Moonbow lifted her hands. "But-"

"Now listen to me, child," Lady Beatrice snapped, "I've no time to argue, and certainly no time to explain. Just do as you're told and we'll soon have your mother out of here."

"But-"

"What are you," Starshine said, "a billy goat? We're gonna bust outta here, see? We're going over the wall. Ain't that right, Lady Bea? We're hitting the road, leaving the narcs in our dust."

Beatrice opened her mouth, closed it, and shrugged defeat. "Whatever you say, Starshine. Just be ready when I come for you."

"What?" Jude twisted around sharply. "What do you mean? You're not leaving?"

"Yes, dear, I am. Just for a minute." She beckoned, and the girls came close. "Now listen to me-and no questions, Moonbow, just listen-I want you to make noise. Happy noise, as if you're so glad to see your mother you can't stand it. Not too loud, but loud enough that the gentleman outside will hear and be pleased. You understand? While you're doing that, you put on your coats. Jude, be ready to take the suitcase."

She crossed the room and put on her coat, b.u.t.toned it to the neck, and put her hand on the doork.n.o.b.

Moonbow saw her take a deep breath and close her eyes, and would have sworn she heard her whisper, "Sir John, this is crazy," before she opened the door and went out.

Starshine immediately began singing a nonsense tune, and her mother laughed. Not loudly, but loud enough.

Once the door closed, they kept up the noise while scrambling into their coats, kept up the noise while they sat side by side on the bed and stared at the drapes that covered the window.

Holding hands.

Waiting.

Moonbow thinking that unless Lady Beatrice had a really really big gun, this was going to put them all in jail for the rest of their lives.

When the door opened again, they shut up instantly.

Lady Beatrice poked her head in, nodded her approval, and said, "Time, ladies. Please don't dawdle, I'm not as good at this as my husband was."

The next thing Moonbow knew she was outside, and it was dark, the fog as thick as it had been the other night, and the cold felt good on her face as she followed her mother and sister along the front of the building to the parking lot on the side. She wanted to look around, to spot the cops she just knew had to be watching, had to have them all their sights, but she didn't dare. She just walked, and prayed, and, when Lady Beatrice opened the doors of an automobile Moonbow had never seen before, she didn't hesitate-she climbed right into the front seat, closed the door, put on her seatbelt, and hunkered down as low as she could.

It didn't occur to her until Lady Beatrice had started the engine that she hadn't seen the guard who was supposed to be stationed outside the door. She turned and stared, and after a moment she saw his fog-dimmed figure-sitting in a chair on the far side of their room, hat down over his face, hands clasped across his stomach.

"Is he dead?" she asked fearfully.

"Don't be foolish," Lady Beatrice answered as she pulled into the street. "He's just very tired and needs a good night's rest."

The fog spun whorls and webs as a light wind pushed down the street ahead of them.

Traffic lights and streetlights and store lights were smears of white and color, and when she looked over her shoulder she couldn't see the motel anymore because the fog had swallowed it.

"Thank you," Jude said from the backseat.

"Don't thank me yet," Lady Beatrice said. "We still have a long way to go, and we don't have much time."

"They'll come after us, you know."

"Then," Lady Beatrice said as she pushed the accelerator all the way to the floor, "they'll have to learn to fly."

Moonbow dozed, woke up once, and looked at the woman who drove the car. "I know you," she said sleepily.

"Do you now?"

"Yes. You're an angel."

3.

Rick Jordan hated driving in a storm. His boat was more predictable than the handling of this d.a.m.n pickup, and by the time he reached Hawkins Island he was ready to pull over and wait it out. The problem was, there wasn't anything on this miserable piece of rock to protect him, so he took to the next causeway stage and made his way slowly to St. James, gripping the wheel so tightly his fingers threatened cramps.

The last time, he thought sourly, he'll do a favor for someone he hardly knew. Next time, the guy can drive his own d.a.m.n self.

A huge wave slammed into the rocks on his left, shaking the roadway, making him hold his breath and pray the structure would hold. A few seconds later another one struck the northside barrier, and a sheet of sea water slapped the pickup into a sideways skid. He yelped involuntarily, prepared himself to get out in case the truck toppled, and didn't relax a whit until the causeway touched St. James. Immediately, he pulled over into the Last Stop's parking area, and sat there, trembling, sweating as hard as it was raining outside. He would have stayed until the storm pa.s.sed, but the engine decided it had had enough and conked out, leaving him without heat or the radio.

"Well, s.h.i.t," he muttered. He supposed it could be worse; he supposed he could be stuck in the Tower, exposed to every drop, every ounce of wind, plus the thing would be swaying a little, enough to make a man seasick.

It wasn't much consolation.

He slid over to the pa.s.senger side, yanked his cap down tight and zipped his jacket up to his neck, then shoved open the door.

"s.h.i.t!" he yelled when the cold rain hit him, and he ran for the entrance, pushed inside, and stood dripping on a narrow piece of rubber welcome mat. Panting. Wiping his face with one hand, while he opened the jacket with the other.

There were only a couple of overhead lights on, one at the end of the building to his left, one right above him. To the right the display cases and walls were uncomfortably indistinct, as if the fog had turned black.

"Bad time to be on the road," a voice said, and Rick turned his head so fast he felt a painful twinge in his neck.

Cutler stood behind the last case, a gleaming, stuffed barracuda on the wall above him. His coat was on, he held a hat in one hand. "If you're thinking of buying, I'm closed."

"Just getting in out of the rain," he said. "Can't last long, not at this rate."

The building vibrated.

The surf sounded like thunder.

Rick slipped his hands into his pockets and turned around, to look through the gla.s.s door. He could barely see the truck; he couldn't see Cutler's car at all. Just his luck Mandy wasn't working here today-she was a whole lot easier on the eyes than this jerk.

"Heard you got real friendly with Chisholm," Cutler said, his tone making easy conversation, two guys caught with nothing to talk about.

Rick shrugged. "Helped him pa.s.s the time, that's all." He didn't like the way his reflection faded in and out, the way the rain struck the gla.s.s, shattering into starbursts. But he didn't want to look at Cutler, either. He was sure that pose under the fish was deliberate, and if he thought about it long enough, he'd probably start laughing.

Cutler wouldn't like that.

Not that he'd do much about it. Not physically, anyway. The man usually picked on people who couldn't really fight back. The fishing community, such as it was, was pretty tight. Go after one, you go after them all. Even Stump Teague wasn't that stupid.

Of course, there were other ways of fighting-a whisper to the bank here, a word to the mayor there ... a friend of his tried to get friendly with Mandy a year or so back, next thing the guy knew the sheriff and Freck were climbing all over his boat. Violations up the a.s.s that drove the man first into bankruptcy, then off the island.

Still, standing under that dead fish, those sideburns puffed, that hair so salon perfect... he wished Ronnie could be here to see it.

"You like helping ex-cons, do you?"

Rick closed one eye, turned his head. "Ex-con?"

"Yep. Attempted murder, grand larceny. North Carolina, I think it was."

He looked back to the storm. "Huh."

"Gotta be careful, you know." Slow footsteps; the back light went out. "Some folks don't like to charter with folks who run with ex-cons."

The air lightened outside, less like night now than late afternoon. The wind had stopped.

Rick tugged at his cap. "You know, Cutler, if I didn't know better, I'd swear that was a threat." He looked over again, and Cutler was still at the last display case, no definition now, just a form in the dark. "No kidding."

Cutler laughed quietly. "Purely an observation, my boy. Purely an observation. Perception, Mr. Jordan. It's all in the perception." The snap of a cigarette lighter. "Just a word to the wise, that's all. Businessmen like ourselves, we have to watch that perception."

Rick grunted a laugh. "Cutler, the only things that perceive me are the fish, and they don't give a d.a.m.n because they're already practically dead anyway." He brushed some condensation off the door. "No offense, but I talk to who I want."

"So I notice."

The center light went out.

Rick took his hands from his pockets, flexed his fingers, leaned closer to the door, squinting as he looked east. The rain had eased to a heavy drizzle, and he could see breaks in the clouds.

And something else: "Hey, looks like someone's coming."

From right behind him: "Tough. I'm closed."

He jumped, jumped again when a hand reached around him and pushed the door open.

"Any time, Mr. Jordan. Any time."

Another tug on his cap, his jacket closed again, and he hurried to the pickup just as a car pulled in behind it. And as much as he wanted to get out of here, to get home and call Ronnie, tell her what Cutler had said, he walked over to the pa.s.senger side just as the window rolled down.

Four people in there, and Jesus, he thought, they look like they've been through a G.o.dd.a.m.n war. Bandages and bruises, the guy in back with his arm practically molded to his chest, the lady in front with a small bandage on her neck, not enough to hide the fading bruise there that ran practically all the way around.

"Hi," he said, leaning over so he could see the driver better. *The place is closed, sorry."

The driver, a clump of dark hair falling into his eyes, smiled wanly. "Just our luck." He glanced into the backseat, rapped the steering wheel a few times, and nodded. "So ... maybe you can help us,"

"Whatever I can." He just wished the guy'd hurry up. The rain was dripping down his neck, and the damp was beginning to seep into his bones.

Cutler's, automobile pulled out of the lot, just short of spitting gravel and grit.

The driver watched it for a few seconds before: "We're ... we are on the right track for Camoret Island, right?"

"Oh, yeah." He straightened and rubbed at the small of his back. "Don't want to disappoint you, though," he said, raising his voice so the man could hear him. "We're just about closed down too, for the season." A polite smile for the woman. *The days are still kind've warm, but the beach is still pretty chilly when the wind gets blowing."

The man said something he didn't catch, and the woman, looking as if she was afraid to turn her head, said, "Motels or anything?"

"None that are open." He squatted then, fingertips of his left hand balancing him against the door. "You're Louisiana, huh?"

Her smile was bright, though her skin was sickly pale. "That's right. You from there?"

He shook his head. "Nope. Had a girlfriend once, though, she was from Baton Rouge. She-"

From the back an impatient cough.

Rick took the hint, figured it was the girl, not the guy in the sling. "Anyway, if you folks are needing a place to stay, I really don't know how to help you. The guy that just left, he's got about the only office that stays open all year." He wiped a hand over his face, shook the rain off. "I can tell you how to get there, if you need to."

"I'd sure appreciate it," the driver said. "We've been a long time getting here, and from the looks of it, that's no small island you have there."

Rick never thought of it as small, or large, or any size at all. It just was. Shining wetly now as the sun rammed gaps in the swift-moving clouds.

Then the young guy said something, and he frowned. "What?"

"Casey Chisholm," the guy repeated. "You know a man named Casey Chisholm?"

Rick stared at him for a moment. "Well, as a matter of fact, I kind of do, yeah."

He didn't think he would have gotten a more astonishing reaction than if he'd up and handed them each a million-dollar bill. The girl in back started crying, the boy whooped, the driver closed his eyes and grinned, and the woman with the auburn hair took a sharp deep breath and started to laugh. Her hand waved an apology, but she couldn't seem to stop, and he rose slowly, not sure what he was supposed to do next.

"Hey," the boy said, leaning over to see him better, "can you tell us how to get there? To where he lives, I mean. Can you show us?"

Rick wasn't sure. It was pretty obvious these people had nothing to do with Cutler, so that was all right. On the other hand, Chisholm was far from being a hundred percent, and maybe didn't want surprise visitors just now. But the looks on their faces, the kind of look usually saved for that big Christmas present in the corner, that made him think again.

"Tell you what," he said. "I'm fixing to go over there now, as a matter of fact. Why don't you just follow me. It isn't hard, but... just follow me."

Without waiting for a response, he returned to the pickup and slid into the cab. Once inside, he yanked off the cap and tossed it aside, told himself he smelled like a dead wet fish on a hot dry morning, and started the engine.

He didn't want to think about what he was doing.

He wasn't looking forward to seeing the expression on Chisholm's face.

Nevertheless, he had a pretty good feeling about this. A pretty good feeling that he was doing the right thing.

And if he wasn't... h.e.l.l, it was no skin off his back. Chisholm wasn't a friend, wasn't a neighbor; he was just someone Rick had helped out a little because Ronnie had asked him to. He'd just go there, deliver the message the mainland pharmacist had given him, and go home. Call Ronnie. Have dinner with her. Let her pump him for information.

He grinned as he pulled onto the road, checking the rearview to be sure the strangers were following.