As Balaton looked among the windswept rocks and blueberry bushes and gnarled oaks, Bartholomew Wakefield remained concealed, observing the executive’s mounting terror. This time, he thought, he would let Balaton sweat.

Lillian Parker moved quickly along the grassy path, one of the many she and Judith had followed so many times on their endless summer explorations of the island, but never on such a dank, freezing day as this, never with so much at stake. They’d been as free as birds. If only they’d known— but the young never do. Nor, perhaps, should they.

After blabbing to Jeremy Carruthers, she had retreated to her room, where she locked her door and sat in the gloom, hoping for a swift and happy ending to whatever was about to unfold. She would leave the dirty work to the others. There was no need for her to get involved. What could she accomplish?

“Can I trust him, Lil?”

“Of course. How can you even ask.”

“After what happened to Mac...”

“Oh, Jude, please let’s not talk about that. It wasn’t his fault. You can trust him. I know it.”

“Won’t you stay with me?”

“I can’t. I have a job....”

If she had stayed, Lillian wondered if she might have been able to stop Judith—brave, impulsive beautiful Judith—from doing something stupid. Instead, Lillian had run.

But not this time. Snatching an army-green rain poncho from a pegboard at the back door, Lillian had set off. Last night she had seen the golden crown; she knew the man the twins called Barky was on Badger Rock Island. And so was Mac. She felt certain neither had left. She might be wrong and find nothing, but at least she had to try.

“I hate him, Lil, He’s so arrogant and overprotective. I can’t breathe with him in my life!”

“But are you sure? Have you tried to talk to him?”

“Of course I’ve talked to him. But he won’t listen. He says I know nothing about these things; I’m too young.”

“But he loves you so much.”

“I don’t care!”

Poor wretched Andrew, Lillian thought. My God, Judith, haven’t we all suffered enough for you?

She pushed back a branch hanging low on the overgrown path, and water spilled out of it, splattering her face. But she kept moving, resolute and, at the same time, praying she would find nothing.

Standing in the rain, shivering and soaked and so very tired, MacGregor Stevens saw him at last. Orült szerzetes. Traitor, torturer, thief, kidnapper. A farmer, he called himself. It was too ridiculous for Mac even to fathom. He held up the .38 caliber Smith & Wesson he had borrowed from Crockett’s gun closet and pointed it at the man in black. “Don’t move.” His voice was low, but the farmer heard him. Mac watched him stiffen as he faced the open sea. “Turn around... slowly.”

The man who called himself Bartholomew Wakefield turned, but there was no fear in his weather-beaten face when he looked at Mac, only an irritation that bordered on disgust. “You are a fool, MacGregor Stevens. I have no quarrel with you.”