Silent Mercy

FORTY-EIGHT

“STOP the car!”

“Stop the train, stop the car — what is it with you tonight?” Mike asked.

“Zukov’s not on his way to Hyannis. Pull over and let me drive.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know where he’s going, Mike. I can get us to Woods Hole with a blindfold on, in half the time that you can,” I said. The tiny village on the southwestern tip of the Cape is the home of the terminal from which ferries run back and forth to Martha’s Vineyard. I’d spent countless hours there walking the harbor as I waited to get over to my island on standby, with no reservation.

“Where’s he going? And why do you think you know?”

“Because this country didn’t ever have more than a handful of places that were leper colonies, and only one of those was turned into a ‘last chance’ school for delinquent boys.”

Mike pulled to the side of the road and braked the car.

“Twofers, Coop. I’ll bite. Where are you taking me?”

Mike opened the door to change seats and I answered him as I moved behind the steering wheel. “A desolate little place in Buzzards Bay where they used to banish lepers a century ago,” I said. “It’s called Penikese Island.”