small gap where an old cinder block had crumbled. But not too small. She slid through it, and found herself in a crawl space under the left wing.

She began to silently explore, and listen. From the pipes and plumbing she could tell where the kitchen and bathrooms were. There was also central heating, with big insulated tubes for carrying warm air to floor vents in almost every room. Following the sound of footsteps across floors, she moved under the left wing until she reached the stone foundation of the oldest part of the compound. The heating ducts led her to a gap in that, and she was able to crawl through it and cross over to the right wing. There she found a room that was fully wired with phone and computer lines. She coiled up underneath it to listen.

She couldn't make out the words, but a voice clearly accustomed to giving orders seemed to be doling out plans for the day. Footsteps would enter, words would be spoken, and footsteps would leave, to be followed by more footsteps entering.

She knew she had found the head man's office. The last section of heating duct was the soft extendable type. Wrapping her long, powerful coils around it, she began to crush it, slowly, soundlessly, until it separated from the floor vent. Inspecting her work, she knew her luck was holding. Not only could she now hear plainly all that was being said above her, but the square opening for the floor vent was big enough that she would be able to crawl through it when the time came.

The voice that came through the vent had a pronounced Latino accent. He spoke quietly, but with a lethal intensity. He was berating the minion who was standing in front of him, and his words were punctuated by an odd thunking sound. "You tell, me, Antonio, that it is about the money," (thunk), "not about the drugs. But you seem to forget, Antonio, that the drugs are the money," (thunk). "Do not tell me, Antonio, that a boatload of white was lost in the swamps," (thunk). "Tell me instead, Antonio, that a boatload of money was lost in the swamps," (thunk), "And that if you do not find it, you will bring me a boatload of your money," (thunk).

There was a mumbled "Yes, Miguel," and a shuffling of feet, as if Antonio was turning to leave, but the voice spoke again, more quiet, more deadly. "Antonio, if you do not bring me a boatload of money, I will take a boatload of your blood."

She heard the door open, and Antonio walked away. Miguel's voice spoke again, and one who had been standing outside stepped into the office. "That's enough for now, Marco. Go see Mario and find out what has happened to my breakfast."

"Okay, boss." The door closed, and Marco walked away.

There was another thunk, then the creak of a chair leaning back and the light thump of feet being cocked on a desktop. Then quiet.

But Miguel's mind was not quiet. As in her dream, being this close to the evil one, with her shaman awareness active, she began to know his thoughts. He was troubled that Antonio, a man who had been with the organization for some years and whom he had come to rely on, had let him down. But not overly troubled. He knew how to be ruthless, was proud of the fact, and even Antonio was not indispensable. He began to consider ways he might turn this situation to his advantage.

But these were surface thoughts. Dema needed more, and from the dream, she knew how to get it. She slid her head up through the opening, quietly pushing the floor vent up out of the way, so that she could look into the room.