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was marking time, wasting time.
    I leaned on the oars and pulled toward shore.
    There was no one in the boat. I landed at that end of the island so that I could check the boat first off. I did, and it was empty. I beached the rowboat and began walking slowly across the sand. There were footprints leading from the boat along the perimeter of the island toward my shack. The man had evidently walked in the water so that his footprints would disappear, but here and there one remained.
    I think Defore was wrong. I think Robinson Crusoe must have torn his hair out when he saw that fucking footprint.
    I followed, slowly, carefully, silently. Whoever had come to my island had taken the trouble to try to conceal his footprints. Thus he wanted his presence to be a surprise. And thus he had undoubtedly watched for my appearance in the rowboat and would know I was already on the island. Even so, it seemed sensible to approach him as cautiously and silently as possible.
    I studied every tree, every clump of growth. I stopped once to pick up a rock the size of a hen’s egg. He might have a gun, or a knife. He might plan to kill me right off.
    He was on my island. My island.
    I covered sixty yards before I knew where he was. Then I was able to see the string of footprints cutting across from the shore to the door of my shack.
    There were no footprints leading away from the shack.
    He was in my house.
    Obviously I had to kill him. Whoever he was, whatever had brought him here, I had to kill him. He was in my shack. He was on my island, in my shack. Sitting there, the filthy bastard, and waiting for me. In my house, the bastard.
    I moved inland so that I could approach the hut from the rear. There were no windows in the hut, but it was possible that he could see me coming through a crack in one of the boards. There were as many cracks as there were boards. I had an advantage, though. The sun was beating down on the back of the shack. It would be at my back and in his eyes. I dropped to the ground, moved forward on hands and knees. The less I showed of myself, the less chance there was that he would be able to see me.
    Once I got close I would be able to stop moving, and once I stopped moving he would never see me.
    And sooner or later he would show himself. He would know that I was on the island but he wouldn’t know where, and sooner or later he would decide to come out and have a look, and then I would have him. He might even wait until dark. Fine. My night vision was always good, and a diet rich in fish coupled with a life without artificial light had made it that much better. Let him wait until dark. Let him sit in the dark, alone and afraid, while I came down on him.
    On my island. In my shack—
    I stopped, my eyes on the hut, my ears concentrating on every sound. Birds made noise in a tree off to my left. I waited for a long moment, then scampered over to a clump of cover a few yards ahead.
    A voice roared, “Hey!”
    And, from the shack, something arced high in the air and looped lazily end over end toward me. It landed on the ground not ten yards in front of me and sent sand flying.
    A hand grenade.

FOUR
    I RAN F ORWARD , reached to scoop up the grenade. Even as my hand closed on it I was spinning around to the left, making a full arc and sending the familiar metal egg flying out over the water. I didn’t even wait for the explosion but ran ahead full speed toward the shack.
    Someone in a dark suit stepped out from the cover of the shack. “Beautiful,” he was shouting. “Perfect, Kavanagh.”
    There was a gun in his hand. If I stopped he would have a clean shot. If I kept going he might freeze, and if he froze I would have him wrapped up before he could kill me. There was no cover for me. All I could do was charge the gun.
    “Kavanagh!”
    I was fifteen yards from him when the bullet slapped the sand in front of me. I stopped in my tracks.
    “Easy, Paul. Easy. Don’t come any closer.”
    “You’re on my