“Well,” Dino said, “your theory covers most of what we know, but what about Caleb?”

“What about him?”

“If his boys raped these girls, then, according to your theory, he knew about it because Dick told him. Do you think he wouldn’t do anything about it?”

“I don’t think he would send his sons to jail for rape,” Stone said.

“How about five murders? Would he take exception to that?”

“It’s hard to imagine he would,” Stone said, “but maybe he didn’t know the boys were connected to the murders or at least was in denial about them.”

“Then there are the other two women on the island who were murdered,” Dino said.

“Right,” Stone said, “and four more in New Haven.”

“Christ,” Ham said suddenly. “That just doesn’t sound possible. If your theory is right, then these boys from a nice Boston family have murdered, what, eleven people?”

“Ham,” Stone said, “when you learn about serial killers on television or in the newspapers, what do people who knew them say after the fact?”

Ham nodded. “That they were nice boys.”

The doorbell rang, and Stone let in Sergeant Young.

“I just had a call from Nantucket,” he said. “The Stone twins didn’t sail on the yacht when it left this morning, but two young men answering their description left Nantucket airport yesterday afternoon in a light airplane, some sort of Cessna.”

“You’d better take a seat, Tom,” Stone said. “We have some things to tell you.”

55

CALEB STONE GOT INTO the big Boston Whaler tied up at his dock, started the engine and motored slowly out to open water, then he increased power and headed for the southern end of the island. Once clear of the island he turned for Camden and increased his speed to thirty. It was a sparkling-clear day, and the water was flat.

In Camden he tied up at the local marina and walked a couple of blocks into the business district. He went into a Radio Shack and bought a throwaway cell phone and a kit for hooking the phone to a computer, asking the sales clerk for instructions on how to use it to connect to the Internet.

He then returned to the marina and headed back to Islesboro. He made it before sunset, having been gone less than two hours. Then, instead of returning to his own dock, he motored past it for another half a mile and, with the engine at idle, turned into an overgrown creek, dodging low branches as he went. Within half a minute his boat was invisible to any passing boat. He continued slowly up the creek until he came to the boathouse.

The boathouse had originally been an adjunct to a large, shingled summer “cottage” that had been destroyed by fire many years before. The owners still had the land but had not rebuilt and had not put the property up for sale.