He set up his panel of lights. They came equipped with a timer, and would only turn on after dark. Yet he momentarily activated them—using a manual switch—to make sure they were working. They were bright, and blinked red and white—Christmas colors come early this year to call down his doomed sleigh. He hoped there was no fog tonight or low-level clouds. Either could utterly ruin his plans.

Matt took off his disguise and stowed it below.

He shoved the dinghy overboard and climbed in and started the motor. The ocean chop was not bad—he would make good time back to shore. Glancing back at the boat as he sped away, he cursed the fact that he had not brought an inflatable dummy to set up on deck with a fishing line and a hat. Now he was full of great ideas. There was always a chance another ship would cruise by and want to investigate.

He knew the beach where he wanted to come ashore, but he deliberately steered near the mainland far north of the beach—in no man’s land—before turning south. He did not want suspicious eyes seeing him arriving on a dinghy from far out at sea. It was his wish to be seen as a simple fisherman. He wanted to be a nobody. He knew that when a nobody died, nobody cared.

He wondered if she would attend his memorial service.

“Amy,” he said to himself. “Why?”

The beach landing was uneventful. He dragged his dinghy onto the sand and kept his head down as he stomped the air out of it. There were a handful of people sunning themselves but they would not remember him. He detached the outboard motor and hauled everything to his car.

This was his real car, registered to Matt Connor, a two-year-old Toyota truck that he had parked a block from the beach the previous night. He had everything in the back within twenty minutes of coming ashore. Jumping on the freeway, he headed south. But along the way he swung behind a grocery store and dumped his dinghy and motor in a large Dumpster. Stopping at a self-service car wash, he vacuumed the sand out of his truck.

He drove toward the Santa Monica Airport. He was himself again in more ways than one. He was no sailor but he was a superb pilot. He had a Cessna 172 waiting for him. It bothered him that he would not be returning the plane. He had learned to fly on the Cessna and it was as close to an idiotproof plane as had ever been built. That was both good and bad. Tonight, it would be easy to jump from, but people would wonder how such an experienced pilot as himself could have crashed such a simple plane.