The house was alive with the evidence of the years he and Zoe had spent together. And to sell the house was to admit that those years were over. But he had to do something. The unoccupied house had become a target for vandals. There had been three incidents so far.

“Yes,” Ridgeway’s voice cracked. “I’m trying to sell it now. I’ll call them. Tony…”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry they called you. I’m sorry you had to get caught up in my problems. I—” Ridgeway felt the sloop sway. A good sailor knows all the motions and sounds of his craft, knows the ways it moves in the wind and waves, recognizes the movements that could only come from other human beings. Someone, he was sure, had just stepped lightly aboard the Valkyrie.

“Can I call you right back, Tony?”

“No, Seth, I want you to get things straightened out now. I want to—”

Knuckles rapped politely at the companionway hatch. “Tony, there’s someone at the door, I have to—”

The polite rap turned into a more urgent tattoo.

“Look, Tony, can’t you hang on for a minute?”

“No, goddamnit. I’m not going to let you run away anymore. You hang up on me and you’re damn well fired.”

The knocking grew louder. Ridgeway set down the receiver and turned toward the stern of the boat He made his way toward the companionway, the main entrance to the boat, stopped at the navigator’s station to pull a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum from a drawer. He didn’t get many visitors, especially at 8 A.M. in the middle of a December rainstorm. He’d be prepared; they wouldn’t get him as easily as they had Zoe. He slipped the revolver into the deep right-hand pocket of his robe, pulled the sash cord tighter around his waist.

A rapid pounding sounded against the companionway hatch. “All right, all right,” he yelled as he climbed the steps of the companionway.

He reached the top of the steps, grabbed the hatch handle, and pulled it back a crack. Waves of icy wind howled through the crack, carrying with them a sneeze of rain. Outside, standing under the protective awning that covered the cockpit, Ridgeway saw a woman about his age with brilliant blue eyes that seemed old—like they had seen too much or maybe belonged to a woman twice her age. He and the woman looked at each other solemnly.

The wind whipped her short blond hair about her perfectiy oval face and tugged at the fabric of a camel-hair coat spotted dark with the rain. Behind her stood a massive fellow in a chauffeur’s uniform stolidly holding an umbrella. In his other hand he held a stubby machine pistol. He held the gun casually by its handgrip, the barrel pointing at the deck, at no one in particular.

Ridgeway felt his mouth go suddenly dry. He froze for an instant as his eyes took in the scene. His thoughts of Zoe, Tony Bradford, and religious dogma vanished in a surge of fear.