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surrounding stands of pine, Jean LeBeck stood half in the shadows, his black raincoat making him nearly invisible. Rain fell on him unnoticed as he locked eyes with Collene.
    “Jean?” she whispered in shocked disbelief.
    Collene stepped off the porch onto the rain-slicked grass, paying no heed to the wind and rain tearing at her nightgown. She held her hands to her face, shielding her eyes, trying to peer through the shadows.
    As quickly as he had appeared, LeBeck melted back into the darkness. Collene took another step forward, then stopped. She cried out, louder now.
    “Jean!”
    High up in the tower, Clarence stood outside against the outer rail, looking down on the clearing. His white knuckles gripped the rail as the wind tugged at him, trying to tear him away. He held on for another moment, then relented as a blast of wind sent him reeling back inside.
    The storm blustered on, trying to whip the landscape into submission. The lighthouse continued shining, an unmoving citadel in the face of chaos.

Chapter Four

    O ld Ollhoff strained against the oars of his small fishing boat. He squinted, white bushy eyebrows crammed together, as he tried to make out his surroundings. The night was pitch, except for the staccato bursts of lightning exploding from the storm-laden sky. In sharp contrast to the violence above, gentle waves of black water passed under the hull of Ollhoff’s boat. It was a far cry from the monstrous surf that had nearly killed him just minutes earlier.
    The old Norwegian fisherman had been out working the lake, brushing off the warnings about the impending storm by his friends at the fishing village. But Ollhoff had set out anyway, his courage fortified by the bottle of gin hidden in his lunch basket. He’d be damned if he’d let the Lady prevent him from his daily catch of lake trout. After all, he had a family back in Oslo to support.
    His decision had proven disastrous. After an hour of fishing, Ollhoff opted for an early “lunch,” then promptly drank himself into a stupor. When he finally awoke, the sun had set, the sky was ablaze with lightning, and whitecaps were crashing into the side of his tiny boat. Worst of all, he had a smashing headache.
    With no idea where he was or for how long he’d drifted (he gave a silent thanks for not crashing up on shore while unconscious), Ollhoff put his muscles to work and began rowing like a madman.
    At first, he considered his chances grim. With little twilight to guide him, he could only steer toward land and hope not to be smashed up on some jagged shore. Survival seemed remote. On the other hand, if he stayed out on the open water, he’d be dead for sure.
    As Ollhoff neared the island, he saw that he was heading for a narrow cove, its mouth guarded on either side by frightening cliffs of granite. Huge swells rolled up and exploded against the rocks. Ollhoff knew his course of action was set: he had to make a run for that cove or end up dead on the cliffs. The old fisherman put everything he had into the oars, trying to gain enough speed to escape the swells and propel him into the cove.
    The next few minutes were a blur to him. He remembered the roar of water crashing against the cliffs rising up on either side of him, cold wind and spray stinging his face, sheer terror as lightning illuminated the scene, revealing in stark detail the utter hopelessness of it all. His boat seemed completely enveloped by the raging waters and white foam, his world transformed into a lunatic mosaic of noise and fury.
    And then it was over.
    One moment Ollhoff was prepared to die, the next he was floating free on sheltered water. He continued stroking the oars, moving deeper up the cove, eager to put as much distance between himself and the raging waters of the open lake. Steep forested hills rose up on both sides of the fjord-like inlet. The trees on the ridgetops waved and thrashed in the wind, but down at water level it was eerily quiet, except for the occasional