"Did you take pictures? Can you make an impression of-"

"CSI, we ain't, Alex. Maybe the state police can do that kind of stuff. I'll give 'em a call."

"Could I go back over with you? Sometimes there's such a clear imprint that you can make out the brand and size of the footwear."

"Suit yourself. Road crew is out already, trying to clear the debris away. Somebody can drive over with you in an hour or two, if you're willing to hang around. You ought to know that whoever it was tracked inside the house, too. All over, like he was looking for you, or for something you had."

I sat back down on the bench, trying to think about who this could possibly have been.

"Alex, you got any ideas? You'll have to look the place over and tell us whether anything is missing. I checked the usual stuff-TV, CD player-all that's still there. I got no way of knowing about your personal things, cash or jewelry. Thought you might need these to get around, though."

Streeter handed me the boots. I removed the damp moccasins and pulled on the heavier gear.

"I'd like to ride over when you get the chance. I didn't have anything valuable with me." I didn't think my visitor was a petty thief, but there was no point pressing the issue with Streeter.

"Well, hang around and make yourself at home. They got some doughnuts down at the Texaco station. That's about all we got to offer so far today."

"Sounds perfect."

"Ever see those photographs of the thirty-eight storm, the one that washed out half of Menemsha and killed scores of folk all over the area?"

"Yeah."

"Check out the beach parking lot. Doesn't exist anymore. It's covered with mounds of sand, rocks the size of my head, dead fish everywhere. Makes you understand that mean old hurricane and why so many people died back then. Puts your own bad night in perspective."

It was only a short walk from police headquarters, past the closed shops and fish stores, to the gas dock at the marina adjacent to the state beach and jetty. I was stunned by the amount of destruction that Gretchen had visited on this strip of land. This was the road I had driven down the night before last, and now it was clear that water had breached the beachfront and swamped the pavement, making it unrecognizable as the same ground.

I stepped in sandpiles that came up to the tops of my knee-high boots, bypassing crabs and shellfish that had been crushed by the waves. The Unicorn and Quitsa Strider, massive steel commercial-fishing boats, had weathered the storm just fine. But the old shacks that bordered the waterfront had thrown off shingles and shutters, pieces of wooden board sticking out from the sand all along the way that I walked.

The lone outpost at the end of the road was a small gray building just beyond the harbormaster. On the land side, the gas pumps that fueled our cars were half-covered with what had once been Menemsha's beach. The other side was known as Squid Row, where boats gassed up before heading back out to sea, through the Bight, onto the corner at Devil's Bridge, where Vineyard Sound met the Atlantic Ocean. On a given morning, the old-timers filled the benches there, trading yarns and fish tales, while cabin cruisers vied for space at the dock with working boats that trolled the waters for blues and stripers.

Cassie, the sixteen-year-old girl who usually pumped my gas, held open the door for me when she saw me coming in. "Hey, Alex, wasn't that awesome last night?"

"Guess so. Hope you were home with your folks."

"Yep. Drove down here this morning but had to leave the car at the top of the hill and walk down 'cause of the sand and all. Picked up some stuff from Humphrey's," she said, lifting the lid on a box of pastries and baked goods. "Got a little generator, too, so we have some coffee brewed. Help yourself."

She turned away and walked to the door that opened onto the dock, pushing it and sticking her head out for a look at something. "Hey, Ozzie," she called out to one of the ancient mariners seated with their backs against the shop, "let me know when that big one pulls in. I don't want to miss her."

"She's next. Get yourself out here," came the reply.

"Wanna see a beauty?" she asked me. "Fancy yacht out here waiting to fill up."

I poured myself a cup of coffee and grabbed three sugared doughnut holes before stepping out onto the dock and saying hello to several of the regulars who had parked themselves at the water's edge for a bird's-eye view of the day's events. It was certain that there would be no traffic on the land side for the foreseeable future.

By the time I stepped out onto Squid Row, the gleaming black-hulled vessel had maneuvered its way into the harbor and turned around so that its rear end was against the dock, ready to start refueling.

The gold letters shined brightly as the sun glanced off them. Pirate was the name of the boat, and its home port was Nantucket. Graham Hoyt's yacht.

I closed my eyes and thought of last night's prowler. Could it possibly have been Graham Hoyt? How could I have forgotten that he was the one who first talked to me about coming to the Vineyard because of the storm?

The first mate and steward, dressed in crisp white sweatshirts with the yacht's name and outline emblazoned on the chest, were tying up along the pier. Cassie was asking them if they needed help and trying to make herself useful.

I started to make small talk with them, too, anxious to find out where they-and their skipper-had spent the previous evening. "She's a beauty. Hope you didn't have anyone on board during that blow last night."

"Had her all safe and sound, thanks, in the lee. No harm done."

"She'd hardly fit here in Menemsha," I said, aware that the marinas in Edgartown and Vineyard Haven would have had no problem docking a boat this size.

"No, no. Over in Nantucket," the mate shot back. "That's her home."

"You guys actually sit it out on the water in this?"

"Captain's orders," he said, looking over at the steward and laughing.

"Must have been rough."

"They don't make enough Dramamine to get you through one of these. And we were damn well sheltered."

Cassie was filling the fuel tanks and surveying the length of the yacht with great admiration.

I laughed, too. "Bet the owner doesn't hang out in the storm with you."

"Are you kidding? He wouldn't leave this baby for a minute. Rode the whole thing through with us. Only his wife got a pass to stay onshore."

"Is that you, Alexandra? I would never have recognized you."

I was startled by the sound of Hoyt's voice. Squinting and shielding my eyes from the sun, I raised my head and saw him in the cockpit on the flying bridge, one flight above the crew.

"I was just trying to call you," he said, waving the cell phone in his hand. "Thought sevenA.M. was a respectable time to wake you up. We're heading for the city and needed to gas up. Don't know when the airport will reopen but thought you might want to hitch back with us."

"Way to go, Alex," Cassie said. "Totally cool."

"No thanks, Graham. Cell phones don't work in Menemsha." This sleepy little village was a black hole in the world of cell communications. "There's no tower."

"No tower, no power," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "How about the ride home?"

"Thanks. I may stay on the island for a while," I said, lying to him. I wasn't about to spend another night in the house until the broken glass was replaced and the locks and alarm system were changed. But that didn't mean I was ready to set out on the high seas with Graham Hoyt.

"I bet you won't say no to a hot breakfast. How about you, young lady? Want a tour?"

Cassie had stepped out of her boots and climbed on board without hesitating for a moment. From over my shoulder I heard one of the guys on the bench urging me to follow her. "What are you waitin' for, honey? Don't see one of these big guys pull into town every day. You afraid they's got Bluebeard hiding belowdeck or what?"