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I looked back through the window.

A shadow appeared at the thicket’s edge, its pale face glowing like a moon in the dark.

Luther.

It emerged from the woods and started toward the lodge.

I aimed the .45 through the window, then realized my hands were empty.

The gun lay at my feet.

When I bent down for it, my legs liquefied.

I stumbled backward.

Crashed into the table.

Plates shattering.

I was down on my back.

Footfalls thumping up the steps.

My consciousness twirling and falling out from under me.

The door unlocked, flung open.

And I was gone.

49

AS Vi stepped aboard the 61’ Queenship Sportscruiser, Rebecca, she instantly understood why Gloria was green. The seas rollicked, the yacht tottering so fiercely she had to grab hold of the railing the moment her feet touched the teak deck.

The dinghy was halfway back to the beach by the time Vi had steadied herself. She watched Sam’s wife run it aground and drag the Boston Whaler beyond the reach of the tide. Gloria hadn’t spoken a word to her during the short boat ride to the yacht. She’d just glared. Her husband had begged her to stay on the yacht in light of the fact that a serial murderer was also on the island. But Gloria said in parting: "There’s no way. Fact, I hope he finds me, cuts me up into a thousand pieces. Be better than this fucking nausea."

Now he led Vi through the curved glass curtain wall that opened from the aft deck into the salon, where she sat down at the end of an L-shaped sofa.

Cherry wood everywhere. Italian leather. A flat-screen TV. Wet bar. Expansive windows, port and starboard.

Vi imagined that on a sunny day in the middle of the sea, the view was nothing but miles and miles of sky and green water.

Pedro, the ship’s mate, emerged shirtless from the crew quarters deep in the hull.

"Gloria no come?" he asked.

"She went back ashore. Head on up and get us going. You know Ocracoke Inlet, don’t you?"

"Yeah, I know him. Be bad tonight. Bad any night. No good idea."

"I know, Pedro." Sam glanced at Vi. "Can’t be helped."

As Pedro ascended to the pilothouse, Sam said, "There’s the phone. I’ll be up with Pedro. Shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to get there if we don’t ground her."

He flicked on more lights as he walked through the galley and disappeared up the curving staircase into the pilothouse. After a moment Vi heard the engines fire up, little more than a muffled gurgle in the insulated recesses of the hull.

Her stomach lurched as the boat began to move.

She picked up the phone, then set it down.

She put her face into her hands and took long penetrating breaths.

Taking up the phone again, she dialed her sergeant’s home number.

Talking with Sgt. Mullins before anyone else (911, Coast Guard, SBI) would be the smart move. He’d tell her exactly how to proceed.

A sleepy voice answered, "Hello?"

"Hey, Gwynn, it’s Vi. Look, I’m sorry to be calling so late, but I need to speak with Barry. It’s—"

"He’s on call tonight, and you just missed him. He had a suicide."

"Oh, well, I’ll just page him then. Thanks."

Vi hung up the phone.

Her hands still trembled.

She looked down the companionway that accessed the master and VIP staterooms.

It all felt so surreal. The violence, the fear, the sudden luxury.

She thought of Max and almost called him. But the gentleness, the everydayness in her husband’s voice would have broken her in two. If she didn’t ease herself out of this nightmare it would shatter her.

Reaching for the phone to page Sgt. Mullins, she realized she didn’t know the number for the yacht. She rose from the sofa but the moment she started for the staircase, a wave of nausea engulfed her.

She barely made it to the galley before spewing her lunch into the sink. Turning on the spigot, she washed the mess down the drain and splashed water in her face. Her forearms against the countertop, she held her head over the basin for ten minutes, eyes closed, praying for the nausea to pass.

Her stomach finally settled and she had just started for the pilothouse to get the phone number for the yacht when Sam came quickly