Chapter 13

Stone introduced Caroline to Seth Hotchkiss, his caretaker. “You’ll meet Mary, his wife, too.”

“This car is beautiful,” Caroline said as they got into the old station wagon. “It looks like new.”

“My cousin Dick Stone, who built this house, had it restored.”

“Will he be here, too?”

“Dick is deceased, sadly. I bought the house from his estate.”

They drove past the little collection of buildings that was Dark Harbor, then on to the house. Seth took care of their luggage while Stone gave Caroline the tour.

“This is a lovely house,” Caroline said. “Who designed it?”

“Dick did that himself, with a little help from somebody at the CIA.”

“I’m confused—the CIA is in the house-building business?”

“Dick was an important official at the Agency, and they tend to want their people to be safe, so many of the safeguards they demanded are built into this house.”

“So, you’ve got a bulletproof car and a bulletproof house? I’m starting to worry.”

“Both came to me that way, and nobody will ever find us here.”

Seth came into the living room. “Mary says dinner’s at seven,” he said. “Lobster tonight.”

“Great, Seth, thanks.” Seth beat a retreat. “What would you like to do?” Stone asked Caroline.

“You’re always going to get the same answer to that question,” she said, nuzzling him.

“Let’s wait until bedtime. I want to pace myself.”

—

The following morning Frank and Charlie took off from Essex County Airport, west of Teterboro, in a single-engine Cessna 182, having paid their pilot cash in advance. Frank sat happily next to the pilot, watching the moving map, while Charlie quavered in the rear seat.

“How long can we fly in this thing without crashing?” Charlie yelled over the noise of the engine.

Frank handed him a headset. “There, can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” Charlie replied. “How long can we fly in this thing without crashing?”

“Oh, about six hours.”

“How far is it to where we’re going?”

“About an hour and a half.”

Charlie did the arithmetic. “Okay,” he said.

An hour and a half later, the pilot set down the airplane at Islesboro Airport. There were half a dozen small airplanes parked on the ramp, and a man was working on one of them.

They taxied to the ramp, the engine was cut, and the two men got out.

“’Scuse me,” Frank said to the man working on the airplane, “how far is it to town?”

“Town?” the man asked. “You mean Dark Harbor?”

“Right.”

“A couple of miles, I guess.”

“Can we rent a car?”

“Sure, in Camden.”

“Where’s that?”

“On the mainland. You take the ferry.”

“Is there a taxi?”

“Sort of.” The man gave him a number. “Ernie will come, if he has nothing else to do.”