By their poor connection, he realized that Isabelle was calling from a cell phone, and that would place her well outside the town. "Where are you?… You're leaving?… What about the maid? Is she still in the house?"

The call ended in the middle of a word, and he guessed that Belle's cell phone had failed her in this corner of the world where wireless lines of communication were hit and miss.

He resumed his watch on the tower room. Though he disliked the idea of spying, a promise was a promise. He had never been able to say no to Isabelle.

Sarah was more pliant when she was drunk, and Addison almost preferred her this way. When he took her hand, she obediently rose from the chair. How he loved her-he loved her to death. He led her to the sliding door that opened onto the deck.

The night was warm and all the winged rats had gone to sleep-so quiet now, only the soft applause of leaves slapping one another as the wind rushed through them. Man and wife were about to pass through the open door when Addison turned to the opposite wall of glass and smiled for his audience, the watcher in the dark. He waved.

William Swahn was startled-a voyeur caught in the act. He watched Addison kiss his wife. It appeared that the man was sucking air and life from Sarah's body. She went limp and staggered onto the deck, supported by her husband's arm about her waist. The two of them disappeared behind a solid portion of the circular wall.

This stroll in the sky would certainly make their watcher anxious, and so Addison was slow to lead his wife around to that part of the deck that could be seen from Swahn's window. The lawyer, a showman and consummate actor, delighted in dragging out the other man's tension. As they walked, he said to Sarah, "I saw you bury the camera… and the Hobbs boy."

She stopped, but failed to make a stand.

He led her onward, for they could not keep Swahn in suspense all night. Around the deck they went, and now they were in full view of the house on Paulson Lane. It was time to jack up the fear in Sarah's eyes. "When I borrowed one of your journals-I needed the sketches for the ice sculptors to copy-I couldn't help but notice that some of them were missing from the shelf. They covered the year when Josh died. Did Belle take them with her by any chance?"

"No." Sarah turned her head toward the ocean view, perhaps looking there for inspiration. And she found it. Her eyes were too bright when she turned back to him, saying, "I threw those books into the sea."

"Excellent." Did he believe her? Of course not. But he had read every one of her birder logs and pronounced them all insanely delusional. "So you just tossed them off a cliff. Now why couldn't you have done that with Josh's camera? Why drag it home and bury it behind the stable? What were you thinking?"

Was that the day your mind snapped?

Easier to recall that night when he had lain awake, waiting for his wife to come to bed. He remembered the sliver of light under their bedroom door. He had seen the shadows of her footsteps pausing there, then moving on to make her bed elsewhere.

Dating back to early days at eastern boarding schools, Isabelle Winston had spent most of her life grieving over a death that had not happened yet. And tonight she was still longing for a ghost mother who had not yet-not entirely-died.

The limousine driver pulled into the local airport. The commuter plane could be seen near the small building that passed for a terminal. Soon the aircraft would be loading passengers bound for San Francisco and connecting red-eye flights to points all over the world.

The ticket to ride was in her hand.

Every time she left her mother, all but pushed out the door, Isabelle felt the same sense of fear; it always escalated to panic when she saw these airport lights. And each time she had reached a distant shore, all she had ever wanted was to go home again.

A lifetime of longing.

Enough.

She leaned toward the driver and said, "Take me back!"

Addison took Sarah's hand and twirled her in the turn of a waltz step until she was dizzy and in danger of falling. "I know you still have that photograph of you and Swahn." She could only stare at him.

He prompted her recall. "It's been a while-more than a quarter of a century The picture was taken back in LA-at a graduation ceremony for police cadets."

Sarah nodded. "I ordered that print from the photographer. When it came in the mail, I showed it to you. And you knew I was going-"

"To see an old friend. So you said. The boy in that photograph was barely twenty-one-hardly an old friend, Sarah."

He held her at arm's length, and together they whirled around the deck, faster and faster, in and out of the sights of Swahn's binoculars. They stopped once again to stand on that portion of the deck overlooking Paulson Lane. Still in the dancing mode, Addison dipped his partner over the rail, her long hair dangling, her face contorted in fear. He turned his head to smile for the man who sat in the dark.

"Yes!" William Swahn yelled at the civilian aide who had answered the phone at the sheriff's office. "Yes, it's a damned emergency!"

"I don't think I like your tone." The girl's voice was painfully young and slightly bruised. "Why didn't you call nine-one-one?"

"The operator would've sent a deputy from Saulburg. The sheriff's house is right here in Coventry." But Cable Babitt's home telephone was unlisted. "You have to call him and-"

"What is the nature of the emergency?"

Oh, bloody Christ. He imagined her reading lines from a script. He gripped the telephone receiver tighter, and he was calmer when he said, "Call the sheriff's house. Tell him I think Ad Winston is going to murder his wife."

"You think he's gonna-" The girl paused for a second or two. There was sarcasm in her voice, a touch of payback when she said, "So no one's been injured. You just think somebody might kill his wife."

William yelled, "Tell him!"

"You kept that photograph all these years," said Addison Winston.

Sarah turned away from her husband and gripped the rail, off balanced by dancing and liquor, dizzy and sick. "I told you about the graduation ceremony. I always told you about every hour of my day-where I went, who I spoke to."

Behind his wife's back, ever mindful of their audience, Addison mimed the act of stabbing Sarah with a knife. For his next performance piece, he left her standing at the rail, holding on tight. He flattened up against the glass wall, and then, with both hands raised, as if to push her off the deck, he rushed forward, stopping short of touching her back. He lowered his hands and laughed out loud, imagining that he could hear Swahn screaming in the distance-in the dark.

Yet his voice was tender as he stood behind Sarah, holding her by the shoulders and nuzzling the soft skin of her neck. "I know you kept one of his letters, too."

She turned around to face him, uncomprehending. "What letters? There was only-"

"Only one left. I know. I suppose you burned the others, but this one was special. Every now and then, I dig it out of your keepsake box and read it again. All these years later, I still find it very powerful. I can understand why you kept that one."

He stepped back a pace to regard his wife. So this was what a stunned cow looked like after it had been hit between the eyes with a baseball bat-the prelude to slaughter.

Taking Sarah in his arms, Addison danced her past the open door. Her bedside telephone rang, and the answering machine played a message from a man in deep distress, an anguished paramour pleading for Sarah to come indoors. "Hold on!" Swahn yelled from the little box. "I'm coming! I'm on the way!" On this note of hysteria, the call ended.