I felt devastated, totally overwhelmed as I floated on the sea. I kept seeing Christine with my eyes open or closed. I couldn’t believe she was gone. I teared up as I thought about what had happened, the unfairness of life sometimes.

“You want to talk about the investigation? My thoughts so far? Little things I learned today? Or give it a rest for the night?” Sampson asked me as we floated peacefully on our backs. “Talk? Or quiet time?”

“Talk, I guess. I can’t think about anything else except Christine. I can’t think straight. Say whatever you’re thinking. Something bothering you in particular?”

“Little thing, but maybe it’s important.”

I didn’t say anything. I just let him go on.

“What puzzles me is the first newspaper stories.” Sampson paused and then continued, “Busby says he didn’t talk to anybody the first night. Not a single person, he claims. You didn’t, either. Story was in the morning edition, though.”

“It’s a small island, John. I told you that, and you’ve seen it yourself.”

But Sampson kept at it, and I began to think that maybe there was something to it.

“Listen, Alex, only you, Patrick Busby, and whoever took Christine knew. He called it in to the paper. The kidnapper did it himself. I talked to the girl at the paper who got the call. She wouldn’t say anything yesterday, but she finally told me late today. She thought it was just a concerned citizen calling. I think somebody’s playing with your head, Alex. Somebody’s running a nasty game on you.”

“We have her.”

A game? What kind of nasty game? Who were the nasty players? Was one of them the Weasel? Was it possible that he was still here in Bermuda?

Chapter 48

I COULDN’T SLEEP back at the hotel. I still couldn’t concentrate or focus, and it was incredibly frustrating. It was as if I were losing my mind.

A game? No, this wasn’t a game. This was shock and horror. This was a living nightmare beyond anything I had ever experienced. Who could have done this to Christine? Why? Who was the Weasel?

Every time I closed my eyes, tried to sleep, I could see Christine’s face, see her waving good-bye that final time on Middle Road, see her walking through the hotel gardens with flowers in her hair.

I could hear Christine’s voice all through the night — and then it was morning again. My guilt over what had happened to her had doubled, tripled.