LITMIR.BIZ

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seemed to have passed on. “You’ve never even met this guy. It’s the nuttiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

      “Real adventurous spirit,” Chip told her. “Didn’t you always want to be in one of those survivor shows, running around the jungle with handsome muscle guys?”

      “Why don’t you just shut up! If the island was like that they wouldn’t let you on it.”

      “Both of you cool it,” their father said. “I think we should give this a try. I know this man is reliable. He may be eccentric, but he’s not a serial killer or anything, and if we don’t like the arrangements we can leave at once. This holiday has been turning into a disaster; now maybe we have a chance to turn things around in an interesting way.”

      “I agree, John,” said Mrs. Mallory. “But there’s one problem: what do we do with May? We can’t just abandon the poor girl.”

      Lee stamped her foot and groaned. “Well, if you’re planning to take her to the island, count me out. I can hitchhike back to Ottawa.”

      “Now that’s a generous response,” her mother said sarcastically. “But don’t worry, dear, we’re not taking her to the island. The question is, what do we do with her?”

      “Why not just leave her here?” Chip suggested. “We could get her some food, and she could lie low for a day or so. After all, you’ve already paid the rent for this dump. And it sounds like she’s come from worse.”

      His parents pondered this. Then Mrs. Mallory said brightly, “It’s not a bad idea. That would give us time to get in touch with the local authorities — the people who can really help her.”

      “Of course, those two farmers might just come back and kill her or rape her,” Lee said scornfully. “Then you’d be to blame, wouldn’t you?”

      “Let’s talk to our two sterling messengers out there,” Mr. Mallory said, ignoring his daughter. “Hopefully we can work something out.”

      “I can’t wait to see the island,” Chip said. “I wonder if the house has a satellite dish.”

      “More likely a leaky roof,” Lee said. “Or some old bones rotting in the cellar.”

      6

      Freya’s Island

      A short while later they were underway, bumping along the rough cottage road behind the pickup truck. On the left, the lake stretched away in a wide arc; miles and miles of wrinkled grey water. A few small, treed islands lay close to the shore.

      “I hope our island’s not too far out,” Mrs. Mallory said. “It could take all day to do the shopping.”

      Chip adjusted his earphones and said, “I wonder where Dr. Gwynn lives?”

      “On an island a few miles away from the one he’s lending us. Or so Cal explained to me.” His father shook his head slowly. “I’m still amazed at this invitation.”

      “I just hope poor May is all right in that cabin,” his wife said, changing the subject.

      “We’ll check her out very soon,” he reassured her. “And you heard what Cal said before we left. He doesn’t think Dalton and Garth will set their Dobes on her if she stays put. It looks like her own family might be the real danger.”

      “That’s not very reassuring,” Mrs. Mallory said.

      The wind had ceased, and the sky’s lowering darkness was broken in some places by patches of soft light. It was raining, but gently now, the grass a wet, green mantle, the leaves glossy and bright. There were clumps of pines half concealing cottages, and rocky patches of beach, a few sandy coves, and here and there a cabin set on a lonely promontory. But the storm seemed to have driven most of the vacationers inside; only once or twice did they see any signs of life.

      “I don’t suppose there are any kids around here,” Lee mused.

      Chip laughed. “Kids? You mean young guys with out-boards and water skis? Don’t worry, Sis, I’m sure you’ll have a good time.”

      “I just hope our cellphones work.”

      “Don’t count on it, sweetie,” said her mother.

      They drove for some minutes more, then, on the left, above the trees, some white rooftops appeared, one topped by a weather-vane rooster, another bearing a satellite dish. The black pickup slowed down. A road forked to the right — it bore a sign indicating “BASCOMBE.”

      “We’re not going that way, I hope,” said Mrs. Mallory.

      “No! There’s the dock,” Chip said excitedly.

      He was pointing to a large lot on their left where their guides were at that moment pulling up their vehicle. There was a long, rickety-looking dock, with the big lake stretching away behind, and a couple of parked cars in the foreground. A huddle of buildings rose on one side, a tackle shop and outbuildings occupying one of them, while on the other side a few ramshackle sheds leaned together, their boards stained dark by the misty rain.

      “Look at the boat,” Chip said. “Not exactly zippy.”

      “But big enough to carry most of our things,” his father noted.

      Tied up to the dock they saw a white pontoon cruiser, maybe twenty-five or thirty feet long. The boat had good deck space and a canvas roof that covered the steering wheel and part of the banked seats, while a large outboard motor powered the craft. Two other, much sleeker powerboats were tied up beside the launch, but they were obviously far too small for the purpose of family transport, and looked a little forlorn in the rain.

      Mr. Mallory pulled their SUV up beside the black truck, which had stopped just short of the landing place. Cal Froats had climbed out and was walking toward the tackle shop opposite, looking comical rather than frightening now, Chip thought, in his red Mac and boots.

      “Should we start unloading?” Mr. Mallory called to him.

      “Just take what’s necessary. I’ll come and fetch the rest later. You can park the car over there beside the Toyota. That’s Lawson’s car. Lawson will keep an eye on yours.”

      “Who’s Lawson?”

      “Another doctor, like. Place seems to be crawling with ’em. He works with Dr. Gwynn sometimes. Lives here, reads books, writes and writes, and sails all summer.”

      Rachel Stone, who had discarded her raincoat and cap and stood before them in a white cotton shirt and white slacks, told them, “I’ll be going now. Have to pick up some supplies in Westport for Dr. Gwynn, but the old man will just have to wait for his grub. I’ll take some food to that girl in the cabin first. Wouldn’t leave her there very long, if I was you. Dalton and Garth may not find her, if she don’t wander up their way, but there’s bound to be trouble with them squatter folk.”

      “I’ll see the authorities as soon as possible,” Mrs. Mallory promised. “I’ll have to go shopping myself pretty soon.”

      “Wouldn’t worry about that just now. Wait until you see what you’ve got out there in the cabin.”

      Rachel climbed into the big pickup and drove away.

      They began unloading their SUV, leaving the bedding and blankets on the back seats, and the water scooter and glass-bottomed boat stowed on top.

      There was a convenient ladder and — with the help of Cal Froats, who was agile as a monkey — it was not too difficult to load their stuff on the cruiser.

      When they had finished, Cal asked for the car keys. “These go to Lawson,” he told them. “Here he comes now to meet you.”

      A slender, dark-skinned man, dressed in khaki cargo pants, a light brown T-shirt, and wearing sunglasses — despite the rain — and a white outback hat, strolled over from one of the sheds.

      “Lawson Sinclair,”

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