In a chattering mob of blacks and whites in the terminal, a tall blond man with a twinkling grin was holding up a placard: ELLEN BRODY. Their eyes met, and she thought she saw humor, compassion, and a sadness like her own.

"Welcome to Calypso's Friendly Charters, then. I'm called Hoagie Newcombe." He had a British accent, and his voice was soft and low. "Fifteenth largest airline in the Bahamas."

There were touches of gray in the hairs on his chest that she saw in the V of his knotted tropical shirt. He wore shorts and a Royal Navy officer's cap.

He had lazy, twinkling blue eyes that slid sidewise into hers, as if he were evaluating her. At their corners, tiny muscle movements, more felt than seen, showed his interest and somehow aroused her.

He took her carry-on bag, and they picked up her suitcase from the baggage room. "Michael wanted to come to meet you, and so did Carla, but I didn't know how much your kit would weigh." He hefted the bag. "Very reasonable, this is. You're planning to outfit yourself here?"

"I sort of left in a hurry," she said. "I'll live in a muumuu here."

They walked across the tarmac to a taxiway. A single-engine high-winged four-seater plane squatted awkwardly in the glare, at the end of a line of expensive private aircraft.

It wore faded red striping. On its fuselage in chipped green paint was printed: CALYPSO'S FRIENDLY CHARTERS. SIGHT-SEEING! SKYDIVING! OUTER ISLAND EXCURSIONS! FRIENDLY FREIGHT!

"Friendly Charters, friendly freight?" She smiled for the first time in days.

"To paraphrase Homer, 'Let me live in my house by the side of the aerodrome, and be a friend of man.' His voice trailed off and his eyes narrowed. "What the bloody hell—"

He jerked the door of the aircraft open. She squinted inside.

From the darkness shone the flattest, blackest eyes she had ever seen. Or had she seen them—in a dream? As her pupils adjusted, she saw a man. He was sitting in the seat behind the pilot's empty place.

He was tiny. His skin was ebony. He wore a red shirt and a dirty straw hat and hair that dangled in long red plaits. Around his neck he wore a shark-tooth necklace; his own teeth were dazzlingly white.

In his hand he clutched a gourd, like a rattle, beaded, ornate, and quite filthy. From it dangled a tiny silver bell. A pack of greasy playing cards was on the seat beside him.

She found herself trembling for no reason. The little man's eyes widened for a moment, as if in recognition. "Madame, you are the mother of Michael?" There was anger in his voice.

She nodded, puzzled. "Michael, yes. How did you know that?"

He ignored the question. "And I think you 'ave come to escape a great grief." He smiled coldly. "That is not so easy sometimes."