"Jesus, man, that's terrible," was all he could think to say.

"No! No!" Mike or Mark cried out, finally clueing in. He took off his fedora and held it somberly over his heart like the national anthem was playing instead of the Stones. "That's not right, man! That's not friggin right!"

He grabbed Sinjin in a bearhug. The other guys circled around their friend in an embrace and Sinjin began to weep, big tears rolling down his reddened cheeks and splashing on his T-shirt, while Martin sat awkwardly to the side, feeling more like an outsider than he ever had in his life.

Sheila had already left the St. Johns' house by the time the men returned. Upon seeing the state of his wife, Sinjin sent the rest of them packing. Now Martin stood in the middle of the road, bundled up against the sobering chill of a cloudless island night, staring up at countless stars and planets and the occasional satellite.

Thoughts of his own insignificant life came swirling back to him and he found his place in the universe again, his feet planted steadfastly on the hard macadam. He began to contemplate the choices in life that led him to the place he stood, in the town where he was born, alone and afraid, staring up at the sky.

He wondered what the fuck he was going to do with himself if they had to stay in Barrows Bay much longer. Work at the grocery store? Sell fresh produce at the local outdoor market? Try to get the Constant Reader back up and running, if Nadine's estate hadn't already sold off her inventory?

You could start writing a new book.

That was always an option. The inspiration just wasn't there. The only murderer he had any particular interest in at the moment was James Barclay. He'd promised Qurban a sequel but right now there wasn't even enough to fill a couple of chapters. Barclay was still at large and so far as anyone knew he hadn't crawled out from whatever rock he'd hidden under to kill again.

A snapped branch perked his ears. He froze, scanning the pitch-black woods on either side of the road. He was pretty sure there were no bears on the island. Wouldn't be much for them to eat but trash if there were.

What if it's him? Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

"Hello?" he called out warily.

No answer but the swish of trees against the chill wind.

He kept walking, a little faster now, nerves as tight as guitar strings. A bit further up the road he thought he saw glimpses of bright white flashing in the trees, there for a moment and then gone.

He stopped at the edge of the ditch and stared into the black expanse. Another flash of white deep within the woods and gone again.

Kids, he thought. Out drinking after dark.

Not exactly the right season for a bush party, though. But even though the kids at the party seemed well-behaved almost to the point of suspicion, it didn't mean they wouldn't rebel when they got older. Kids were kids everywhere you went.