“You should keep your eyes open for a crow roost while you’re there. Used to be a big one nearby. At dusk, the sky would turn black with thousands and thousands of birds. Crows roost up in winter for warmth and safety. Otherwise they’re easy picking for owls, you know.”

“I’ll keep an eye out.”

“What mischief brings you to Stratford?”

I knew the old busybody couldn’t stop himself from prying.

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you over Christmas supper.”

It was only after I’d gotten off the call that I realized the promise I’d made to him.

21

I crouch behind a crooked cedar, listening. Sounds travel strangely in the woods at night—especially when the wind is up—and I can’t be sure if the snowmobile is following the main channel or coming around the island.

I don’t have long to wait. The engine grows louder. The rider must have the throttle wide open. Then I see headlights, shining down the ice. The blowing snow is thick in the beams.

With luck, my pursuer is traveling too fast. He will miss the impressions left by my boots as I staggered back to the island.

But the beaver lodge is too obvious a point of interest. The twin cones of light turn toward the heap of weathered wood. The sled slows and stops before the abandoned den.

Game wardens learn to identify snow machines and all-terrain vehicles with the same expertise that state troopers memorize the makes and models of street cars and trucks. This one is a chartreuse Arctic Cat ZR 6000: a fast and furious ride. But not super-maneuverable in dense cover. It’s a flashy sled that doesn’t suit Jewett, but I wouldn’t be in this mess if I hadn’t misjudged him once. He will, in any case, have trouble navigating the twists and turns of my private island if he attempts to follow me here on his ZR.

He’s wearing a black jacket over gray snow pants: a unisex outfit. The helmet concealing his face has a visor, a spoiler, and an opaque shield. A shotgun is slung over his shoulder.

That voice in my head, the one that sounds like Charley, speaks again.

What if it’s not Jewett?

The height and build seem close, but I can’t be certain. But who else can it be?

Jewett climbs off his idling machine, and I duck my head.

When I dare take another peek, I see him circling the beaver lodge. There is a tactical flashlight mounted to the black barrel of the twelve-gauge. The gun is likely a Remington 870 or a Mossberg 590: a combat weapon. To search for tracks he points the muzzle at the ice as if preparing to blast it into smithereens.