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and slipped it into the lock. To her surprise, the door swung open at her touch. Well, she supposed, maybe people leave their doors unlocked on Cumberland Island. She stepped in and stopped in her tracks. The faint aroma of fresh coffee was in the air.
    “Hello?” she called. “Hello?” this time louder. Silence greeted her. She looked around her. She was in the living room. An assortment of old furniture was scattered around the sunny room; everything was neat and orderly. She moved straight ahead to the kitchen; it was just as neat. She walked to a countertop and placed her hand on the electric coffeepot. Still warm. A single cup sat, upside down in the draining rack. She opened the refrigerator. There was little there—three bottles of beer and an open can of condensed milk, still sweet smelling. She went and looked into both bedrooms. No one there, beds stripped, neat as a pin. Wondering, she returned to the Jeep and began to unload.
    An hour later, she was unpacked, except for the darkroom equipment. That could wait until tomorrow. She put away her groceries and found some tonic water and a lime. Drink in hand, she wandered toward the deck. As she emerged into the late-afternoon sunshine, a sound met her ears—a series of high cracks. She saw a figure on the beach and went back for her binoculars.
    She trained the ten-power glasses on the beach, and the figure became more visible, though still far away. A man—tall, slender, blond—stood in the light surf, a rifle at his shoulder, firing out over the water. His attitude was relaxed, yet concentrated. He wore only a sort of Tarzanian loincloth, and a knife hung in its sheath from his belt. He went on, monotonously firing at nothing Liz could see.
    She hurried back into the house, found a camera case, and dug out a 35-mm body and a 300-mm lens. There was something odd, almost otherworldly about the man and what he was doing. She wanted a photograph. She walked outside, stepped up to the deck’s railing, camera ready, and looked toward the beach. He was gone, vanished from the scene. How long had she been in the house? Half a minute? She estimated the distance from the surf to the dunes. It didn’t seem possible that he could have vanished so quickly. She picked up the field glasses again and swept the area. Nothing.
    Liz glanced at her watch. Five-thirty. She was due at the inn at six. She abandoned the deck and got into the shower, then slipped into a cotton dress, applied light makeup, and fixed a silk scarf over her short hair, pinning it behind her head. When she left the cottage, she carefully locked the front door.

6
    L iz climbed the broad steps of the inn and stopped on the front porch. A young couple was lounging in a swing at one end of the veranda, her head on his shoulder. Liz felt a moment of longing, even envy. She reflected that it was the first emotion besides rage that she could remember for the past couple of months. She entered the house and found it quiet. To her right, she discovered a small room with a bar, deserted. A sign said MIX YOUR OWN, so she did, pouring herself a small bourbon. She wandered out of the bar, exploring. A library next door held many volumes, most of them dusty and old. She walked back down the hallway and found a large sitting room, dominated by a full-length portrait of a beautiful young woman and filled with odd objects and bric-a-brac. On the opposite wall, facing the picture of the young woman, was a portrait of a rakishly handsome man of about thirty, wearing riding clothes, a plaited crop in his hand. On a windowsill nearby was the skull of a loggerhead turtle, as big as a football. She tried to imagine the size of the whole turtle and failed. She browsed further around the room, and, with a shock, stopped in front of a framed photograph.
    It was obviously old; the print was faded and yellowing. It was of a man, tall, blond, and slender; he stood in a light surf, firing a rifle toward the sea; he wore only a