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airport toward St. David’s.
    They had expected to ride into a tidy, contained community. What they found, instead, was a random assembly of limestone cottages connected by dirt paths. It was as if someone had taken a bagful of cottages ten thousand feet up into the air, and then emptied the bag carelessly, letting the contents scatter on the hillsides. Only one building seemed properly placed: a lighthouse at the top of a cliff.
    They stopped on the side of the road, and Sanders unfolded the map he had gotten at the hotel.
    “This is it,” he said. “It has to be. That’s St.
    David’s light up there.”
    “Let’s ask somebody.”
    “Sure. Ask any one of those thousands of people.” He waved his arm at the hillside. There were no bicycles, no cars, no pedestrians. The town seemed deserted.
    Fifty yards away, beyond a turn, they saw a hand-lettered sign that said, “Kevin’s Lunch.”
    “It looks empty,” said Gail.
    There was no door on the frame of the shack, but the remains of a bead curtain hung in tatters from a reed pole across the top of the doorway. Sanders rapped with his knuckles on the wall. There was no response. “Anybody there?”
    They walked through the doorway.
    “What you want?” said a voice at the far end of a long
    counter. The man wore no shirt, his skin was dark brown, his belly fat and hairless. His eyes were black holes above globular cheeks.
    Sanders said, “We’re looking for Romer Treece.”
    “Not here.”
    “Where can we find him?”
    “He not a bloody goddamn tourist attraction.”
    “We’re not tourists,” Sanders said. “That isn’t why we want to see him. We want to ask him about a ship.”
    “He know ships,” the man said, less belligerently. “For sure. How bad you want to talk to him?”
    “What?” It took Sanders a moment to realize what Kevin meant.
    “Oh. Yes.” He took a five-dollar bill from his wallet and put it on the counter.
    “You not want to see him very bad.”
    Sanders started to say something, but he looked at Gail, and her expression said, Let’s get out of here. He put another five on the counter. “Is that bad enough?”
    “Top of the hill, by the light.”
    Gail said, “He lives in the lighthouse?”
    “Right there by. It’s his light.”
    The lighthouse sat on a flat promontory, so high above the sea that the light itself needed to be only fifty or sixty feet above the ground. There was a well-marked path directing tourists to the front of the lighthouse. A small white house, surrounded by a picket fence, was nestled in the lee of the light. The word private was painted on the gate. The Sanderses leaned their motorbikes against the fence, opened the gate, and walked down the short path toward the house. On each side of the front door, where there might have been flower beds, was a bathtub-size vat filled with a clear liquid. In the vats the Sanderses saw dozens of pieces of rusty metal-spikes, buckles, boxes, pistol barrels, and countless unfamiliar objects.
    Gail held up the towel-wrapped bundle. “You suppose that’s stuff like this?”
    “Looks like it. That’s probably a chemical bath, to clean stuff off.”
    The front door to the house was open, but there was a screen door, closed and latched from inside. Sanders knocked on the frame and called, “Hello? Mr.
    Treece?”
    “There’s pamphlets in the bloody lighthouse!
    Tell you all you want to know.” The voice was deep, the accent similar to, but not identical with, English or Scots.
    “Mr. Treece, we’d like to ask you about some things we found.” Sanders looked at Gail. When he turned back to the screen door, he found himself staring up into the face of the biggest man he had ever seen.
    He was nearly seven feet tall, and his chest was so immense that the sleeves of his T-shirt had begun to separate at the seams. His hair was black, cropped in a crew cut that rose from a sharp V in the middle of his forehead. His nose was long and thin, and it had a noticeable