I crept with Ray and Romeo in the dark of the cabin, plastic bags over their heads, black with ants—

“What are you doing?”

The voice was so close, I nearly jumped into the water. The man looked sort of like security, sort of like a civilian, his black collared shirt tucked into blue jeans, eyes hidden behind Oakleys on a rubber strap. He was of a supreme bland whiteness, with a double chin and jowls covered by thin blond fuzz—neither shaven nor unshaven—that made his age indistinct.

Then I saw the utility belt, the gun in its leather holster. He seemed ready to draw as he approached me slowly over the planks.

“I was looking for my friends,” I said, trying to stay light. “Do you know them, Ray and Romeo?”

“No.”

“It’s their boat.” I pointed. “Funny Valentine.”

The man stopped coming toward me. I watched his hand.

“Who are you?” he said. I told him I was a journalist and he smiled, teeth butter yellow. “You’re with the media?”

“That’s right.”

A seagull swooped by, pelting the tarp.

He said, “Who do you work for?”

“The Bystander.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s a magazine in New York.”

He withdrew a cell phone from a Velcro pouch then pulled the antenna out, flipped the phone open, and dialed.

I said, “What are you doing?”

He drummed his fingers on the leather of the holster.

“Yeah,” he said into the phone, “I got a woman here, a journalist. Yeah, exactly.”

I wondered if this man was Rainer. He didn’t sound Austrian.

“Who are you talking to?” I said.

He held a finger up.

They could have me arrested for trespassing, I thought, or worse—whatever they’d done to Ray and Romeo.

I waited until the man was angled away, still talking on the phone, so the gun was on the other side of his body. Then I drew one deep breath and broke into a sprint.

“Hey!”

I turned at the boathouse and went zigzagging up the dock, as if evading an alligator. I fixed my eyes on the gate. At any moment there could be darkness, permanence.

“Stop!”

He managed to boot the sole of my shoe and I went down hard on the dock, the planks shredding my pants. He tumbled onto me, a mass of sweat breathing heavy, and flipped me over onto my back.

He’d dropped the gun, its barrel nosing between planks, but my arms were pinned. He saw where the gun had landed and slammed me against the dock, my skull knocking off the wood. I tried to kick him in the dick but got him in the gut. He released me with a weird burp and, wheezing, went crawling toward the weapon. I clambered to my feet and got there first.