The hillside pasture and the woods beyond the pond were all growing darker. At the edge of the woods the gold patches of ragweed and lavender sprigs of grape-hyacinth had already faded to shades of gray. Madeleine gave a little shiver, zipped her windbreaker up to her chin, and folded her arms across her chest, pulling her elbows tightly against her.

They sat in silence for a long while. It was as if their conversation had come to a strange stopping place, a slippery declivity from which there was no clear way up and out.

As a quivering spot of silver light appeared in the center of the pond—a reflection of the moon, which had emerged at that moment through a break in the clouds—there was a sound deep in the woods behind the bench that made the hairs stand up on Gurney’s arms. A keening note, a not-quite-human cry of desolation.

“What the …?”

“I’ve heard it before,” said Madeleine. “On different nights it seems to come from different places.”

He listened, waiting. A minute later, it sounded again, weird and plaintive.

“Probably an owl,” he said, without having any reason to believe it.

What he avoided saying was that it sounded to him like a lost child.

Chapter 4

Pure Evil

It was past midnight, and Gurney’s efforts to fall asleep had been as unsuccessful as if he’d had half a dozen cups of coffee.

The moon, glimpsed briefly at the pond, had disappeared behind a thick new blanket of clouds. Both windows were open at the top, letting a humid chill into the room. The darkness and the touch of the damp night air on his skin formed a kind of enclosure, giving him a creeping sense of claustrophobia. In that small, oppressive place he found it impossible to put aside his uneasy thoughts about the suspended but hardly completed death-wish discussion with Madeleine. But the thoughts went nowhere, led to no conclusions. The frustration persuaded him to abandon the bed.

He got up and felt his way to the chair where he’d left his shirt and pants.

“As long as you’re up, you might want to close the upstairs windows.” Madeleine’s voice from the far side of the bed sounded surprisingly wide awake.

“Why?” he asked.

“The storm. Haven’t you heard the thunder getting closer?”

He hadn’t. But he trusted her ears.

“Shall I close these by the bed too?”

“Not yet. The air feels like satin.”

“Wet satin, you mean?”

He heard her sigh, give her pillow a few pats, and resettle herself. “Wet earth, wet grass, wonderful …” She yawned, made a contented little sound, and said no more. He marveled at how she could find such restorative power in the very elements of nature he instinctively fled from.