Outside the night was mild. Clouds raced overhead. He walked through the damp grass in his slippers, but when he reached the shuffleboard court, the Bulgarian was gone. The lawn lay empty. He stood a moment under the moon with the drink in hand. The surf was out; he could tell by the gentling of the waves. He wandered down toward the stone terrace outside the dining room. Someone was sitting alone at one of the tables. Moonlight shined faintly off the studs of a biker’s jacket. It was the Dutch girl; she was smoking a cigarette in the dark.

Hi, Kevin said. He was suddenly self-conscious. He was still wearing his bathrobe. His leather slippers had gotten completely wet.

The girl nodded to him and exhaled a seam of smoke. Her cheeks looked wet in the moonlight.

Can’t sleep? he asked.

She shook her head.

Neither can I.

She smoked and exhaled. Kevin didn’t know what to say. He set the mug on the table in front of her.

Here, he offered, It’s a little something to help you sleep.

She looked up at him in the dark. Her eyebrow ring shined dully.

This is for me?

If you want it, you don’t have to.

She shrugged noncommittally, then dropped the cigarette on the terrace and ground it with a heavy boot. What was the drinking age in Holland, Kevin wondered; and how old could the girl possibly be? Sixteen? Seventeen? It was hard to tell with the dyed hair and the leather jacket.

She cupped the mug in both hands and brought it to her lips and lowered it again.

Is it all right? Kevin asked.

She shrugged without conviction.

What’s in it?

Mostly milk.

He didn’t mention the whiskey, and she looked at him a moment as if trying to gauge something.

It’s okay, she finally uttered and brought the mug to her face again.

They were both silent a moment. The sound of crickets came from the lawn. The Dutch girl hooked a piece of hair behind one ear and nodded toward the lawn.

Look, she said.

A white figure was moving beside the bluffs, ghostly beneath the moon, the ocean sparkling behind. It was Mrs. Liang walking through the grass, clutching the framed photograph of her daughter. She passed a few yards in front of the terrace, talking the entire time in a low, beseeching voice, yet neither Kevin nor Claartija deJong could hear what she was saying. She drifted past them, up to the gravel drive, and then was gone from sight.

Creepy, Claartija observed.

Perhaps I should get her a drink too, Kevin mused aloud.

Claartija didn’t answer but sipped quietly from her mug.

Yes, Kevin thought, she could use a drink. We all could use a drink. He wrapped the robe tighter around his waist, excused himself, and went back to the kitchen to make another nightcap.

Seven