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the sun-long-haired kids playing guitars, tossing frisbies. Everybody having a whale of a time. The old gentleman was keeping himself under control, but I could see the blue veins standing out in his knotted fists. Stacey had been an only child, and she had come to them late in life.
        At last I told him. I knew it would hurt him even more but I owed him an explanation. His face drained white as I spoke, and I was afraid he might keel over. He didn't say a word about what I had told him. When he did speak at last, it was only to say, "Mother and I will leave tonight. There is nothing more we can do here."
        I nodded.
        "I won't tell Mother what you have told me. If I can, I would like to spare her that."
        "Of course."
        "I'm glad you told me, Bill. I don't think I could ever have rested without some explanation. I know it wasn't easy for you."
        He was holding himself very straight, thin shoulder blades pressed to the back of the bench.
        "Won't you come back with us for a while, Bill? Just until you get back on your feet. I don't think it's good for you to be alone. Mother and I… at least we have each other."
        "Thank you," I said. "I wish I could but I have to wait here."
        He gave me a puzzled look through his glasses. His eyes were a faded blue but dry. He was a fine old man.
        "Wait here for what, Bill?"
        "I'm not sure."
        But I think I was sure, even then.
        
***
        
        How can I describe the weeks that followed? I ate and slept and shaved and did small jobs around the boat. I told them at the marina office that I would not accept any phone calls. Every morning I bought the paper. Once every two or three days I went to the market and bought a little food, although I was not eating much. When I looked at my face in the shaving mirror, the reflection was that of a stranger, a scarred man with hollow cheeks and eyes as expressionless as marbles. At night I listened to the news.
        That was how I heard it-sandwiched in between the underarm deodorant and laxative commercials. A motorcycle gang tearing through the little fishing village of Islamorada down in the Keys had nearly killed a small boy. A high speed chase had followed as the gang fled south. Since there was only one road north and south in the Florida Keys escape was impossible. Road blocks had been immediately established by the sheriff's department, and the gang had been cornered and arrested a few miles from Marathon. Deputies from neighboring Collier County had been rushed to the scene to protect the prisoners from the outraged citizens. Lynch parties were prowling the streets of Islamorada. The sheriff had warned all motorcyclists to stay clear of the area since he could not be responsible for their safety.
        I slept very little that night. Next morning the Miami Herald had the story splashed across its front page. There were pictures of the gang, hands in the air, surrendering to the sheriff's posse. They were pretty much what you expected them to be-hulking men wearing blue jeans, boots, and leather vests. Their arms were heavily tattooed from shoulder to wrist. They wore an assortment of peculiar necklaces, swastikas, and iron crosses. None of them had blond hair. As for a gouged face, most of them had beards and moustaches and so much long hair you could barely make out their features. They did not look alarmed by what was happening to them. If anything they looked faintly bored, as though they had been through all this many times before. There was an air of sulky uniformity about them which made it hard to distinguish one from the other. A pack of wolves.
        I felt a tingling sensation on the back of my neck as I studied the picture.
        There was a rapping on the hatchway, and I slid it back to find Sergeant Bertram.
        "Busy, Mr. Shaw?"
        "No."
        "Just thought I'd stop by to see how you were making