He smelled like salt and sweat and dead fish. He dug his camouflage rain poncho out of his wet pack and wrestled himself into it. It had one of those floppy hoods that wasn’t worth a damn. It blew right off his head. He tried tying it on, but the stretchy tie snapped and the end hit him on the finger—it hurt like hell, made him want to kill someone.

It wasn’t much of a campsite. No tent. No little stove or firewood. He hadn’t even packed a sleeping bag. He’d brought food, but not that much. Some crackers, apples, cheese, all bagged up in plastic. A twelve-pack of water.

He wasn’t riding out a hurricane behind a goddamn dune, not with a cottage just up the path. It must have survived dozens of similar storms, decades of crappy weather. If Hurricane Hope chugged north and reached Shelter Island before Robert could take care of business, he’d be in the last structure on this little island. No question about it. He did, after all, have a gun.

A spider crawled up his leg, as if the bitch doctor herself had sent it out to torment him. He yanked it off and tossed it into a puddle forming in the sand behind his dune. He crawled to his feet and looked over the dune, out at the churning water. He’d never understood the appeal of the beach, the ocean, Cape Cod. It was just sand and water to him. This place was supposed to be a bird refuge, but he hadn’t seen that many birds. Maybe they were all clearing out for the hurricane. Maybe they knew it would hit. Never mind the meteorologists and the storm-tracking planes—just follow the birds.

He checked his gun. It was a .38 Smith & Wesson. Basic. But he wondered if he could get by without it. If he played his cards right, Hope would keep Mr. Callahan and Dr. Winter on the island with him, and he could blame their deaths on the storm.

Kill two birds with one stone.

Have his cake and eat it, too.

Robert smiled. “Yeah. I like it.”

CHAPTER 6

He and Carine were right, Hank thought. Something was up with Antonia. And whatever it was, it wasn’t good. He checked out her cottage, similar to countless old-fashioned cottages he’d been in since he was a kid. It was tiny, cozy, with inexpensive furnishings that were functional and at least as old as he was. A lumpy old couch. A heap of musty-smelling quilts, mismatched chairs and dishes, mason jars filled with matchbooks, tacks and rubber bands, soggy decks of cards and the ubiquitous Scrabble game. The bathroom was prosaic, to say the least. He noticed the stack of threadbare towels.

The bed was behind a curtain, the sheets clean and white.

Hank didn’t let himself linger gazing at the damn bed.