Read Come Unto These Yellow Sands for Free Online Page A

most of the trip back to the mainland walking up and down the slick deck.
    Despite the weather he was warm enough. He was wearing the coat Max had bought him last Christmas. A hooded, lined Carhartt. It was a nice coat though Swift didn’t particularly care about its breathability and waterproofing and all the other things Max had mentioned when Swift opened the neatly wrapped parcel. Swift was sensitive to the cold, and Max had dealt with it in his usual efficient manner. Was that romantic?
    Swift had given Max a seascape by Maine artist Caren-Marie Michel.
    Max had smiled over the gift, held it up and given Swift a quizzical look. He’d hung it in his bedroom.
    Swift had wondered what they’d do for the holiday this year. He’d toyed with the idea of suggesting they go away for a couple of days, even if it was just spending some time alone on Orson Island, but he’d never quite had the nerve and now…now it might be beside the point.
    Max didn’t get angry easily or quickly, but when he was mad, he stayed mad. He would be angry about this, Swift had no doubt. He probably had a right to be angry.
     
    The ferry docked on time at the terminal in Portland, and Swift headed straight back to Stone Coast.
    If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly. There was Shakespeare for you. Not The Tempest . Not the stuff of golden sands and sweet sprites and wild waves. No. MacBeth . A nice, juicy crime story. A tale of murder and madness.
    Perfect for the day Swift was having.
    He cranked up the Muse CD in his player and pressed the accelerator.
    Stone Coast was a scenic little village near Casco Bay not far from Wolfe Neck State Park. The town had retained its rustic charm and, barring the luxury cars in the driveway and a few coats of fresh paint, many of the houses looked as they had in the 1800s. The architects of the newer structures tended to follow the organic inspiration of Frank Lloyd Wright and Bruce Goff. There was a lot of money in Stone Coast. A lot of people were interested in seeing Stone Coast become to the arts what Freeport was to retail.
    Swift drove down the shady wide streets, past the little shops and art galleries and comfortable homes to the small brick police station surrounded by tidy green lawns and a forest of wet flagpoles.
    Inside the station it was warm and surprisingly quiet. Hannah Maltz, the dispatcher, was working at her computer, clicking briskly away at the keyboard. She was a very pretty middle-aged woman—far too pretty to be an effective cop, in Max’s opinion. Max had a tendency to make those kinds of judgment calls. What Hannah thought about being regulated to desk duty was anyone’s guess, but she was a great dispatcher. She had a very nice voice in an emergency. Not that Swift had many emergencies these days.
    “Why hello, Professor Swift,” Hannah greeted him. “Wet enough for you?”
    Swift was unsure what official explanation of their friendship—if any—Max offered inquiring minds. Having grown up in the spotlight, Swift was basically blind to public curiosity. He took it for granted that people paid attention to what he did, and he’d stopped noticing his own celebrity a long time ago. After three much publicized stints in rehab you tended to develop a thick skin. But Max was the police chief of a small town, and it went without saying—or at least they had never got around to discussing it—that he required discretion.
    He was not much good at jokey back-and-forth stuff, but Swift said gravely, “Are you checking out my gills again?”
    Hannah laughed. “Chief Prescott’s on the phone, but you can go on through.”
    The door to Max’s office stood open. Swift could see a sliver of Max tilted back in his chair, phone to his ear. He heard snatches of Max’s deep tones between the click-clacks of Hannah’s keyboard.
    Max glanced up as Swift pushed open the door. His brows rose in surprised inquiry, and he nodded to the chair in front of