Night Songs

ONE

"Here," Colin said, shifting on Matt's bed and taking up a red pencil from the pile scattered over the quilted spread. "What you want to do, see, is give the bird not exact detail so much as the illusion of detail. If you want pictures, get out a camera, otherwise you…" He studied the sketch pad in his hands, cocked his head and put the pencil to work. Matt sat Indian-fashion on the mattress beside him, frowning just as intently, every so often leaning almost nose to paper to see what Colin had done to make the gull look as if it would realize where it was at any moment and break free into the room.

"It's the wrong color, of course, unless it has a sunburn."

Matt nodded.

"But what the hell, right?" He glanced up, then, and put a finger to his lips. "Sorry. I'm not supposed to talk like that in front of you."

"Yeah," the boy said solemnly. "I'm too young."

"Right."

Matt giggled and covered his mouth with a palm.

Colin yanked at his hair and handed him the pencil. "You try it. Nothing special, mind. Just…" He reached out and held the boy's wrist with thumb and two fingers, guiding it gently.

Matt's tongue poked between his lips. "You and Mom are getting married, aren't you?"

Colin leaned back, startled, suddenly realized he was on the edge of the bed and snapped out a hand to keep himself from falling. The mattress rippled, and Matt's pencil skittered across the paper.

"That was close," he said.

"Well, aren't you?"

The sheet was torn from the pad, crumbled, and tossed to the floor onto a shallow pile of other sheets similarly discarded. They had been there since breakfast two hours ago, Colin studying the pictures Matt had done outside school. He'd grown excited as he spotted the tempering of raw talent the boy seldom showed him in his homework, saw it in the eye for detail and the imagery that did not always match what a camera might capture. What was missing was guidance, formal work, and the only thing Colin was unable to give him-experience. Living. A growing that altered the consciousness that was reflected on the paper, on the canvas, in stone and marble. The boy was naive; with growth he might become a Romantic.

Matt looked up at him, large eyes unblinking.

Colin cleared his throat. "Well… it's crossed our minds, yes."

"Would you live here?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I guess so."

Matt pulled the pad over his knees and began doodling birds, small dogs, and elaborately-trimmed, sleek cars. "Mom says I'm the man of the house, so I have to take care of her." A pause. "That's silly. I don't need a babysitter, but Mom's really the man of the house." He paused again, then giggled. "If Mom's the man of the house, you'll have to wear a dress."

"There aren't any my size," he said.

"I'll get one of hers for you."

"You try it, m'boy, and I'll shave that pointy head with a dull toothbrush."

Matt stared at the pad, pushed it away and slipped off the bed. Colin stood as soon as he could get his own legs untangled, watched as the boy headed for the doorway. When he turned, there was a brief, Peg-like decisive nod.

"I think… it's okay, Mr. Ross."

Colin smiled. "Thanks, Matt."

"My father's dead, you know."

He nodded.

"He was killed. In the car. The one that exploded."

"Yes. I know."

"You'll be my new father, then?"

His cheeks puffed, deflated, and he whistled softly. "I'll be your mother's husband, for sure, but I hope we'll still be friends. Anything else is up to you."

"Okay," Matt said, grinning suddenly. "C'mon, we're gonna be late."

The boy was gone before he could move, feet pounding on the stairs as he shouted for Colin to hurry. He whistled again, wondering at the way children always seemed to know more than they let on, more than they seemed to want anyone else to know. Then he looked around the room and tried to remember what his own room had been like. He certainly hadn't had a television set, but he seemed to recall an old Emerson radio his father had threatened to leave in the dump. It had loomed, a grilled walnut cabinet in the corner by his bed, and he'd listened to it at night, to the last of the serials and adventure shows before they were taken off in favor of what some claimed was music.

He smiled to himself wistfully. The perils of advancing middle-age-nostalgia for the good old days which were, if he remembered correctly, damnably boring.

A quick stride and he was at the window, looking out at the trees that formed an evergreen wall at the back of the small yard. The sky was overcast, though the morning was sun-bright. He hadn't been outside yet, but he suspected the air had finally regained its sharp touch of autumn. It would be cool at the cliffs. Peg, however, had said nothing about postponement, so he assumed the picnic would go off as planned.

Listen, she'd said to him quietly just before she'd left for work, he knows. Don't ask how. He knows.

As he walked toward the stairs he marveled again at the powers of children, and at the relief he felt that Matt seemed to accept him. Though Peg was positive there'd be no trouble, too many times he'd seen the trauma of remarriage visited on sons, on daughters, on the innocent bystanders of lives gone wrong. Matt, was special, though, and Colin suspected strongly that his work being displayed at the Whitney would be insignificant indeed to the day the boy first called him Dad.

"C'mon."

Matt was already at the door, wicker basket in hand, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other. He sighed as Colin reached for his jacket, fumbling with a sleeve turned inside out. When he'd finally pulled it right, he grabbed the cuff and pumped it as though he were shaking a man's hand.

"What was that for?"

"Nothing," Colin said. "A superstition. It's supposed to keep your good luck from getting away." When he saw the frown, he pursed his lips and stroked his chin. "So. I guess you're not superstitious. Okay, then it was just an ancient prayer to the gods of sunny days."

Matt peered anxiously at the overcast weather. "I think- they're sleeping. Do you believe in God, Mr. Ross? Mrs. Wooster-she's in Philadelphia, you know-she says God lives on a mountain in the sky. Is that true?"

They took the steps together and headed for his car. "Well-"

He stopped with his hand on the door as someone called his name. He looked up and across the street, first at Hattie Mills' place, then to the right when he heard it again. It was Rose Adams standing on her porch, wrapped in a flowered silk bathrobe that glistened without the sun. Her long, graying hair was hastily coiled into a bun, and he could see a glint of red on her nails.

"Hey, Rose!" he called with a smile as Matt clambered into the car and pulled the door shut. He walked around the front, keeping the smile on when she hustled down the steps and crossed the lawn toward him. He held back his relief when she stopped at the far curb.

"Going on a picnic, Colin?"

"Yup," he said loudly, so she could hear him. Rose was slightly deaf, her own voice naturally loud and carrying.

"Thought so."

He looked up. "Not a great day, but it'll do."

"Could be worse. Could get that storm, but I doubt it, I really doubt it." She smiled but it was forced, and he could see the makeup pancaked on her puffed cheeks gleaming like suede worn too long. "Say, I wonder if you could do me a favor."

"If I can." He avoided looking at Matt. "What is it?"

Her hands, as puffed as her face, retreated into the robe's deep pockets. "It's my little boy." She shook her head sadly. "He didn't come home last night that I know of. I've been calling Garve all morning, but he must have better things to do with his time than chase after someone's lost child."

He guessed then she hadn't heard about Warren.

"Well, I-"

"Of course, Mitchell is hunting him now, but you know how he is. He'll have the child strapped to within an inch of his life if he catches him before I do. Mitchell," she said with a saint's forbearance, "has a temper when it comes to protecting his own."

"I can imagine," he said, the smile beginning to strain. "But I'll do-"

"I'd appreciate your keeping a sharp eye out, then," she continued. "Maybe, if you pass by, you could stop in at Garve's and leave him a note if he's not there."

He opened the door and hefted the basket into the back seat. "I'll do that, Rose."

The hands left her pockets and clasped at her waist. "Oh, thank you, Colin, you're a dear."

"I try, I try."

"And if you should see that… that Carter Naughton-"

"I'll ask around, Rose," he promised, and ducked behind the wheel, closed the door and rolled down the window. Matt was deliberately looking the other way, and he poked the boy with his forefinger before firing the ignition and sweeping the car into a U-turn that ended in front of Mrs. Adams. She leaned down and smiled expectantly.

"Open the window, Matt," he said, and poked the boy again.

"I've talked to Denise, of course," Rose said, the pancake at close range cracked and peeling, "but she's just like her father. She's loyal. Very loyal. Of course, if something happened to Frankie she'd tell me in a minute. That's why I'm not worried. She hasn't even gotten out of bed. But it's Saturday, and a day off, I always say, is a day well spent sleeping till noon."

Colin smiled and slowly lifted his foot from the brake.

"You tell Garve I'll be around later," she said, raising her voice as the car drifted from the curb. "Around one or so, if I can make it."

Colin nodded and lifted a hand to wave. When he checked the rearview mirror she was still there, silk bathrobe, red nails, distance smoothing the pancake and taking twenty years from her face.

"Tommy says she has liquor in her purse," Matt confided once they'd reached the corner. "Does she really?"

"I doubt that, Matthew," he said, not bothering to signal since there was no one behind him and no cars on Bridge Road. "She's just had a bad time of it lately."

"Tommy says she smells like gin!"

"Really? Arid how does Tommy know what gin smells like? His father doesn't drink and his mother's never at home."

"I don't know," Matt said, "but Tommy says so."

"Oh."

Two blocks later he braked slowly to a stop, staring at the Clipper Run.

"Gee!" Matt said, poking his head out the window.

Bob Cameron was standing at the entrance in soiled jeans and a workshirt open to the belt. His hair was dark with moisture, and around his forehead was tied a rolled blue bandana. A large truck was in the parking lot, and several teenaged boys were busily unloading cartons of foodstuffs. When Cameron looked toward the street, Colin started to move, but it was too late. The man was beckoning, and his hand was a fist.

"We're gonna be late," Matt said.

"This won't take long, pal," he said, turning off the engine and dropping the keys on the dash. "Hang on, I'll be right back."

He wanted to smile, or say something about this being the first time he'd ever seen Cameron out of a suit unless he was on the beach, but the look on the man's face precluded anything but a studied, concerned frown.

"What's up?" he asked as he reached the end of the hedge to meet him. "Your suppliers go on strike?" He recognized all the boys, each one a local.

"It's that goddamned Sterling," Cameron said angrily. "Went on one of his toots last night, left the goddamned ferry at the island landing. I was lucky Ed Raines was in the bay and heard the horn or I'd have shit for dinner tonight." His hands gripped his hips tightly and he spat at the street. "Son of a bitch oughta be locked up."

Colin almost laughed until he suddenly glanced down Bridge. "You mean there's no one to run the ferry?"

"Well, I can, so can a few others if it comes to it. We're not marooned if that's what you're thinking.

But it's the principal of the thing, Ross. Jesus Christ, you can't depend on anyone these days."

Cameron nodded sharply to punctuate the condemnation, then took Colin's elbow and drew him down the street, away from the unloading, away from the restaurant. When he stopped he dropped his hand, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face vigorously.

"Listen," he said then, his voice lowered, his gaze on the library next door. "Listen, Colin, about yesterday-"

Colin shook his head. "I don't-"

"Listen!"

He almost turned on his heel and headed back to the car, but the harsh voice didn't match the look he saw in the man's eyes. He waited, though he couldn't find a way to still the chill in his stomach.

"Those men, Lombard and Vincent, they're… damn it, Colin, I'm in trouble."

It took a moment, a long moment, before Colin said, "Yes. I think I tried to tell you that once."

"Yes," Cameron admitted. "But you still don't understand."

"I think I do. But this isn't the place for another one of our discussions, Bob. I've got Matt Fletcher in the car and we're-"

Cameron grabbed his arm, stared hard into his face. "Half the land back there in the woods belongs to me, you know that," he said quickly, softly. "That's where the casinos were going."

"Were?" Colin said.

"Oh, they still are, for sure, but now there's a catch. Lombard says I have to sell half of it to him or there isn't going to be a deal."

"I didn't think there was supposed to be a decision until after the election."

Cameron's eyes closed slowly, opened slowly, and he took his hand from Colin's arm. "Ross, this election doesn't mean a damned thing. Christ, haven't you realized that by now? Those men, and their fatcat buddies over in Trenton, up there in New York, and out in Las Vegas, they're going to have all the land they need and the legislation they need to put up the casinos whether I win or lose."

Colin stepped away. "You've known that all along?"

"I think so."

"You think so?"

Cameron's disgust turned on himself. "All right, all right, I kind of knew it, but I didn't think they meant it and I wanted to get a piece of the action myself, you know what I mean?" He inhaled deeply and craned his neck until the tendons grew stark against the tanned skin. When he spoke again, it was with a weariness born of fear too long suppressed. "It's all gone to hell, Col, and I don't know how to stop it."

"Great," he said. "That's just great."

"I thought you should know."

"Yeah."

"I didn't mean it should happen this way."

"Yeah."

They faced without seeing each other, until Cameron walked around Colin and started back up the street. Colin watched, then caught up. "Maybe we can do something." It was a gesture-not peace, but a truce. Cameron looked gratefully at him though his eyes were still wary. "Something, but I don't know what yet."

"Think fast, Colin," Cameron said urgently, lowering his voice as they neared the unloading. "Garve came to my place last night asking Lombard all sorts of questions. A shitty thing about Harcourt, you know?"

"I know."

They stopped.

"Lombard didn't say a thing. He was with me the whole time, I know he didn't leave." Colin looked at him. "And the Hulk?"

Cameron licked his lips nervously, his gaze straying to Colin's midsection and back. "I don't know. I swear to God, I don't know."

He thought about Montgomery's explanations and Garve's doubts and Peg's worry that both men were wrong. "Okay," he said. "I don't know what I can do, but maybe by tonight."

"Sure," Cameron said, unconvinced but relieved. "And while you're at it, think of a way we can deep-six Sterling. The stupid drunken bastard. The way things are going today, that damned storm'll hit and I'll be stuck with four thousand bucks worth of goddamned bitty sandwiches."

Colin managed a smile, one that shrank to tight lips as he reached the car and got in.

"Well? Well?" Matt asked eagerly.

"Seems the gulls grabbed old Wally and took him to Florida," he said, pulling away from the restaurant.

"No kidding," Matt said, his eyes wide with astonishment until he realized he was being had. "Aw, Mr. Ross!"

"Don't take it so hard, pal. Wally was too heavy. They had to drop him in the bay."

Matt jabbed him hard in the ribs, and he laughed, more to release the tension than because the boy tickled. And by the time they were parked in front of the drug store, he was determined not to let this news spoil the rest of the day. It had been too long coming; Cameron was just going to have to wait.

"Are you mad or something?" Matt asked as they left the car and stood on the sidewalk. There were no pedestrians, and he could hear no sounds from the direction of the beach.

"No," he said absently.

"Okay."

He swept a finger down the length of his nose, then gave the boy a gentle shove. "You get your mother. I want to see if Chief Tabor is in."

Matt looked at him doubtfully, but dashed off quickly enough when he lifted his hand in a mock-fisted threat. Then Colin hurried down to the station. The patrol car was at the curb, freshly washed and reflecting the overcast sky brightly. He noted it only in passing, but when he reached the open office door he hesitated. There was no one inside. It was quiet-no telephones ringing, no radio units crackling, the fluorescent ceiling light sputtering without sound. He called out, heard nothing, decided whoever was on duty had stepped out for lunch. He scribbled a note on scrap paper he found on Garve's desk, telling him about Frankie Adams, adding a postscript about Lombard and Vincent that was enigmatic enough, he hoped, to force Garve to seek him out. He was about to leave when he remembered his promise to Peg to tell Tabor about Lilla. He hesitated, uncertain, then took a second sheet and wrote another message. When he was finished he dropped the pen quickly and wiped his hands on his jeans. He gave a second glance around and returned to the car just as Peg and Matt were taking their seats.

Once behind the wheel he turned to her and kissed her cheek, looked to Matt in the back, and winked. The boy winked back, and they laughed, loudly, as he pulled out on Neptune after checking for traffic.

"You two are in an awfully good mood," she said, smiling.

"You don't know the half of it," he said.

"Mom, can I explore?" Matt said, folding his arms on the back of the seat and resting his chin hard on his wrist.

"You may not, young man."

"But Mom!"

Peg sighed, and Colin sensed a year-long argument destined never to be settled. "Not really a good idea, pal," he said quietly, realizing they were waiting for him to take sides.

"But Mr. Ross," Matt complained, sounding almost betrayed, "the caves are filled with gold?"

"Oh, really?"

"He found a coin in there last year," Peg said, reaching up with her left hand to pat the boy's head. He ducked away, scowling. "I didn't let him go then, either."

"Jeez."

"Now, Matt…"

"Look," Colin said quickly, "why don't we just wait until we get there, okay? I think the tide's in anyway, but let's at least wait until we get there."

Matt was unsure if he'd won something or not. "Okay. Sure."

Peg, however, dropped her hand on his thigh, smiled at him and squeezed-hard enough to make him wince. He sped up, barely listening as he commented on the lack of kids waiting to get into the theater, and the empty parking lot in front of Naughton's Market. But by the time they had reached the Estates he realized he hadn't seen a single car on the road.

He slowed and looked over. "I left a note at Garve's," he said. "About-" and he tilted his head toward the road that led to the development and Gran's shack. "I didn't call Hugh, though. I forgot."

"It's all right," she said.

"Somebody sick?" Matt asked.

"Little pitchers and big ears," Colin muttered.

"What does that mean?"

He saw the boy's reflection in the rearview mirror, and shrugged. "Y'know, pal, all these years I've heard that and I don't have the faintest idea."

The road ended a half mile later. Colin turned the car around and shut off the engine.

The woods were noisy. The leaves and needles husked in a light breeze, the surf's roar threaded its way through the branches, and a flight of unseen crows were raucous near the cliffs.

They wasted little time leaving the car and heading for the narrow trail that led to the cliffs. Matt took the lead at a dead run, Peg followed, and Colin moved as quickly as he could with the basket in his left hand. He didn't mind being last. It gave him a chance to watch

Peg in her jeans, the way her plaid shirt pulled snug across her back. Her hair was in a pony tail and it swung with her hips, and when she glanced back over her shoulder and gave him a broad wink, he grinned as he realized she knew what he was doing.

Fifteen minutes after they left the car, the light changed. It was more a glow than sunshine, catching in slow motion the dust in the air. The greens were dull, the autumn reds sullen, and the shrubs off the trail cloaked themselves in pale shadow. He looked up several times as if expecting to see the clouds thickening to storm, looked behind him several more times as if expecting to see something. The crows were gone, the breeze dead, and the waves tearing at the cliffs made him think he was a soldier walking into a battle in a time that wasn't his.

The air grew damp, and the light sparkled with errant spray.

Matt was gone, but Peg hung back, waiting until she could walk beside him as best she could within the trail's confines. He shifted the basket and held her hand.

Their shoes snapped twigs and broke the spines of piles of dead leaves; their breathing matched the pulse of the surf.

The trees began shrinking and bending away from the ocean, the shrubs falling back, the ground turning to rock until they were out in the clear and the water swept ahead of them to a leftward curving horizon. The boulders were huge, were small, were brown lined with color, and what grass managed to break through the cracks in the ground was rough and sharp-edged and tipped with darkred thorns.

Matt stood in a gap between two child-sized rocks, his hands on his hips, and shaking his head. "It's in," he said, nodding toward the tide.

Colin lowered the basket and joined him, looked down, and told himself sternly he wasn't going to fall.

One hundred feet to the water, surging as if it were trying to climb, splattering, scattering, turning dark to white while spumes of its thunder were caught by the wind and thrown up just short of lashing them.

They were standing at the top of a precarious pathway, one that switchbacked unevenly more than halfway down. Ledges littered with broken shells, weakly fluttering feathers, every so often the bones of a gull. At the bottom the rocks were smooth, but elsewhere they jutted and forced gashes in the waves, gashes in the air. The wind caught his hair and forced it back, exposing his forehead, made him clutch the throat of his jacket and close it around his neck.

Matt pleaded with a look.

"No way, pal, forget it. Even I know the tide's higher than usual. That storm's on its way, and you definitely are not going to be its first casualty."

"What's casualty?"

"It means your butt turns red when you don't do what you're told."

"Oh."

They stepped back reluctantly, Colin first and watching as Peg, protected from the wind by a broken wall of massive boulders, unpacked the basket. He started toward her to help, stopped when Matt tugged at his waist.

"Pal, I said no."

Matt pointed.

On the horizon, merged with the overcast that lowered darkly and began to churn, was the fog.

"She's singing," the boy said.

"What?" He knelt, facing away from the cliff's edge.

"Lilla," Matt told him. "She's singing."

"Now how do you know that, pal?"

"It happens every time, Mr. Ross. Didn't you know that? It does. Every time she sings the fog comes back."

"Enough of that," Peg scolded mildly, looking up from the food.

"Indeed." He took Matt's shoulders gently. "You know what coincidence is?" The boy nodded. "Well, that's what this is."

"Nope," Matt said. "It isn't… what you said." The wind screamed like an angry flock of gulls. The fog.

Colin took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Look, Matt, I know you believe this, and I guess that's all right for now. But I'm starving to death, in case you hadn't noticed, and I would appreciate tabling all ghost stories until after I've had some of your mother's lousy cake."

"Well, I like that," she said with a scowl.

Colin shrugged and nudged her son forward, then groped for his shoulder when Tess Mayfair walked silently out of the trees.

Her dress was ragged, her chest and stomach partially exposed and covered with dried blood. A rib poked behind ragged flesh. Her hair was matted and her eyes were wide.

Peg saw her the moment Colin did and grabbed for Matt, shoved him behind her as she rose slowly from the blanket and backed toward the rocks.

"Jesus, Tess," Colin said with concern. "God almighty, what happened? Do you need help?"

Tess walked toward him, stumbling on the rough ground but not losing her balance,

"Tess?"

She stumbled again and lurched toward him, forcing him back, into the gap that opened on the path. He couldn't look back, couldn't look down, didn't hear Peg shouting as she raced for the basket. The wind snared him and he grabbed for a rock. Tess didn't stop, not even when Peg threw a large bottle of soda at her head.

"Tess!"

She filled the gap. And she lunged.

Colin threw himself to one side desperately, his right foot slipping on the spray-dampened ground, bringing him to his knees as Tess toppled over the edge. Silently. Arms reaching. Turning head down just as she reached the first ledge.

Peg screamed and Colin shouted.

And the fog began to whisper up the face of the cliff.

TWO

Noon was barely past when the fog brought the night, and the Carolina storm brought the wind to give it motion.

Garve sat heavily on the edge of the bed and crushed out his cigarette in the pink seashell ash tray resting on the floor. He was naked, warm, and despite the flesh that had been softened by his years, there was still the definition of muscles less for show than for power. His sandy hair was tangled, he needed a shave, and his hands hung over his knees at the wrist.

"I gotta get to work, I guess."

"Why? There's a crime wave or something?"

He grinned in spite of himself, and relaxed when Annalee's hands gripped his shoulders and began a gentle kneading.

"God, that feels good."

"Sure it does. There's a considerable amount of tension stored in here."

"An expert speaking?"

"Damn straight."

He allowed himself a sigh, kept his eyes closed, and didn't want to know the time. He guessed it was close to ten, but he couldn't be sure. And he didn't much care, not now, at least. Eliot could handle things alone, anyway. Nichols was a good man, though Garve wished he wouldn't make it so obvious that he hungered for the boss's job.

"A penny," she said, leaning into his back and snaking her arms over his shoulders, her fingers lightly scratching the roll of his waist.

"I think I love you."

"Worth a dime at least."

He half turned, and tested the air for sarcasm, drew up his legs and turned the rest of the way, sitting cross-legged and staring. Not at her slightly sagging breasts or the enviable flat of her stomach or the tanned sheen of her thighs; he stared at her eyes, at the chocolate brown that watched him from behind a wisping screen of blonde hair, at the dark lashes, at the gentle laughter he saw there as she reached over to stroke his cheek.

It almost banished the throbbing that had settled behind his ears. "I feel like a jackass, you know," he said.

"Why? Because that son of a bitch made you lose your temper?"

"Yeah. I shouldn't have done it, Lee. It was stupid. If there was a case there, I've blown it."

Concern eased her smile. "Was there one?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I honestly don't know."

Her sympathy almost made him angry, but she forestalled it by leaning over and kissing him, drawing back and examining him again.

"Do you know how old I am?" he asked when the silence grew too long.

She shook her head.

"I'll be fifty-one come January." He laughed once and looked at his hands covering his lap. "Fifty-one. That's more than half a damned century."

"You wear your age well."

Maybe he did, but this morning he felt twice that. It was the humiliation and the fact that he had lost control for the first time in years. Punks like Cart

Naughton were simple to intimidate, and so was Bob Cameron. But when he came up against the Man, against those who claimed real power-the kind Bob dreamed of-he proved himself a flop. Cow flop. Horseshit. A fifty-year-old cop who couldn't find a killer in a state prison.

"You're feeling sorry for yourself."

He nodded before he could stop himself.

"That's all right," she said, tossing her hair back over her shoulders. "If you say you made a mistake, then I believe you. If you say you made an ass of yourself, well… you made an ass of yourself."

"Thanks a heap, nurse."

"Hey, cop, it isn't the end of the world. Since when have you turned saint?" When he looked up, eyes narrow, she returned the look without flinching. "You're not perfect, Garve," she said softly. "And don't tell me you really, honestly, expected him to crumble the minute you looked at him cross-eyed."

His gaze dropped to her knees, to his knees. "I can always hope, right?"

She shoved him, nearly spilling him off the bed. "You're kidding, right?"

He almost flared, but a short laugh became a long one and he reached out for her, hugged her, moved their legs out of the way and lowered her to the mattress.

"What time is it?" he whispered into the hollow of her sweet-smelling shoulder.

"After one, probably."

He rose up sharply. "What?"

A handful of hair brought him down again. "It's after one and if you leave this house without making love to me at least once, Garve Tabor, I'll never speak to you again."

"Lee-"

"Garve!"

He pulled back to look at her, higher to see the headboard, higher still to see the window.

"Jesus Christ, look at all that fog!"

"I know," she said. Suddenly he was cold, and reached for the blanket to cover them both. It didn't help.

Especially when he thought he heard Lilla singing.

There was just enough light to let them see the fog, to let them see the branches whip out of the gray to lash at their faces and snare around their legs, boil out of the hollows and cover their feet. Peg thought her lungs would overfill and finally explode, and she exhaled in a rush that made her dizzy.

Matt was ahead of her, Colin urging her on from behind, but she couldn't understand a single word he was saying. The sound was there, and the thud of his footsteps, and the crack of his swearing when he stumbled and nearly fell. But she couldn't understand a word.

And she could barely see a thing.

Matt was there, she knew he was there because she could see his hair swinging, and his arms pumping, and his thin legs blurring as he ran. She could also see Tess Mayfair, larger than she'd ever seemed to be in life, lurching out of the trees as if she were drunk, reaching for Colin, nearly pushing him into the sea, tripping over something and disappearing, just like that.

She was ashamed of herself. Instead of trying to help the poor woman she had screamed like an idiot, screamed louder when Colin went down and almost went over himself. It was Matt, whose excitement made him slap her hard on the back, who made her realize what was happening, made her lunge to her feet and dive for Colin's hand. She grabbed his wrist the instant she landed, the air crushed out of her, her eyes flooded with tears of pain. But she held on, her lips pulled back and every muscle in her body pulled taut as a wire. Colin grabbed her forearm with one hand, grabbed her elbow with another, grabbed her shoulder, and she didn't know he was standing until he helped her up.

"Wow, Mom!" Matt said. "Wow, you did it!"

Colin could say nothing. He only swallowed and told her everything with his eyes.

But the running was the worst part.

Worse than understanding that Colin had almost died, worse than accepting her own dare and looking over the edge-to see Tess sprawled on the ledge more than fifty feet below, to see the waves claw at her dress, toy with her legs, wash away the red that ran in streams from beneath her head.

"She was hurt," Colin said behind her, each word a gasping. "She must have had an accident out here in the trees."

She nodded and kept running.

"God!" he said. "I thought for a minute she wanted to push me over."

She did, Peg thought, and slowed nearly to a halt when she realized what had happened. Matt called her name and Colin urged her on, but none of it changed anything-Tess had been trying to kill him. Tess had wanted Colin dead, and only the man's slipping had saved his life when she attacked.

They broke out of the woods and scrambled into the car. It stalled once, stalled again, and she pushed at the dashboard until the engine caught. When Colin sped north on Neptune, she turned and looked at Matthew. He was in the corner behind her, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, looking pale, lips white. Without a word she struggled over the back and sat beside him, embraced him and looked at Colin's head.

"Why?" she said.

"She was hurt," Colin answered, leaning forward to see through the fog on the road. "No. Yes."

"What?"

"She was hurt, I could see that, but she wasn't looking for help." There was a silence. "Peg, listen-"

She looked down at Matt and stroked his damp hair. "You know what I'm saying."

"I sure as hell do, and it's ridiculous."

The fog was so thick Colin had to slow down, so much so she knew she could run to town faster. When they reached the boarding house, she stopped shaking long enough to squeeze Matt more tightly, pull the blanket across his chest, and shift so her right arm was still around his shoulders while she put her face as close to Colin's as she could.

"You saw her?"

He nodded, muttering at the fog. Five miles an hour was no way to get the police.

"I don't see how she was alive."

His head snapped up, and he glared at her in the rearview mirror. "Peg," he said, whispering, questioning, and cautioning in a name.

"I mean it," she said, lowering her voice. "You saw her, Colin. I don't see why she wasn't lying down. I saw bone sticking out, for God's sake! She looked like somebody went after her with an ax."

"Warren," was all he said.

She sat back and stared at the low ceiling, blinking rapidly, feeling her son beside her and wishing the man in front wasn't so goddamned stuck on reason.

A signpost reared out of the fog and Colin yanked on the wheel, apparently not realizing he was nearly off the road. Then he said, "Lilla."

"What?" she said sharply.

"Lilla. If that guy's still at work, Lilla's in danger."

He stopped, and she sat up. "What the hell are you doing, Colin?"

"We ought to at least bring her back with us to the station where she'll be safe."

"The hell with her," she said. "What about Matt? Are you going to leave us in the car with a maniac running loose while you go chasing after another nut? Over my dead body."

His shoulders squared, and she knew she ought to feel some manner of guilt about the way she'd spoken about a friend. But as far as she was concerned, Lilla was beyond their help now. The young woman needed a professional, a doctor, and what they needed was some safe place where Tess Mayfair couldn't get them.

She waited, blinking in disbelief when Colin swerved the car onto Surf Court. A hand lifted to punch the back of his neck, a curse throttled in her throat when Matt squirmed to get closer to her. Then the car stopped, and Colin opened the door. The engine was still running. When she leaned over the seat, he bent down and smiled with a shrug.

"I can't do it, Peg. You take the car and get hold of Garve."

"And what about you?" she demanded.

"I'll get Lilla and bring her here." He waved behind him at the houses on the street. "There're some lights on. I'll take her to Bob's or Efron's. I'll call as soon as I get there."

"Colin, this is stupid."

"No," he said. "Maybe. Now hurry. I don't want this dumb fog to get any thicker."

There were a dozen reasons why he shouldn't go, and a dozen more why he should. While she was debating, he reached in and grabbed her hand, squeezed it, and closed the door. He walked quickly toward the beach, hopping onto the curbstone and following it until he reached the sand. The fog was much thinner there, and he didn't disappear until he was halfway up the first dune.

"Mom?"

She glared at the spot where Colin had been, then struggled into the driver's seat, looked around and jerked her head until Matt understood and followed. He kept the blanket. He watched as she snapped on the headlights and made an awkward U-turn.

"Mr. Ross?"

"He went to get Lilla," she said, her hands holding the wheel white-knuckled. "Will he be hurt?"

"No," she said; told him, "No," again, softly, when she saw the fear widen his eyes. "No, he'll be all right."

The fog scattered when they reached Neptune, and she craned to take a hard look at the sky. It was darker now, the Screamer closer. She suddenly wished strongly they'd had another name for the windstorm. She blinked-twilight on Haven's End before it was even two. She drove recklessly, not slowing when gray patches flared the car's lights back into her eyes.

Then she looked at her hands; they were trembling. She squeezed the wheel more tightly. When that didn't work she pushed a palm over her cheeks, shoved clawed fingers back through her hair. The car slowed when they reached Naughton's Market, slowed even more until they reached the intersection, and the amber light winked on the hood, turned the windshield gold, followed with sweeping shadows as she swung a tight circle and parked in front of the station. The lights were on, and she could see Garve at his desk.

"Mom?"

She couldn't move.

The next thing she had to do was turn off the engine, but she couldn't loosen her grip on the wheel. "Mom!"

She swallowed, closed her eyes, and couldn't help a short scream when someone rapped the window next to her head.

Matt grabbed her arm and shook her, calling, until she made herself as stiff as she could, suddenly released the hold on her muscles and sagged back in the seat. She smiled weakly at Garve and didn't protest when he helped her out of the car and into the office, one hand at the small of her back and the other on her elbow while he listened gravely to Matt explain what had happened.

When she was seated, a cup of steaming coffee in her hands, she smiled again. "It's true," she told Tabor when he sought her confirmation. "It's true. She was… I honestly couldn't stop her, Garve. Before I could move she was… gone." Peg sipped, wincing at the hot liquid, shuddering at the chill that refused to leave her system. "She was hurt terribly even before she fell."

"Yeah!" Matt said excitedly, standing in front of the gunrack back by the cellblock door. His fear seemed gone, concern for his mother settled now that Garve was in charge. "Boy, it was just like you see in the movies! Her-"

"Matthew!" she shouted, coffee slopping into her lap.

He cringed and turned slowly, the protection he'd constructed gone with the name that struck his back like whip.

"It's all right," Tabor said. "Take it easy, the two of you, all right?" He dropped into his chair and clasped his hands at his stomach. "First thing is to call Hugh and let him know what happened. Then I'll take a ride out there and-" He stopped when she stared at him. "No, you won't have to go back."

Mutely, she accepted the paper napkins he handed her and daubed at the spill darkening her jeans. She felt terrible. Very few things bothered her more than losing control, and all control had left from the moment she'd seen Tess plunge off the cliff. A part of her reasoned the reaction was natural, part because she was thinking first of her son.

But she had lost control, and what kind of way was that to keep Matthew from harm?

Gingerly, she took another sip of coffee and smiled apologetically at her boy who was still by the gunrack watching her fearfully. By the time Tabor finished his call to Hugh, she felt somewhat better, and turned her smile to the chief when he queried her a with look. "Okay, then," he said. But he didn't move. Instead, he dialed another number, waited, scowled, and slammed the receiver down. "Goddamn Nichols," he muttered.

"El's not here?" She looked around, realizing for the first time the deputy was missing. "But the car-"

"Yeah, I know. But it was here when I got back.

Washed like he was expecting to be in a parade. The car, but no Eliot. I've been calling his place for the past hour, but I can't get an answer and nobody I can raise has seen him. Jesus, he must be under a tree with Wally."

"Nobody…" She set the cup on the desk. "Garve, what's going on?"

He looked back at the boy, who was studying the shotguns and the rifle in the cabinet. Then he pulled his chair as close to the desk as he could, leaned forward on his forearms and rubbed his chin with a thumb. "Peg, I got to be honest, I haven't the faintest idea. Half the town leaves yesterday like the whole place was on fire, that's on account of the Screamer. But today… well, you're the first person I've seen since I got up. Except for Lee."

She passed on a comment that rose automatically; this wasn't the time to kid him about his lovelife.

"Maybe… maybe they're afraid the storm will hit sooner than after midnight. They might be too busy to answer."

"Oh, it will." He snapped a finger at a pink sheet of paper. "Got the word about five minutes ago. Damn fools at the National Weather place, they didn't want to make a mistake. It moved right out into the ocean, stopped, thought about it, and it's coming right back."

"Oh, God, the windows."

"Yeah, exactly. Between trying to get hold of Eliot, I've been calling everyone I can think of." He shook his head, and shrugged. "Hardly anyone left. This place is going to be a disaster if they don't come back soon."

She sighed, bit softly on her lower lip. "What was that about Wally?"

He looked disgusted. "Bob comes in a while back, bitching about Sterling leaving the ferry unattended. No sign of him, the ferry's at the island. Cameron had to bring over his supplies on his own." His expression was sour. "He was lucky he didn't end up in Chesapeake Bay the way he pilots that thing."

"Lilla," Matt said, so loudly they started, not realizing he had walked up behind the chief. "What's this?" Tabor asked, half turning in his seat. "Matt, I told you not-"

"Lilla, sir," Matt said when he didn't look away. "I told Mom and Mr. Ross about the fog, but they didn't believe me."

Peg kept her silence when Tabor lifted a hand to prevent an interruption, but she could not help an annoyed frown when Matt explained to the chief about the fog and Lilla's singing. She expected him to laugh, or to touch the boy's shoulder and nod to humor him. What she didn't expect was the thoughtful expression that blanked Tabor's eyes for the briefest of moments.

"Garve, you don't believe that."

"I heard her this morning, Peg."

"Yes, but-"

"I told you, Mom. And I'll bet the storm-"

"Matthew, please!"

Tabor rose, walked to the open door, and put a hand on the frame as a smoke gust of fog drifted down the street. "It's an odd day, Peg," he said. "That Screamer just turned around like someone yanked on its chain. It should be halfway to France by now. Halfway to France." He sniffed, scratched his head. "An odd day."

She rose and joined him, folding her arms under her breasts. "Odd, yes. But nothing more."

"Yeah. Sure."

"Honestly, Garve, you're going to scare the boy with talk like that. It's bad enough, what he saw. Don't make it worse."

He nodded an apology, and snatched his hat off the rack. "You staying?"

"I have to," and explained again about Colin's call.

"All right, then." He looked at Matt. "You're a deputy now, son, okay? You have to protect your mother and watch for the crooks while I ride out to the cliffs."

He looked stern, but she caught a wink as he waited for Matt's answer.

"Really?" the boy asked, "really?"

"Really. Your mother, she'll do the easy stuff like answering the phone for me. You have to do the rest. Think you can handle it?"

"Oh, boy!"

"Right." Another wink when she mouthed thanks as he passed her, a wave before he was in the patrol car and ghosting down the street. She stood at the door for over ten minutes, returning inside only when the fog suddenly thickened.

And from the woods across the way, she heard Lilla singing.

THREE

The wind had already routed the beachside vanguard of fog by the time Colin reached the top of the last dune. The light here was brighter than under the trees, clinging to a muted glow as the overcast broke apart to gather again in dizzying swirls and sweeps of high roiling black; the beach was gray, desolate, and covered with remnants of settling, quivering foam as the tide raced in thunder for the woods, retreated, held its breath, and charged again; what warmth remained had turned to a damp chill that penetrated his jacket as if it were gauze.

He squinted against the wind, entranced for a moment by the dark of the ocean, a black-ice depth that resembled the face and fury of a season not yet arrived. Deep winter storms were his favorite, when there were no bathers around to tempt the undertow and give the impression that the Atlantic was friendly-a nice place to cool off, a great place to frolic, a fine place to cultivate a smooth-sheened tan. In the cold, however, when the tourists were gone, the ocean gave up the sunlight masquerade and turned its true color-metallic and harshly beautiful, slashed through with white, rising in great swells not meant for surfing or diving-exposing the power that stalked behind the facade of a tranquil summer.

But it wasn't yet Thanksgiving, and the sea he watched was already December's.

He turned away quickly and headed across the flat toward the shack. There was no sense calling out; the wind would carry his voice clear to New York before Lilla would hear it. He grunted when he tripped over an exposed rock and nearly lost his balance, remembering the slow-motion fall of Tess Mayfair off the ledge.

She had tried to kill him.

He knew it, even though he'd denied it to Peg.

She had tried to kill him.

And worse Peg had not seen her as closely as he had, She had not seen the white edges of Tess' ragged wounds, the bleached look of her ribs smashed and stabbing through all that flesh, the complete lack of blood anywhere on her. And she had not seen the fact that Tess' eyes were pure white.

If Tess had been lying on the road in that condition, he would not have hesitated in pronouncing her dead.

Though he had said that Tess was probably attacked by the same person who had murdered Warren Harcourt, once away from the others he couldn't quite believe it. It had to have been an accident. A car accident, or something like that, something at the boarding house that maybe brought a portion of it down on her. Not a fire; they'd neither seen nor smelled smoke and there was no… he swallowed… there was no charring on Tess that he'd been able to see.

No; not assault this time, though that did not make his intention to get Lilla any less urgent. The wind out there was bringing the sea too damned close.

His hands hid in his pockets as he approached the shack, his mind forceably shifting away from the cliffs to the present. Garve, he thought, would take care of Tess' puzzle. Right now, he reminded himself again, he had his own task to do, and as he rounded the shack's corner he wondered if this was such a good idea after all.

But he chided himself half humorously when he reached the building and hesitated. Then, with a mental kick to his backside for giving in to the day and to Peg's case of nerves, he knocked, the door swung open slowly, and he reeled around and stumbled a dozen paces away, one shoulder up, an arm flung across his face. Gagging, retching, flailing with his free hand at the stench that enveloped him and burned through his nostrils.

"Jesus… Christ!"

He fumbled in his hip pocket for a handkerchief, found none, covered his nose and mouth with a palm, and, breathing through his mouth, stared incredulously at the shack. There was no light inside, and the light where he stood wasn't strong enough to penetrate. He glanced around the room as if he expected to find Lilla, and stepped forward slowly, almost sideways, watching the weathered building as though it were an old and angry lion waiting to spring.

The stench increased.

He gasped, rubbing at the tears that rose and swept to his cheeks. Hoarsely: "Lilla!"

He was half bent over by the time he reached the door again. "Lilla!"

She couldn't be in there, not with that smell. "Lilla!"

It was so strong he was afraid that if he lit a match the entire island would explode. "Lilla, it's me!"

He staggered over the threshold, leaning heavily against the jamb as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the light. In a far corner he saw a bundle, gray and water-stained. The shroud, he thought, and told himself he was wrong. The shroud held Gran, and that was under the ocean surface.

The flesh across his cheeks felt tight, close to shredding.

The door to the rear room was ajar, and he could see shadows in there, shadows but nothing more. Maybe a bed, something else, something scattered over the floor. He tried to move forward, push himself away from the rough-plank wall, but his legs refused. The stench was a bludgeon now, a slow swinging club of rotting fruit and rotted meat and the carnage of a battlefield hours later in the sun. He couldn't do it.

He threw himself out the door and fell, rolled, didn't stop rolling until he came up against the pines that separated the flat from the beach. A hand to the coarse bark, he pulled himself to his feet, and stood with head lowered while tears streamed and his throat burned. He gulped for air, blinked rapidly and brushed a forearm across his face. When he was ready he staggered toward the dunes, looking back only once and wondering what in hell the old man had had in there that could die so foully.

At the end of the first climb his legs gave out and he dropped to his knees, arms limp at his sides, the wind cold at his back. The ocean rose; he glanced over his shoulder and saw the nearest jetty already half covered, the waves breaking at the end of the beach now, and flattening the slatted dividing fence. Farther up, the waves had already begun to tease the grass at the forest's base.

He couldn't understand why the fog wasn't gone.

It was there, ahead of him, settling in low patches between the dunes, hovering about the peaks of the Estates' houses, in a thick unmoving wall at the end of the street. It wasn't possible, yet it stayed-gray, and shifting lazily, and totally oblivious to the wind.

His eyes squeezed shut and he rubbed them with his knuckles, took another long breath and pushed himself to his feet. This, he decided, was yet another island phenomenon Garve or Hugh would have to explain the next time he saw them. Curious, unsettling, but beside the point at the moment because he still had to find Lilla to warn her about the killer, and now about the storm.

He slid, and climbed, and found himself on Surf Court, hands on his hips while he shook off the dread and the memory of the stench. Most likely, he thought, Gran had had a pet, a stray dog or something, that had died and had not been buried. Or maybe it was food gone bad, or some of the old man's horrid incense he was forever burning while he worked. Whatever it was, it had finally driven Lilla away, and for that small favor he was grateful. What he had to do now was get to a phone and call Peg, as he'd promised, tell her what he found, then find a ride into town.

The wind clawed his hair down over his eyes, and the fog didn't move.

As his legs regained their strength, he walked more quickly, collar up, arms swinging, around the road's slight curve and into the Estates. He didn't bother to use the sidewalk; by the time he reached the first house he realized hardly anyone was there.

The yards were wide, the trees full and not quite as tall as a roof, the houses mostly cedar shake or fronted with false stone. On the left, most were surrounded by hedges fighting the salt air, and their windows were large and framed by tall shrubs. On the right, the windows were adequate, nothing more-these houses faced the sea and saved the views for the horizon. There were no streetlights, but more than half the drives were marked by tall gaslights that trembled in the wind. It was too soon for illumination, but it was apparent that most of the places were empty. They had the bleak air of desertion-no cars in the drive, no toys on the stoops, the panes reflecting nothing but the drapes closed behind. No sound. No movement. No evidence of pets.

As he walked, Colin suddenly imagined himself stalking Dodge City as the church bells tolled twelve. He could feel his arms tensing, could feel his legs going slightly stiff, could feel his heels hitting the tarmac deliberately hard. It was silly, and he gave into the fantasy for just a moment more, until he remembered Tess Mayfair's passion for westerns and heroes and remembered the last time he had seen her alive.

And she was alive, he told himself sternly.

There could be no questions about it-she was alive.

He veered abruptly to his right and walked up the drive of an over-sized, two-story Dutch colonial, with brown shakes, and white trim, and a large gold station wagon parked in front of the closed garage door. The vast lawn was immaculate, expensively lush, and centered by a circular rose garden whose plants were protected by low white-wire fencing. There was burlap tied over the bushes now and wood chips piled on the earth around them. Evergreen shrubs masked the high foundation, the ground here sloping down and away from the house to keep water from collecting.

The stoop was bordered with a black wrought-iron railing, and he used it to pull himself up to the door. The draperies were drawn, the shades pulled down, and he looked again at the wagon before he rang the bell. The wind prevented him from hearing anything, and he pushed the lighted button again, just in case. Then he rechecked the neighborhood, whistling soundlessly, jerking his head now and then to shove the hair from his eyes. He rang the bell a third time. He looked to his right, down to the far end of the street and the woodland abutting, saw the fog crawling first from the trees and onto the tarmac, then boiling out and over the houses as if a fan had been turned on. He rang the bell a fourth time and looked away from the fog.

The shrubs scratched at the house. A torn page of newsprint scuttled around the corner of the house and caught against the wagon's front tire, fluttering, fighting, until it broke free and pinwheeled toward the gutter.

He knocked, loudly, insistently.

The fog settled and thinned, and touched the backs of his hands like the brush of a damp fern.

"Damn it, Bob, c'mon," he muttered. He stood back and looked up at all the windows he could seeshades down, panes blank, not a sign of life or anything else.

He took one step down, changed his mind and returned to the door. His hand folded around the knob, and the door opened before he could turn it. He snatched the hand back and rubbed it against his jeans, his head forward to look into the carpeted foyer.

"Hey, Bob?"

No answer.

He stepped up, and in.

"Hey, Bob, it's Colin!"

After only a slight hesitation he closed the door behind him and unzipped his jacket. The house was warm, and close, as if it had been closed for a year. He cocked his head and listened, looked to the dining room on the right, the living room on the left, at the flight of stairs directly ahead. He'd been here several times before, knew the floorplan well, but something about the silence made him feel like a stranger.

"Silly; you're acting silly," he said as loudly as he dared, and hurried into the living room-dark Spanish oak, dark thick carpet, dark prints of game birds in dark frames on the white walls. A stack of newspapers in an armchair, a console television under the front window, bookshelves mostly empty. He headed for the telephone on the end table by the couch, snorting when he realized he was walking on tiptoe.

"The thief in the afternoon," he intoned dryly as he picked up the receiver, turning as he did to scan the room he was in again.

The dial tone was unnervingly loud, and he winced as he leaned over to punch Garve's number. He had three done when he saw the movement at the window.

"Bob?"

Stupid, he can't hear you.

He put the receiver back and walked to the television, put his hands on the polished top and leaned close to the pane. The fog had thickened in several patches on the street, hiding the house directly across the way. Through it he could see someone moving up the street as he had. He stared for a moment, then hurried to the door and flung it open.

The wind had died.

"Bob! Hey, Bob!"

He moved to the top step and took hold of the railing, one hand pushing his jacket back as it hooked into his hip pocket. A spiderweb of mist tangled over his face and he brushed at it impatiently, wishing Cameron would get a move on so he could make the call and get back to town.

"Bob, come-"

The fog puffed like woodsmoke and peeled away, and his hand suddenly tried to pull the railing from its mooring.

Theo Vincent staggered to a halt in the middle of the road, pivoting slowly until he saw Colin at the house. His suit jacket was missing, his white silk shirt shredded to the waist, and the legs of his pegged trousers were ragged and torn and stained with wet grass. Colin saw the pink-rimmed bone that used to be the man's left knee, saw the way the man's shoes were dark and gleaming.

"Vincent? My God," he said, thinking suddenly of Tess, "what the hell happened to you?"

Vincent only shuddered, his bald scalp glittering as the fog settled over him, curled up and settled again. A piece of his shirttail beckoned in the wind.

It had to have been a car accident, he thought as he started down the steps; Vincent driving, maybe, and veering off the road and somehow hitting Tess. It was a reasonable answer, one that provided solutions to even more questions. It was trauma, fear; something had sent her away from the scene, into the woods, to the cliffs where she had tried to get help and had only succeeded in dying. Vincent seemed less badly injured, though it had to be the anesthesia of shock that kept him walking on that leg.

Just as Colin reached the last step, the injured man moved to the lip of the drive and shuddered again, the tattered flaps of his shirt pulling away from his chest at the insistence of the wind. Then he looked up and blinked slowly, wiped a hand wearily over his eyes and down to touch gingerly at the wounds on his breast.

"Bastard," he said.

Colin stopped in mid-stride.

A groan rose curiously high-pitched, and Vincent glared at Colin. "You goddamned bastard."

"Now wait a minute," Colin said, his temper ready to flare before he reminded himself sternly that the man was seriously hurt and needed a doctor.

"Bastard," Vincent said a third time, his voice cracking to a sigh. "Couldn't fight like a man, huh?"

He frowned his confusion and started forward again. "Look, Vincent, I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. Now let me help you inside, and we'll call-"

The man's hands came up and doubled into fists. He swayed, shifted his weight, and a run of fresh blood began pooling at his foot. "Couldn't fight on your own, could you, bastard? Sent your little army out, right? Couldn't do it on your own." He raised his head, aimed his chin at Colin's chest. "Whose idea was it to get me, huh? Yours? Cameron's?"

"Get you?" he asked stupidly. "Get you? Are you saying you think… my God, you can't mean that." He vacillated between concern and righteous anger, wanting to strike him, wanting to hold him until the blood stopped flowing.

"I'll kill you," Vincent said, spitting blood at the grass.

"Somebody's already had a pretty good start on you," he said coldly. "Why don't you do us both a favor and let me get you inside so I can call the doctor."

Another groan, and one arm lowered slowly. "Jesus, Ross, it hurts."

And before Colin could reach him, he toppled. His knees remained locked, his hands stayed at his side, and his forehead struck the sidewalk with a soft, watery thud. Colin was at his side in a half dozen long strides, kneeling, rolling the man over while whispering his name. Vincent's eyes were open, his face laced with blades of grass. Blood stained his teeth, and a bubble of red shimmered in one nostril. "Vincent?"

The man blinked, snorted the blood from his nose, and took a long minute focusing.

"Vincent, where was the accident? Was Lombard with you? Is he hurt?"

"No accident, bastard," and he tried to lift a hand to grab for Colin's throat.

It was unpleasantly easy to brush the arm aside, and worse when a tear slid from the corner of the man's eye.

"I didn't send anyone after you," Colin said gently. "Now you have to tell me if your buddy was with you."

"Kid," Vincent said, the deep voice so soft Colin had to lean close to understand, and could smell the bittersweet phlegm that stained the man's breath. He tried to sit up; Colin easily forced him down. "Kid."

"A kid was with you? What kid?"

"You know."

His own hand fisted, and he took a deep breath. "Vincent, this is bullshit. I didn't send anyone after you, okay? You're only making it worse for yourself. You've got to lie still or something else will go wrong. And, Jesus, will you please tell me if Lombard was in the car too?"

"Kid."

Colin lost his patience. "Goddamn it, what kid are you talking about?"

Vincent sighed through a drooling of pink saliva. "You know him, bastard. The kid with the freckles."

His eyes widened. "What? Frankie Adams?"

"The kid, you bastard. Oh, Jesus, it hurts."

Colin stripped off his jacket, and bunched it into a pillow he eased under the man's head. He leaned back and was about to ask him what he meant by accusing

Frankie Adams, when he realized that Vincent's open eyes weren't seeing a thing. "Oh… hell."

The ocean raised a cannonade high above the jetties.

He touched two fingers to the side of the man's neck, rocked back on his heels and looked over his shoulder. He knew he should have been shocked, or at least moved to some sort of decisive action, but he could only crouch there and watch the fog, half-expecting Lombard to come stumbling up the street after his friend. Then he realized that if Tess Mayfair and Vincent had survived the accident this long, Lombard might have too. He launched himself out of the crouch then and raced for the steps, banged through the door and grabbed the receiver.

He stared at the buttons, at the cradle, and stiffened as a surge of winter cold replaced all his blood. His teeth began to chatter. His hands began to tremble, first slowly, then violently, and he dropped onto the couch and closed his eyes until the delayed reaction had passed. The dial tone burred loudly. The molded plastic was ice in his palm. He shook his head once and hard, then tried to punch Tabor's number.

It took him four times before he finally got it right.

The line was busy, and he stared at the window while he counted to fifteen.

The telephone rang and Peg grabbed for it, juggled the receiver clumsily, laughed softly and self-consciously when she heart Matt giggling from his place by the door. She listened, then, and sighed with a martyred lift of her eyebrows. No, she told Hattie Mills, Chief Tabor wasn't here, but she really didn't think Reverend Otter was trying to kill her poor dog. She nodded. She grabbed the coiled cord in her right hand and squeezed it as tightly as she could. She nodded. She suggested that Hattie bring the dog inside the library where it wouldn't bother the minister, and regretted the mistake when she spent the next five minutes taking the brunt of a brusque lecture on civil liberties and the causes of the American, the French, and a dozen other revolutions whose purposes were to permit her to keep her aging dog where she damn well pleased. That in turn led to a survey of precedents for such actions leading all the way back to Saturn's revolt against the Titans. Peg agreed several times, making faces at Matt, and when she finally hung up she looked at the clock, then at her son who was closing the door against the wind.

The telephone rang, and Annalee answered it without much enthusiasm, her voice slipping automatically into a professionally concerned tone, nodding once, doodling a scaffold and hangman on a prescription pad, finally interrupting with a polite clearing of her throat to tell Rose Adams that she really didn't think Doctor Montgomery had the time to search for her son, but if she really felt it was affecting her health she should bundle herself up and walk on over. That tactical error cost her another few minutes listening to a lecture on the inalienable rights of a patient who was half crippled at best and couldn't see why the good doctor couldn't make house calls to a place less than three blocks away, for crying out loud. When she finally hung up she glanced at her watch, looked toward the empty examination room, dutifully logged the call, and closed her eyes to daydream about the coming night and the plans she had for Garve.

The phone rang in the restaurant, and nobody answered.

The phone rang in Cameron's living room, but it only rang twice. By the time Colin reached it from his place at the front door, there was no one on the line. He shook the receiver and threw it at the cradle, mouthed a half dozen curses when it bounced off to the floor. He was tempted to leave it there and teach it a lesson, but instead picked it up and slammed it back into place. When it didn't ring again, he wished he were home so he could find something to throw.

He had tried three more times to raise the chiefs office, the line infuriatingly engaged at each attempt. Unable to stop thinking about Lombard lying alone out there on the road, injured, perhaps fatally, he decided to wait until he could find out more about the accident. And what Frankie had to do with Theo Vincent's death.

He also couldn't shake the feeling that he had missed something important at Gran's shack. He didn't know why the idea had struck him, but once taken hold he couldn't pry it loose. For a moment he was convinced that bundle was indeed Gran's shroud and weight, that Lilla in her grief had retrieved her grandfather from the grave.

That, however, would have to wait until later.

He glared at the telephone, daring it to ring again, then strode to the door and had his hand on the knob when the pounding began.

A pounding so hard the knob jumped from his hand.

FOUR

"My God, there's a dead body out there!" Montgomery said as he pushed past Colin and rushed into the living room. "Right on the goddamned driveway." He snatched up the receiver and dialed, turned and took off his glasses. "Hello, Colin, what are you doing out here?"

Colin could only lift a hand and follow meekly, not wanting to admit that the diminutive physician had nearly scared him to death.

"Hell of a thing," Montgomery said with a sigh, one foot tapping impatiently as he waited for the connection. "Looks like he was run over by a truck. Did you see him?"

"I-"

"Lousy, I tell you. The island's gone lousy with corpses. The next time-hello?" He frowned. "Do I have the right number? I wanted Chief Tabor's office. Oh, hello, Peg. You working parttime for the Indian now?"

Colin hovered by the coffee table, forcing himself not to grab the receiver from the man's hand.

"Well, look, dear, I want to talk with Garve." He scowled. "Now that's a hell of a thing. I just left there, for crying out loud. Well, listen, when he gets in have him call me. I'm at Cameron's place, with Colin." He laughed suddenly, sharply. "No, he's all right. There's been an accident, though. Some-no, Colin's just fine, he wasn't involved. You have Garve call me immediately, though, okay? Or that fool Nichols should he decide to go to work. Fine," and he hung up before Colin could tell him to hold on, to let him speak to Peg.

"Hell of a thing." He wandered to the Regency sideboard in the dining room, opened the lower panel and pulled out a bottle of Black Label. He held it up for Colin's approval, found glasses and poured them each a tall drink. Then he returned, sat on the sofa and pulled at his mustache.

"Wait a minute," Colin said, gesturing toward the door. "Are you going to leave him out there?"

"He's dead, m'boy. And I really don't fancy having him in here with us."

Colin stared. "Hugh, for crying out loud-"

"You saw him, I expect," the doctor said after downing half his liquor.

Colin explained briefly, and Montgomery shook his head again.

A fisted wind rattled the window frames, and the glasses on the sideboard shuddered.

"Beautiful," Hugh muttered. "Just beautiful. You tell Bob?"

"He must still be at the restaurant. I've been trying to get a line out of here for twenty minutes."

"Oh? I didn't have any trouble. You know what killed him?"

Colin hesitated, examining his glass. "He said something about Frankie Adams."

"Bullshit."

"I know, I know." He looked to the window and rubbed his hands on his trousers. "Listen, we should at least cover him up or something."

"Suit yourself, Col, but I'm not moving."

He vacillated between yelling and strangling the doctor, then marched into the foyer and up the stairs. On the second-floor landing he found a linen closet, grabbed a dark brown sheet from a tall rainbow pile, and hurried down again. At the door he glanced at Montgomery, who only raised his glass in a silent, almost mocking toast.

The wind was still intermittent, but stronger. The fog was gone, as far as he could tell, the temperature slowly dropping as the sky boiled with grays, blacks, slashes of ugly white. After a quick look at the other houses, he trotted to Vincent's body and lay the sheet over it, secured it at the four corners with rocks he pushed over from the garden. Then he scanned the road, the houses again; he saw nothing, heard nothing, and the scene bothered him so much he virtually ran back into the house.

Montgomery was refilling his glass. "You say this man told you it was Frankie Adams?"

"That's what he said," Colin repeated as he picked up his glass and dropped into an armchair near the door. "And as long as you're here, I ought to tell you about Tess, too." The doctor squinted one eye, and Colin recounted the aborted picnic, and the reason for his being in Cameron's house in the first place. After he finished, he emptied his glass and moved to the sideboard to pour himself another. The scotch warmed him falsely, but he didn't care; Dutch courage was something he thought he needed just now.

"Hysteria, I guess," Montgomery said, after a silence filled only by the increased howling of the wind.

"Whose?"

"Yours. Peg's. If Tess was as bad as you say she was-"

"Goddamn it, Hugh, I saw her! Matt practically went into shock, for God's sake."

"She couldn't have walked all that way from the boarding house. Even trauma wouldn't permit that, believe me. Damn," he added softly. "Tess was a bitch, but she doesn't deserve an end like that. Y'know, I wouldn't put it past Garve to try and pull her up on his own. The idiot." He sighed, took off the glasses and polished them on his sleeve. "Hell of a thing."

Colin heard the baseboard pipes begin to pop and clank as the furnace turned on, and a shattered cloud of leaves twisted past the window. "Hugh," he said, struggling for restraint, "it's bad about Tess, but I saw what I saw. Good lord, even Vincent-"

"— didn't have his innards exposed." He frowned then and rose, walked to the window and looked out at the street. "Y'know, I only came out here because Bill Efron was all hot about his wife coming down with the plague or something. The man's an old woman, you know that, don't you? The poor girl can't sneeze without him screaming for the experts to fly up from Atlanta. Soon as Lee got hold of me I drove out. She's all right, so I thought I'd drop in on Bob. Funny. I didn't see any signs of an accident."

"I told you what Vincent said," he muttered heatedly.

Montgomery turned and leaned back against the console. "Yes, and I told you it was bullshit. Little Frankie Adams against that monster? Even if there were more, I'd be inclined to doubt it very seriously."

"Maybe Cart was there, too."

Montgomery considered, and finally nodded once, a partial shrug. "Now Cart I could see, with a little help from his toadies. But there's no reason, Col. Why should they pick on this guy?" Then he peered at him closely. "Who was this man anyway? You knew him, I take it."

Again Colin found himself in the middle of an explanation, this one tinged by his distaste for the subject. The doctor didn't move from the window, sipping occasionally, grunting when Colin told him about the scene in the restaurant.

"Bob," he said finally, "hasn't the faintest idea where the high water mark is, you know. He could be in over his head and think he was still breathing. The jackass."

"You're sorry for him."

"I am. Believe it or not, I really am." He laughed silently. "I know what I sound like-he's a good boy, deep down, a good boy. But it's true, Col. He just forgets that Haven's End isn't the most important spot on earth. Big fish here would get lost in an aquarium anywhere else. From what you say, he's found that out, only too damned late."

"That doesn't change anything," Colin said coldly, looking to the telephone and hoping it would ring. Maybe, he thought, he ought to call Peg and reassure her. Maybe he ought to borrow someone's car and leave Hugh to wait for Garve. Efron; he was around and would probably lend him a car.

A look at his watch. It was just past three.

Montgomery saw the move. "Garve should have checked in by now."

"Maybe he went out to the cliffs when he couldn't get you."

"Yeah."

The room darkened slowly, as if a cloud had stalled over the roof. The shadows grew cold, and Montgomery wasted no time switching on a lamp. Then the cloud passed, but the gray light remained.

Montgomery began pacing.

Colin thought about Lilla and wondered where she was.

"Frankie Adams, huh?" Colin nodded.

Montgomery snorted and returned to the window. "Jesus," he whispered. The glass came down hard on the top of the console. "Colin."

He rose carefully. "What?"

Montgomery lifted his chin.

Colin looked outside, at the trees bending, hissing away from the wind, at a flurry of leaves tumbling down the street, at the flapping sheet on the driveway where Vincent's body used to be.

The tiny lamp was covered with a dusty yellow plastic shade; the single chair was yellow plastic, the bedspread thrown to the floor a crinkling, floral yellow and red. There was the damp scent of sand and salt rising from the sheets. The television was on-a western with the sound turned off, the picture flickering blue and rolling as the wind hummed through the antenna. The sliding glass door was opened just enough to let in the air, the yellow-and-red striped drapes pulled back halfway to frame the forest behind the motel.

A seashell ashtray was filled with cigarette butts, and a bottle of Wild Turkey lay empty on the thin green carpet.

Denise Adams was sitting cross-legged on the bed, her back against the paneled headboard. Her hair was wet and tangled, her cheeks flushed, and hr plaid shirt was unbuttoned and pulled out of her jeans. She was grinning at Cart Naughton, who was standing naked by the dresser, his back to the mirror. He was glaring at her, hands on his hips.

"You see somethin' funny?" he demanded, knowing full well what it was she found laughable.

She giggled. Her left hand rubbed lightly along the side of her neck, lowered until it was lying against the flat of her chest. She shrugged.

"It ain't funny, Denise."

The hand slipped lower until it covered her nipple. Then her fingers parted, and her tongue moistened her lips.

"Damn it, Denise!"

She rolled her shoulders until her shirt slipped to the mattress, then her right hand unsnapped the top of her jeans.

"Listen," he said, shaking his head in sudden confusion, "I don't know," and he kicked angrily at the liquor bottle, spinning it against the glass door. It turned crazily and slipped out onto the second story's building-long balcony. "I must be tired." He attempted a sly wink. "Last night, y'know?"

"Oh, sure," she said. "Last night. Yeah."

"I mean, Jesus, I ain't Superman, y'know." He was almost whining.

"Yup, I know that."

"Aw shit, Denise, gimme a break, will ya? Christ," and he grabbed a length of his hair and yanked, hard.

A thin coil of perspiration trickled out of her hair and down along her cheek. She shivered, but made no move to stop it, to wipe it away. It felt cool in the stifling room, felt tickling as it dropped from her chin onto her breasts. She looked down, smiled absently, and rubbed the salty moisture into her skin with her palm. Slowly. Half closing her eyes.

"Now that's sick, Denise!" Naughton exploded, but he didn't move to stop her, didn't look away. He was furious-at her for being such a bitch, and at himself for not being able to show her what he could do. The* goddamned liquor; he shouldn't have tried to drink the whole bottle at once.

A bubble of nausea rose in his stomach and he swayed, turned and grabbed for the edge of the dresser, looked into the mirror and saw her sitting there, that dumb ass look on her face, touching herself like some kind of whore, staring at him from under those lashes. Teasing him. Mocking him.

"Denise," he said, dangerously calm.

The wind changed direction and something thumped on the balcony.

"Friggin' place is fallin' apart," he grumbled.

She ignored him. She pushed herself unsteadily to her feet, one hand holding the top of the headboard, and pulled her jeans down over her hips. A slow fall onto the pillows, and she rolled onto her back, kicking her legs until the jeans flew at Cart's chest. He snared them and flung them aside.

She rose to her knees and one by one fanned her fingers over her abdomen, pulling in her chin and pushing out her chest.

"Denise…" But hoarsely.

She began a slow bump and grind.

"I'll knuckle those damned eyes," he warned, silently cursing the dryness of his throat that made his voice crack.

She cupped her breasts and stuck out her tongue.

A shadow passed across the drapes.

Cart saw it just before it disappeared, and swore.

"What?"

"Someone's out there," he said, unconcerned for his nakedness as he strode to the sliding glass door, pushed it open and looked out, slapping at the drapes swirling around him. "Probably your goddamned brother trying to get his rocks ofiF, the son of a bitch. Jesus, I hate him."

"He ain't that bad." She caressed her stomach, and wished Cart would stop playing games. He got her all hot and bothered and ready and slick and then… nothing. Nothing. Just like always, half the time, nothing.

Cart grunted.

"Well, who the hell is it?"

"No one," he said, and turned around to face her. "Could've been your old man, too. I wouldn't put it past him. I bet he watches when you take a shower, right?"

She thrust out her hips and flicked a thumb at a dark nipple, stared pointedly at his groin and pouted. "Ah, poor Cartie," she whispered. "Poor, poor Cartie." She crooked a finger and beckoned. "C'mere, Cartie. Maybe we oughta play."

"I don't like that stuff," he said, though not as strongly as he wanted.

She dropped to her hands and looked down at her hanging breasts. "Cartie?"

He took a step toward her, and she lifted her head, lowered herself slightly and raised her buttocks high. The dim yellow light glowed along the length of her back, and her breasts vanished in shadow. He took a deep breath and ordered himself forward. This was no time to fail; there was a repuation at stake if he wanted to keep walking.

Her mouth opened slightly. "Cartie, I'm hungry."

He felt a tingling in his groin. "I don't like that shit, Denise, you know that."

Her mouth opened wider. "Lollypop time, Cartie."

The tingling grew stronger. "Jesus, Denise."

And the glass door shattered inward.

Denise screamed and scrambled frantically back across the bed, grabbing up the sheet to cover herself, unable to turn away as something flailing in the drapes finally shredded them over Cart and dumped him to the floor. He shouted angrily, and thrashed, finally pulled the material aside and pushed himself back against the bed. He was ready to kill whoever was fucking him around, but there was nothing he could do except gape when Frankie reached silently for his throat.

Denise stared in disbelief and shrieked her brother's name. He paused and looked up at her over the edge of the mattress, smiling through the dried blood that coated his pale face.

She gasped, froze, couldn't will herself to move until the thing that had been her brother reached for Carter once again. Then she flung the sheet aside, leapt from the bed and raced for the door, her hand too slick to hold the knob and turn it. She heard Cart begging, gagging, heard nothing else but the wind that tore into the room, scattering papers and sheets and rippling the bedspread as if a serpent were trapped beneath it. She prayed and grabbed the knob with both hands, finally got it to turn, and yanked the door open.

Again she cried Frankie's name, but she didn't turn around. Instead she sprinted down the hall toward the staircase, passed the fire station and skidded to a halt, her shoulder slamming into the wall as she spun around suddenly. There was a hose behind the glass, and a red-handled ax. She hesitated, then pulled the door open, grabbed the ax from its rack and started back to the room.

Cart wasn't screaming.

The wind pushed a sheet of motel notepaper into the hall.

She moved slowly, pushing her bare feet along the carpet until she reached the door.

Then a hand touched her shoulder and she whirled, holding the ax high and ready. Her eyes opened, and a tear welled in one. "Daddy?" she whimpered. "Daddy?" Just before she screamed.

The wind died. Nothing moved.

The only sound was the surf's roar as it slammed into the woods, the tide so high now the beach remained flooded.

A single gull drifted over the tops of the trees.

The patrol car was parked at the curb in front of Cameron's house, engine still running, its lights flaring. Montgomery and Tabor were standing near the hood, arguing heatedly though their voices were low. Colin couldn't hear a word they were saying, but he could guess. From the moment Garve had arrived and seen the liquor glasses, smelled their breath, he hadn't believed two words either had told him, especially when they searched the immediate area and found no trace of Vincent's body. The only thing that saved them was the blood on the grass and the blacktop; the only thing that kept the chief from driving off was Peg's and Matt's corroboration of Tess' condition.

As Montgomery had feared, Tabor had driven straight to the cliffs when he couldn't get hold of the doctor. He had found the picnic site, and had fought his way through the wind down to the first ledge along the path. There was no blood, no shards of bone, no strips of cloth. There was nothing to prove Tess May-fair had landed there; she was gone.

In disgust, Colin had walked away from the argument. He stood leaning against the station wagon's tailgate, arms folded over his chest, legs crossed at the ankles. It was all too damned ridiculous, and he wanted to go home. He didn't give a damn about Vincent and he didn't care about Tess and it would be just fine with him if he could crawl into bed and pull the sheets over his head and pretend it was Saturday morning, and he was going to see Peg.

He looked around and wondered where all the people were. It was a solemn and universal truth that neighborhoods were incapable of ignoring the police, especially when they were parked in front of that neighborhood's most prominent house. But there was no one. Not even Bill Efron-who could easily have seen everything from his front window-had bothered to come over to find out what the trouble was.

Like everything else today, that wasn't right at all.

He's mad, Lilla had said, he's very, very mad.

The gray bundle at the shack.

"Ridiculous," he muttered, trying with a violent shudder to banish the abrupt sensation that all of this was not a grim sequence of unpleasant coincidences. Then he looked over at the two men and saw them watching him, frowning slightly, either pity or sympathy twisting their lips. "Jesus."

He pushed away from the car and walked down the drive, trying to look everywhere but at Tabor, his neck muscles taut and lips pressed to a hard line as he willed someone, anyone, to come out of a house and head their way with a dozen morbid questions.

"The point is," he heard Garve say, "somebody stole the damned body. Lombard, most likely. Who the hell else?"

"There was no one out here," Montgomery insisted.

"You were watching the whole time?"

A silence.

"I thought so."

Colin shook his head and looked to his left, to the curve of the street as it headed inland toward Neptune. The wind had picked up again, still lifting over the houses and barely ruffling his hair.

And in the distance he could hear it-the namesake of the storm.

Screaming.

A faint and undulating wailing as the wind charged over the sea and dragged the dark clouds behind it.

He looked down at his windbreaker and saw it darkening in patches, then wiped a hand across the back of his neck, and it came away damp-the seaspray was thickening to a condition much like drizzle.

"Colin!"

He turned. Montgomery was standing at the patrol car, the passenger door open. Garve was rounding the hood to the driver's side, yanking down his hatbrim.

"Colin," Hugh said, "we're going with Garve to hunt for Tess and Vincent. C'mon."

Deputy Ross at your service, he thought sourly, and had taken a single step toward the cruiser when he saw Lilla. She was running up the street, had just reached the curve and was heading for the dunes. He called out, and pointed, and broke into a slow trot that increased to a sprint when she saw him, threw up one hand and veered sharply away. A car door slammed, another, and the engine turned over. He reached the corner and leapt the curb, nearly tripped on the dune's loose sand, scrambled on hands and feet to the top. Lilla was below him in the shallow trough; she'd fallen, her legs pumping hard to drive her up and away.

"Lil!"

She didn't look back, as he slid and ran down the slope at an angle to keep from stumbling. Shells skittered from under his feet; sawgrass lashed at his legs and stung his outstretched hands.

"Lilla!"

She was at the top of the second dune when he reached her, lunged forward and caught one ankle. She fell with a shriek and kicked out at his head. He ducked and backed to his knees, pulling at her, dragging her toward him until he was able to snare the other leg.

"Goddamn it, Lil!"

She broke away with a vicious kick at his arm, rolled and scrambled feverishly until she was headed back toward the Estates. He followed with a curse, leapt and tackled her, heard her thump against the ground and groan at the impact. He knelt and shoved her to one side to grab for her waist, and she sat up awkwardly and lashed out with her fists. One cracked against his jaw and he blinked, momentarily stunned, though he managed not to release her. He dove on top of her, pinning her and rolling over until they almost returned down the slope. He yelled, and she answered, spittle flying from her mouth, her eyes so wide he thought they would split open. Once beneath him again her head whipped from side to side while he sat on her stomach and trapped her arms against the ground. Then he looked up.

A wave hissed over the first dune and filled the trough with foam.

Lilla took advantage of the momentary distraction to buck him off his knees. He sprawled to one side, but instead of running away she lunged for his throat, her teeth snapping at his cheek, his neck, while he clawed his fingers into her hair and tried to force her away. She shrieked. A wave crest launched by the wind splattered them, drenched them. He jerked up his head and butted her. She tried to twist her wrists free, and butted him in turn, directly on the lips. His mouth filled with blood, and when he spat, her face was freckled.

Then Montgomery was on her back, yelling and unable to pull her off. Tabor appeared a moment later, and Colin couldn't see what he had done, but within the space of a gasp her mouth slackened and her eyes began to close. He shoved and Doc pulled, and she toppled to her side, unconscious, the fingers of one hand digging weakly in the sand.

"I… God!" he said, pushing himself to his hands and knees, spitting blood and discovering a loose tooth with his tongue. "God almighty."

Tabor said nothing. He lifted Lilla without effort and cradled her in his arms, looked once at the sea spilling over the dune, and headed back for the car. Montgomery helped Colin to his feet and supported him as they returned, saying nothing directly, only muttering to himself.

They put her in the back seat with Hugh; Colin was in front, eyes closed, his head against the seatback. His mouth was numb, and he could feel the upper lip beginning to swell. He licked at it once, tasted his blood, grunted when Garve swung the car around and headed down for Neptune.

"She needs help," Hugh said quietly, gently.

"Yeah," Tabor said as if disgusted with himself.

"We can put her in one of the cells until we can get her to the mainland."

"All right."

"I'll get-damn, I left my bag at Efron's!"

The cruiser turned right onto Neptune and sped up. The wind shoved at it, faintly screaming.

It wasn't quite dark enough for the headlights to do any good.

Colin sighed loudly.

"You all right, Col?"

He tested his lips, his tongue, before he said, "Sure. Just banged up."

"Strong."

He sat up, half turned, and looked at the girl lying across Montgomery's lap. Except for the rise and fall of her chest, she could have been dead.

"I don't believe it," he said. "I don't believe it."

"She's crazy," Tabor said flatly, and winced.

"She's scared to death," he said.

"Of what, Gran's ghost?" Tabor said.

Just as Colin turned to answer yes, Tabor slammed on the brakes. Montgomery yelped, and Colin braced himself against the dashboard as the cruiser skewed wildly on the slick wet tarmac, spinning in a complete circle before it finally stopped.

Tess Mayfair was standing in the middle of the road.

Lilla groaned.

"Christ," Montgomery said, leaning across the seat and pushing up his glasses. "My God, look at her!"

She was less than six feet away from the hood, her dress nearly gone, her forehead indented and her nose bent harshly to one side. Her lips were smashed, her chest exposed and gaping, and when she started to walk forward Colin shoved as far back as he could, watching silently as Garve fumbled his revolver from its holster.

"It's… it's a miracle," Montgomery whispered. "She oughta be dead."

Tess reached the patrol car and stared at them. Suddenly the car began to rise. Colin yelled, and Hugh fell over Lilla. Tabor, without thinking, reached his left hand out the window and fired two shots. The first went wild, the second struck the massive woman in the hollow of the throat. Her head jerked but there was no blood from the wound. Tabor fired again, hitting her right shoulder. The dress tore, and bone chips flew, but the car kept on rising.

Then Colin slammed his left foot on the accelerator.

The cruiser shuddered, tires smoked and squealed, and as Tabor grabbed the steering wheel the vehicle slowly moved forward, toppling Mayfair out of sight. There was a sickening thump, a skewing sideways, and Garve stopped, trembling violently, ten yards away.

"You killed her," he said as Colin turned around. Garve was trembling. All Colin said was, "Look." Tess Mayfair was standing in the middle of the road.

FIVE

Matt was disappointed. He had ducked through the heavy door to the small cell block when his mother had answered the phone, expecting to find something far different. There were three cells ranged along the back, but none of them had straw matted on the floor, or red-eyed rats cluttering in the dark corners, or thick cobwebs swinging gently from rotted beams on the ceiling. There was.no rickety pallet, just an iron-rimmed cot bolted to the wall, with a thin mattress and pillow rolled up at the foot. There were no rusted chains hanging from the cinder-block walls, just a narrow shelf over the beds holding a handful of tattered paperbacks donated by the library. And there was no old man hanging by his wrists from rusty old shackles, his beard tangled and filthy and hanging down to his ragged trousers, his teeth old and yellow, his eyes dull and white. There wasn't anyone there at all.

It didn't smell, and it wasn't damp, and there were no signs of bullet holes or whip marks or even escape tunnels as far as he could tell.

He stood on tiptoe and tried to see through one of the high windows, though he knew that all he'd be able to spot would be the back of the Clipper Run's hedging around its parking lot. He supposed that anyone staying there would have to be content with a view of the sky unless there was someone in there with him to hold him up for a look.

Then he heard his mother's voice, soft and urgent. He turned and looked through the door, saw her talking on the telephone again. She had her back to him, and he couldn't hear what she was saying. But that was all right; he didn't want to. It might be someone telling her more about Mrs. Mayfair. He didn't want to know more. He had seen enough.

When his mother laughed quietly, he turned back to the cells and walked to the last one on the left. He held onto the barred door with one hand and warned Billy Bonny again between huge chaws of tobacco that he'd better not try to escape. Twice in one day was plenty; the next time it happened, he wouldn't be responsible for what the townspeople did if they caught him. The Kid was somber and contrite, hung his head abjectly and nodded. Matt didn't believe him for a minute, but he moved to the center cell where he found Jesse trying manfully to grab hold of the window sill and haul himself up. Jump, grab, slip, fall-over and over and over again until Matt was laughing and pointing, and Jesse was whirling around with fire in his eyes, his hands slapping leather that was no longer there. Silly, Matt told him; you're just being silly. Jesse looked awfully mad, but there was nothing he could do except kick at the wall and swear eternal vengeance.

The last cell, opposite the door, was empty. Cole Younger had been in there before they took him away to hang him, and now it was waiting for its next resident to show.

"Matt?"

You guys just better watch it, he cautioned with a sneer, and went back to join his mother.

"What are you doing, deputy?" she said.

"Watching the bad guys, like Chief Tabor said I should."

"Okay. You're not getting into trouble?"

"No, Mom," he said, wondering how that was possible with nothing in there to break.

"Well, listen, I think we ought to-"

She stopped with a hand to her chin when the police cruiser came to a squealing, rocking halt at the curb, its front bumper less than an inch from the front of Colin's car. Peg was out of her chair and at the door before Matt could say anything; then he hastily stood to one side as Colin hurried in with Lilla cradled in his arms. Matt thought she was sleeping, maybe even dead, and paid no attention to his mother's low questions or Doc Montgomery's clipped responses. He watched Chief Tabor grab for the phone on his desk, watched as Colin opened the first cell and kicked the mattress flat. Lilla didn't move when laid her down, and Colin backed out in a hurry, slammed the door shut and forced the bolt home with the heel of his hand.

Matt reached out to touch him, pulled back and bit his lip. "Mr. Ross? Mr. Ross, is she all right?"

Colin leaned hard against the wall, knees bent, one hand on the boy's shoulder while the other brushed back through his hair. "I don't know. I hope so, pal."

He was a funny color, and sweat was pouring off him. Matt didn't know whether to put an arm around his waist or ask him a question or… or what. Then he heard his mother in the front office.

"Impossible," she declared firmly. "Absolutely impossible."

Colin closed his eyes.

Matt sidled around him and stood in the doorway. There was a feeling in the room now that he didn't like at all.

Chief Tabor was sitting at his desk, Doc Montgomery standing at the window, and his mother was between them with her hands on her hips, looking from one man to the other with an expression he recognized all too well-Matthew, the next time you tell me a story like that I'm going to tan your behind, you understand me?

"Listen," Garve said, one hand lifted weakly from the blotter where he was trying to stand a pencil on end. "Listen, you can say that all you want, Peg, but there were three of us there, and we saw what we saw."

"And I saw her go over that cliff," she insisted, eyes narrow and chin stubbornly set. "I saw her."

"I don't doubt that, believe me."

"But-"

Montgomery rapped his knuckles on the door frame. "A little order here, please," he said. "We aren't going to solve anything by arguing over what's inarguable."

"You're crazier than he is," she told him. "For God's sake, Hugh, you're a doctor!"

"That's right."

"Then-"

"Then nothing," he snapped, yanking off his glasses. He stared at them, blew on one lens, put them back on. His voice sounded hoarse. "She took a bullet in the throat, one in the shoulder, she was run over by the length of the car, and as God is my witness, Pegeen, she was standing up and moving the last time we saw her."

"Then for God's sake, why isn't anyone out there to help her?"

Neither man answered. Montgomery looked out at the street and pulled at his mustache while Tabor opened a desk drawer and took out another pencil.

"Garve? Garve, for Christ's sake!"

Matt didn't like the feeling at all. It was almost like the time they came and told him his father was dead, and he felt so bad because he couldn't bring himself to cry. He was supposed to, he knew that, but all he could think of was that there'd be no more beatings and no more lies and no more broken promises, and his mother wouldn't go to bed crying at night. It was almost like that-something unreal and not right, yet this time there was something more, something that almost had an odor to it, and it came from the two men who were trying not to look at his mother.

"All right," she said, temper and fearful confusion making her voice thin and high, "Why don't I ask Colin, okay?"

"Ask," Montgomery said. "Ask away."

Matt jumped then when Colin walked past him into the room. He started to follow, but changed his mind immediately when he saw his mother's face shift from hope to disbelief.

"My God, not you too," she said.

"Peg," he said in the middle of a long sigh, "don't say another goddamned word until you hear me out. Just remember what you were thinking when we took off and went for Lilla."

Matt turned away. Colin was angry and trying very hard not to yell. He didn't want to hear that, so he returned to the cell block and leaned against the wall where Colin had stood. Looking at Lilla. Remembering how she'd come to him at Tommy Fox's place. He looked up, out the small window, and saw the dim light and the wires trembling and the leaves flying by as if chased by the night.

"Hello, Little Matt."

She was sitting up, her hands in her lap, her bare feet close together. The dress was worse now than when he'd seen it the day before, and her hair was pressed so close to her scalp she looked almost bald. She looked terrible, but her eyes were all right.

"Hello," he answered softly. But he didn't dare move.

She tilted her head and raised a corner of her mouth in what might have been a smile. "They're doing a lot of yelling out there, aren't they?"

He shrugged. "I guess so." His hands were cold, and he could feel an icicle pricking the back of his neck.

"They're talking about me, you know."

He lifted a foot and pressed the heel to the wall in case he had to push off quick and run. "I guess." It was funny, though. She sounded just like the old Lilla now, not like the spooky Lilla who had come after him at the marina. It was funny. She even looked at him in the same old way-nice, and friendly, like she was going to tell him a secret about the ice cream old Gran hand-cranked in the back. "Something happened, I guess."

"Yes." Then she straightened, and looked right at him. "And you know, don't you, Little Matt?"

"Oh, no," he said quickly. "No, I don't know anything."

"Oh, I bet you do. Maybe not everything, but I bet you know more than they do."

He was ready to deny it, to tell her she was crazy and he was going to get his mother; he was ready, but he said nothing because the way she studied him, the way she nodded and pointed at him once, made him realize that he'd been right. All along, he had been right.

It must have shown on his face because she seemed to relax abruptly. "I knew you were smart, Little Matt. I knew it all the time. Gran knew it too. He knows a lot of things like that."

Suddenly, without quite knowing why, Matt was excited. If she could do that, if she could talk to the fog and things, then she would be the first real witch he had ever known in his life. This wasn't like James Bond or anything like that; this was his home, and this was real. A hundred million questions stumbled over each other in their haste to get out, but he couldn't find the right words. All he could do was watch as she rose slowly from the cot and looked up at the window. Then she looked over her shoulder and gave him her beautiful ice-cream smile.

"Shall I sing you, Little Matt? Shall I teach you a song?"

He remembered lying under the covers and listening to the melody cloak the island and bring the fog.

Gran in the water… bodies in the ground… fishes and worms and holes in your stomach…

"Shall I?" she repeated. "Shall I, Little Matt?"

He nodded.

She began to hum, just loud enough for him to hear, her hands clasped primly at her waist and her gaze so strong he couldn't look away. The old Lilla was gone; this was the new one, one he didn't know. He heard her, and he listened, and he saw a jumble of black-red images spinning madly down a dark corridor toward him, images that were mouths and lips and tongues and teeth, all of them humming and singing and asking him questions he didn't understand.

She hummed, and looked once more over her shoulder.

"Look, Little Matt. You should be proud."

He looked.

The fog was back.

"You should be proud that you know, and the others won't believe me."

Smoke clouds, fire clouds, rolling and tumbling and sailing silently past the station, smothering the town.

He wanted to say something, to ask her how she did it and could she teach him, but he was stopped just in time when Colin hurried into the cell block and grabbed his shoulder. "Come on, pal, I'm taking you and your mother-"

Matt pulled away, and pointed to the window.

Lilla was still singing.

Colin gaped.

Matt tried to hear the words.

The fog slipped through the bars in thick bands and gathered at her feet as if spilling from a cauldron. It pooled and thickened and extended an arm that braided slowly around her calves, her thighs, her waist, disappeared behind her back, and came over her right shoulder. The coil became a serpent that opened its black-red mouth and hissed a steaming wind in Colin's face.

"Jesus," he whispered.

A serpent's tongue of flaming amber licked at Lilla's face; a serpent's tongue of crimson reached out to the bars, and Colin flinched as if scalded.

Lilla's mouth moved, but it wasn't Lilla talking. "Jesus damn, Colin you got no imagination."

Matt's fascination snapped at the sound, and he shuddered. It wasn't interesting anymore, it wasn't fun or exciting-it was too close to the nightmares he'd had just before old Gran was lowered into the sea. He clamped his arms tightly around Colin's waist and pressed his face into his belt, trying to block the old man's voice slithering from the girl's mouth.

"No imagination, boy, you know that, don't you? A terrible shame it is, because it will kill you. No imagination will kill you as sure as I stand here."

A laugh, harshly soft and echoing from a tunnel.

Colin dropped a protective hand to hold Matt hard against him.

The voice deepened and grew harsh. "Oh, I got tricks, Colin. I got tricks plenty. One, two, three, four. I got plenty tricks, and you got no imagination, and that gonna kill you. It gonna kill you for sure."

Colin lifted a hand as if to strike at the voice, but the fog-serpent vanished at the beckoning of the wind, and the fog outside vanished as though it had never been.

Lilla strode to the cell door, took hold of the bars and began to push out. Colin hesitated only a moment before thrusting Matt aside and calling out for Garve as he leapt to the door to hold it. Lilla's face was blank; she was gone, nothing there but the dress and the features and the tangled bloodied hair. She pushed, and Colin's cheeks reddened as he hunched his shoulders and shoved back. Garve raced into the block and saw the struggle; he grabbed Matt by the collar, lifted and nearly threw him over the threshold. Matt heard his mother gasp, but he turned around to see.

"Damn!" Garve yelled, and Colin grunted with exertion.

Then, without warning, the bolt snapped and the iron hinges parted as if they were paper. Colin was thrown back against the wall, and the door was thrust to one side, pinning Garve against the bars. Lilla raced out and into the office, one hand snapping against the side of Matt's head and dropping him to the floor. There were lights, and a rushing like the sea, and as he pushed himself up he saw her dodging around the desks while Montgomery yelled, and his mother stood at the doorway with a chair held in front her as if she were warding off a lion.

Lilla shrieked.

Montgomery charged her.

Peg jabbed with the chair, and Lilla swerved to one side, folded her arms in front of her face and leapt through the window.

The plate glass bulged just as the launched herself from the floor, shattered before she reached it, scattered so when she landed she wouldn't lacerate her naked feet. She landed squarely, the momentum slamming her against Colin's car. A brief, too brief second to catch the air back in her lungs, and she spun to her left and raced around the corner. There were no cars. No lights on porches. No sign of the fog as the wind stopped playing with the island and began to gather itself to storm.

And as she ran she saw herself in a cell like the one she'd just escaped-a narrow dirty cell, with a single metal chair, and she was tied to it around the waist by a length of rusted chain. Her eyes were wide, her mouth opened in a single life-long scream, her hands tearing at her dress and hair, while someone beyond her vision slowly closed the cell door. She was screaming. Screaming like the wood-woman on top of Colin's table. Screaming. Mouth bleeding at the corners, nails gouging her chest, feet kicking at the chair legs because they were bolted to the floor.

She ran past the Clipper Run and the houses and the trees, not swerving at all until she came abreast of Colin's cottage.

Heedless of the sharp pebbles that dug into her soles, something nudged her into the center of the street and she followed the white line straight through the woodland until she came to the ferry.

She stopped, not breathing hard, barely sweating as she saw the box of wooden matches clutched in her hand. She stood, the wind sighing angrily in the pines, until the same force pushed her, and she walked down to the slanted deck. The chain was down. The door to the cabin was open and slamming back against its hinges. She looked until she found a small flaking pipe jutting through the floor and out the far side. Turning, she followed it under the deck as though the warped and unpainted wood could not block her vision, followed it to a round metal plate barely visible in one corner.

The ferry rocked, and the gulls overhead began to gather in an agitated white cloud.

The ferry rocked, and the bay raised its whitecaps, and the gulls swooped lower without uttering a sound.

The fingers of her left hand reached into a depression and took hold, pulled, pulled and turned until the scoured metal plate suddenly clattered free.

The stench of marine gas was blown away by the wind.

She lay the matchbox by her foot and tore a length of cloth from her dress, wound it tightly into a makeshift fuse, lowered it into the hole, and soaked it.

Then she returned to the cabin and sat on Wally's stool, her right hand reaching automatically for the red starter. She pushed it, the engine sputtered, coughed hoarsely, sputtered and caught. The ferry strained, her hand moved again, and the boat slipped away from the shoreline.

Rocking, bucking, while she held the wheel tightly.

Then she released the wheel and quickly tore off another length of dress, using it this time to tie the wheel into position. When it was clear the ferry was headed directly for the mainland dock, she left the cabin again and walked to the fuel tank.

She knelt again, picked up the fuse, this time leaning forward until her arm disappeared to the elbow, leaning back to pull the cloth out and lie it carefully on the deck. She started at it, and picked up the matches. She pushed the fuse until three inches of it slipped back into the hole. She opened the box.

She watched the mainland lurching toward her, staring as if she were able to judge the distance to an inch. And when the bottom began rising, the wind stopped, and she struck a match against the box.

She stood and dropped it on the end of the cloth.

It flared blue and sizzled, low timid flames that moved slowly while she turned and hurried back, not running, not looking around.

She reached the far side of the ferry and without pausing, walked off the edge. She didn't feel the water, nor the sudden loss of air. She began swimming automatically, and Wally Sterling's boat exploded.

There was a muffled whomp that raised the ferry half out of the water, a pillar of raw flame that rose first from the fuel tank, then pushed through the deck and separated the canted cabin from the hull. Flame and smoke billowed angrily into the gulls that still hovered overhead. Charred and flaming splinters of wood and metal showered into the bay, several pieces striking Lilla's head and back-and she didn't feel a thing.

The ferry burned and began sinking not six feet from the landing, and a black-faced gull killed by the explosion fell on the shack's roof, rolled off and landed on the gravel.

When Lilla sank beneath the whitecaps, there was nothing on the bay but the screaming of the wind.

Michael Lombard sat behind Cameron's desk and carefully patted stray renegades of blond hair back into place.

He looked up, then, at Cameron, who was sitting in a club chair, facing him and worrying his thumb nail with the edge of his teeth.

"He should have been back," Lombard said evenly.

"The wind, maybe," Cameron said, suddenly wishing the room had windows.

"Theo is a brave boy. He isn't afraid of the wind."

"I didn't mean that," Cameron said, irritated. "The wind is raising the tide, and I wouldn't be surprised if Neptune is already flooded in a few places."

"He has two legs, he can walk."

"It'll take longer."

Lombard checked the mariner's clock on the panel wall. "It's already after four-thirty, Robert. He's an hour overdue."

The silence was filled with an unspoken question.

"Maybe," Cameron said, "I should go look for him."

"All he had to do was talk to this man and apologize for hitting him. Then all he had to do was come back and tell us this man was going to drop out of this goddamned two-bit horseshit election so we can get on with it!" He punched at the blotter so hard Cameron winced. "Jesus Christ, this island is too much!" Cameron was on his feet swiftly. "I'll go right-"

"The hell you will," Lombard said, straightening his tie unnecessarily, and rising. "I will. You," and he pointed at the telephone, "listen for that. Theo may have come across another problem we'll have to solve. He does that on occasion. He's not as stupid as he looks."

Cameron, uncertain whether or not he should smile, backed quickly out of the man's way and watched as he walked out the door. Then he scrambled around to his chair behind the desk, dropped into it and hoped that Ross had come up with a solution to this mess. If he hadn't, it was going to be one hell of a night.

Five minutes later he stopped trembling. He reached for the phone and began calling his people; there was a party tonight, and he needed every extra hand he could get. He only wished it was his idea, not Lombard's. The hard sell was dead; now the soft sell would begin.

Then he changed his mind and made a call to the mainland, to the home phone of his broker. By noon Monday, he wanted every share of Lombard's dummy concern out of his portfolio; he wanted nothing of the profits that would come with the casinos. That is, none of the profits that would come with rising stock. The land was something else again. No one could nail him for owning a few acres that just happened to be slated for massive construction.

He smiled and leaned back. Then he reached for the phone again and realized with a start that the lines were dead.

Lombard stood at the restaurant door and listened to the wind. He'd never heard anything like it. He looked toward the office door, and considered going back and sending Cameron out. He looked over to the dining room and saw the shadows, and wasn't at all sure he wanted to stay here, either.

The muffled sound of an explosion decided him. He pushed open the door and hurried down the walk, turned in time to see the cruiser screaming toward the bay. A check of the sky over the trees showed him a faint rippling glow at the base of the clouds. Beautiful, he thought, just beautiful. This place I just do not believe. I was an ass for getting into this, I'll be an ass even if I get what I want. Now where the fuck did Theo go?

He hunched his shoulders against the wind before heading down the block, thinking he would cut across to the main drag between the rectory and the church. It wasn't the closest access, but he didn't like the looks of that wooded lot beside the police station. Too dark in there, and the idea of a church at his side was ironically comforting.

He snorted a laugh and left the sidewalk, aiming for the back of the supermarket. That's probably where Theo was anyway, one of his goddamn light snacks that would feed a goddamn army. If he wasn't there, then Cameron could get off his duff and do the searching himself. It was cold out here, for Christ's sake, too cold for October.

He jammed his hands in his pockets, kept his gaze on the ground until he heard a door open. He looked back over his shoulder and saw a tall man with wild white hair standing in the church's rear entrance. His clothes were disheveled, and his shirt was an odd color that looked as if it were shining. A quick shuffle through his memory for faces and names, and he stopped and turned.

"Reverend Otter," he said, "how good to see you again!"

Graham Otter tried to talk, but whatever he said sounded to Lombard like gargling.

"Reverend Otter, are you all right?"

The minister stumbled flat-footed down the steps, swayed with reaching hands before he fell face down. Lombard stared before running to the man's side. He knelt after a quick look around, and rolled him onto his back.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."

Graham Otter had no throat.

He staggered to his feet and wiped his bloody hands over his suit jacket. He knew he would throw up if he didn't look somewhere else, but the sight of the minister lying face up to the storm fascinated him, held him, until he heard stumbling footsteps inside the church.

Christ, he thought, not liking how helpless he was suddenly feeling. Christ, where the hell is Theo when I need him?

"Hey!" he shouted, heading quickly for the steps. "Hey, in there, I need some help! The preacher's hurt!"

He took the three wide steps at a leap, and grabbed the frame to keep himself from plunging in when he saw the woman coming slowly toward him out of the dark.

"Miss North, right?" he snapped. "Look, your reverend's hurt bad out here and I need-"

He stopped when Muriel reached him, turned to run when he saw what was left of her face and what passed for a smile, screamed when her hands reached around his head, her thumbs unerringly slipping into his eyes.

Peg stood in the doorway while Garve and Hugh positioned a sheet of cardboard over the broken window. She hugged herself and watched the sky blacken, turned and saw Matt sitting on Colin's lap, his eyes closed, his breathing regular.

Her eyebrow lifted in a question as she nodded.

Colin saw her and smiled, mouthed he'll be just fine.

Maybe where he hit his head, she thought, but what about inside?

Garve stood away from the window, half expecting the plywood to fall. When it didn't, he crossed to his desk, picked up the phone, dialed and scowled.

"Goddamned thing's out."

Suddenly the wind stopped, and Peg held her breath. Her eyes were half closed when she heard, faintly, the explosion. She looked to the others, and saw they'd heard it too.

"What?" Montgomery asked.

Garve swore and raced out to the car, was gone before anyone could choose to join him.

"I don't believe this," Peg said, more to herself than the others in the room. "I don't believe this."

No one answered her; Matt stirred in Colin's lap.

And before they were able to begin speculation, Tabor was back, his face red and his mouth set tight. "The ferry," he told them when he slapped his hat hard on his desk. "The goddamned ferry's gone."

"But why?" Montgomery asked, bewildered.

"It figures, doesn't it?"

"How?" Peg said.

"How else do you get off this island?" No way else, she thought… except the fishing boats.

Garve saw her expression, and he grabbed for his hat again. "Yup. I think I'll make a quick run to talk to Alex. He must've heard the ferry go, too."

"Wait," Colin said, and Matt shifted in his arms.

"Look, Col-"

"No. Just listen a minute. You're going out there to warn Alex, right? Well, would you mind telling me what you're going to warn him about?"

The chief stammered a moment before saying, "Lilla, who else? She's obviously crazy, she probably killed Warren, and now she's doing things like that," and he gestured in the vague direction of the bay.

"You don't know for sure she did it."

"She was heading that way."

Colin squirmed to get more comfortable. "And what about Tess, Garve?"

No one said a thing.

"I think before you leave, we'd better decide exactly what it is we're really facing out there."

"You have an idea?"

He stroked Matt's hair, and Peg wanted to cry.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think I do. I didn't know before, but after what I saw and heard back there in the cell, I have a fair idea."

"If it has anything to do with ghosts," Garve said, half joking, half angry, "I don't want to hear it."

"Then don't listen, friend, because that's all I have."

Rose Adams sat in the living room and stared mournfully at the brown class register on her rolltop desk. So many names there, she thought as she brushed a finger over her own name embossed in gold on the flexible cover. So many names. She tried to run through each of her classes for the past ten years, a trick she'd learned from an older teacher long since gone, a trick that was supposed to help her remember the new students.

It had never worked, but whenever she was feeling depressed, whenever her family got too rambunctious and rebellious, she tried to remember every name she could. Like counting sheep, it would dull her mind to the demands it made on her.

Not today, however.

The wind was screaming something fierce outside the window, and Mitch hadn't returned from his search for baby Frankie, and Denise had somehow managed to sneak out of the house without her seeing. My God, when would they ever wake up and really appreciate all the things she did for them, all the sacrifices she'd made just so they could have clothes on their backs and food on the table. God knew, if she left it to Mitch they'd be on welfare by tomorrow.

Now here it was Saturday, and tonight-she looked at her watch and realized with a silent gasp it was less than four hours away-tonight at seven there was the big party at the Clipper Run. If they didn't get home soon, they wouldn't have time to make themselves presentable.

She sighed loudly, slapped her hands wearily against her thighs and pushed herself out of the chair. She was still in her bathrobe, but there'd been little incentive so far to get into a dress. With no one around to care how she looked, even on a weekend, why should she bother?

She looked to the sideboard, then, and the cabinet beneath. A drink, maybe. A fortification against the battles she knew would come when they returned. No, she thought with a decisive shake of her head and a deliberate glance away. It was too soon for that, and she hadn't clung to the wagon this far with Hugh's help to fall off now. Though God knew she needed a good toot now and then when Frankie started acting up and Denise refused to listen to her advice. My God, she'd say, I'm a teacher, don't you know that? A teacher! I know things. I know life, for God's sake!

But Frankie would only shrug and look sullen, and Denise would just smile and wiggle her ass out of the house.

Rose looked at her watch. Not time for the first drink yet, but what she should do is take a shower, be ready when Frankie or Mitch or Denise finally came home. That would show them. That would teach them a lesson, that planning in the home is just as important as planning in the classroom. She'd be all ready and sitting properly in the living room while they were all running around swearing and screaming and working up a sweat that would stain their good clothes.

Oh, God, she thought as she headed up the stairs, isn't it bad enough I got this sickness without having this family, too?

A hour later she wrapped a pink terrycloth towel around her and scuttled out of the bathroom, laughing to herself as she stumbled into the bedroom and switched on the vanity light. God, she loved that massage thing Mitch had installed at the beginning of the summer; it did things to her she thought were almost sinful.

A look at the gold watch placed carefully on the dresser, and she went to the closet to choose the dress she would wear. At the window, however, she stopped and looked out. She expected to see the fog that was giving her a case of nerves she didn't need.

What she saw was Mitch, Denise, and Frankie standing in the middle of the backyard.

She rapped a knuckle on the pane.

They looked up, one by one.

Thank God, she thought in relief and annoyance, and turned to hurry from the room when something about them made her look out again. It was Denise; she was naked, and there was a stick or something clinging her to shoulder. Oh, God, she prayed in furious resignation, what are they doing to me now? What if the neighbors… she clenched her fists until the spasm of rage subsided, then rushed to the stairs so she could give them all hell when they came in to explain.

The wind toppled a patio chair and tore a shingle from the roof.

She changed her mind and headed straight for the kitchen, where she could face them squarely, the queen of this damned house and they'd better not forget it.

Denise was the first to come through the door.