At least Lafarge had moved closer to the window, so Patrick was able to hear a snatch of conversation: “. . . won't last much longer, since the waves are already dying down . . . yes, of course I know that . . . last chance before she comes back and becomes the star tourist attraction again . . . why not, money for us?” Patrick heard him say three more words: “get the white . . .” Then Lafarge went back to the couch, sat down beside the woman, and continued talking into the phone.

Just then, Patrick heard a door hinge creak. He wheeled around, and couldn't believe his eyes: Marisa had opened the van's door, and was climbing inside. Running across the yard, he reached the van in time to see her disappear between the two front seats, into the compartment in back.

“What are you doing?” he whispered.

“Get the back doors open,” she said, sounding frantic.

Patrick raced around back. He jiggled the door handle, found it locked. Glancing at the house, he made sure no one was coming. He paused for a second—entering someone's vehicle was against the law, and he didn't have a warrant or probable cause or anything that would give him the right to enter the van. But Marisa was in there, and she needed his help, so he reached for the keys—still in the ignition—and went around back to unlock the van door.

The odor nearly bowled him over. The back of the van had no windows, so the darkness was almost total. He heard a faint barking—almost like a puppy whimpering for its mother. Crawling in, he knocked over a bucket of herring—dead and rotting, from the smell of it.

“I heard them crying,” Marisa explained.

As Patrick's eyes got used to the darkness, he saw that she was crouched over an animal crate, trying to tug it toward the open door. Without seeing inside, Patrick grabbed the handle and pulled it free.

Standing in the yard, he looked in through the wire grate. Four enormous eyes stared out at him out of two white faces, two black noses, two thatches of whiskers catching the very faint light from a rising moon.

“What are they?” he asked.

“Seal pups,” Marisa said.

Patrick stood, staring at their dark eyes in that soft white fur, and he thought of Lafarge's words: Get the white. Baby seals, he thought. That's what they're poaching now. He reached up to help Marisa out of the van. She jumped down, then bent to look inside the cage.

“We have to get them out of here,” she said.

“You're right,” Patrick said. He had no idea why Lafarge had them, whether he had any sort of right or permit—but he remembered raiding a dog breeder once, where the conditions were unimaginably inhumane, and this scene was even worse. The seals lay on their sides, panting, their sides rising and falling in quick breaths.