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Back The Nest Save as PDF
Chapters (82)
  1. Cover
  2. Copyright page
  3. Introduction by Will Errickson
  4. Acknowledgements
  5. TREMORS
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. SUSPICIONS
  13. 1
  14. 2
  15. 3
  16. 4
  17. 5
  18. DREAD
  19. 1
  20. 2
  21. 3
  22. 4
  23. 5
  24. 6
  25. WITNESS
  26. 1
  27. 2
  28. 3
  29. ALERT
  30. 1
  31. 2
  32. 3
  33. 4
  34. 5
  35. ENCOUNTER
  36. 1
  37. 2
  38. 3
  39. 4
  40. 5
  41. 6
  42. HAVOC
  43. 1
  44. 2
  45. 3
  46. 4
  47. 5
  48. 6
  49. SEARCH
  50. 1
  51. 2
  52. 3
  53. 4
  54. 5
  55. CLASH
  56. 1
  57. 2
  58. 3
  59. 4
  60. 5
  61. 6
  62. 7
  63. COUNTERATTACK
  64. 1
  65. 2
  66. 3
  67. 4
  68. 5
  69. 6
  70. 7
  71. VICTORY
  72. 1
  73. 2
  74. 3
  75. 4
  76. 5
  77. 6
  78. 7
  79. 8
  80. 9
  81. EPILOGUE
  82. About the Author

Hubbard smiled to himself wryly. He knew he was drastically simplifying problems of enormous complexity. As a scientist he chided himself for doing so, but in his head he found himself believing, perhaps childishly, that the woes of the country would be much reduced if everyone was like Craig Soaras and his fellows.

COUNTERATTACK

COUNTERATTACK

1

ONE

The bedraggled, half-­clothed group arrived at the Johnson house as dawn began to show the promise of a clear day. Their spirits did not match the lightening sky. Nature was a hypocrite. The arching sky was an inviting, cerulean innocence—“heaven” above. It was hard to remember the glowering blackness of yesterday’s storm. And harder to remember that the innocent morning somewhere harbored the murderous insects imperiling Yarkie.

Peter Hubbard was concentrating on the Johnson living room, trying to clear his mind of the tragedies at the lighthouse. Elizabeth looked young and fragile in the skimpy cotton bathrobe in which she had escaped. She was going around refilling coffee mugs. The man thought how much the room’s simple elegance mirrored the character of the granddaughter who had come out of it.

The chamber was large and square, paneled in pine. The fireplace was of wood, not marble, and it had a wooden mantel, a business-­like shelf without fuss or ornament. It was painted clean enamel white, in quiet contrast to the pewter-­gray walls.

Cupboards held an assortment of milk glass behind square panes. Priceless pieces, Hubbard supposed. Yet, the chairs and sofas had a no-nonsense, homespun look—maple and walnut mixed unfashionably, with seats cushioned in faintly patterned muslins, for utility not show.

The more dramatic contrast was a museum-­quality collection of treasures brought home over generations of overseas sailing and trading. As in other Yarkie homes, the Johnson sideboard held lacquer boxes of Chinese black and gold, along with carvings of ivory and alabaster. A gold-­leafed Buddha head commanded one corner of the room on a fluted column of black marble. A Japanese screen of soft golds and browns brought a distant landscape of rising mists into the New England room.

These were lush notes against the basic austerity; yet nothing seemed incongruous or out of place, for every­thing reflected the actual experience of the people who had lived for so many years in this house, on this island. In the same way, Peter Hubbard mused, Elizabeth Carr held an exotic romantic appeal behind the sober gray of her straight New England gaze. She had grown into an arresting woman; and there was no incongruity, either, in the ardor he saw along with the intelligence in her deep-­set eyes.

Elias Johnson began the necessary discussion. “One thing bothering me is whether we ought to tell the fellows in the firehouse what has been going on.”

Stephen Scott, who had been called to the meeting, surrendered drearily. “I don’t see how we can keep it from them anymore.”