He looked back up at the cabin as they passed the shed. No movement in the windows. On the radio, Johnny Cash sang in baritone about ghostly flying horsemen.

The shed door swung open on rusty hinges and a deeply tanned older woman with ropey muscles stepped out. A home-rolled cigarette bobbed between her lips, its cherry illuminating a leathery, weathered face. She saw them and raised the shotgun she held in both hands as the door clapped back against its frame.

"Who the hell are you? What gives yous the right to be on my land?"

Sheila responded quickly and admirably calm. "I'm so sorry, ma'am. Nobody answered when we knocked at the house. We wanted to rent a boat—"

"So yous thought you'd just take one instead, that right? Coulda just waited. Lady can't use her own crapper these days without some goddamn citiot wantin a whiff?"

Martin glanced over her shoulder at what was clearly, from its chemical and human waste stench to the crescent moon carving in the door, an outhouse.

"We were just hoping to find someone on the dock," Sheila said, recovering from a slight wince when she recognized the smell.

"Well, yous found someone," the woman said, still pointing the shotgun between them. "Who in the hell rents a boat after sundown, Pete's sake? Got someplace to be better'n right here?"

Anywhere would be better than here, Martin thought. Even just two or three feet upwind.

"An appointment," Sheila said. "Early morning appointment."

The barrels flicked toward her. She flinched.

"Too good for the mornin ferry, are yous?"

"I guess you didn't hear." Martin held eye contact with her despite the strong desire to keep his eyes on the gun. "The ferry crashed. There won't be service for at least a couple of days."

He had no idea if it was true, but it seemed to satisfy her. She lowered the shotgun so it pointed at the path between their feet.

"That so?" A grin creased her weathered face. "Guess business is gonna be boomin come sunup." She nodded. "All right, let's head on up the house. I'll need a major credit card, course."

"Of course," Sheila said.

They follow the woman up the stone path.

"You two don't seem like island folk. But yous got a familiar look to ya." She gave them a narrow-eyed glance over her shoulder. "'Specially you," she said, nodding at Martin.

"We're just a couple of citiots from New York," he said.

Sheila nodded vigorously.

The woman spat at her feet. "Never cared for the place." She jabbed her scrawny chest with a thumb. "Barrows Bay, born and raised, this gal."

"It's a lovely island," Sheila said.

"Wouldn't go that far. It is what it is. Plenty enough for Clarabelle Leigh." She opened the screen door, held it with her boot while she opened the inner door. "Head on in. Don't mind the mess. I sure don't."

The cabin was small and cluttered. Beneath the smell of the fire were hints of wet dog, creamed corn and a hundred other unpleasant odors. An old hound lying on a tatty dog bed near the hearth raised its head from its paws briefly before returning to doggy dreamland.