stranded in an alien land at the edge of the map, miles from anywhere. A chill of something that was almost claustrophobia swept through her. This is the last place on earth, she thought, the place where civilization ends. Beyond this point are monsters.
“This way,” Mr. Graves told them, and he headed toward the base of the stone steps. Karen and Don Price followed, stopping to read the wooden sign beside the bottom stair— PRIVATE PROPERTY–NO TRESPASSING —before climbing up and around, through the press of trees in a long curve. The steps were wide and deep, with a metal rail banister along one side, and the ascent wasn’t as difficult or tiring as she’d expected. Don Price, the smoker behind her, was panting with the effort, but Karen was merely grateful for the sun’s temporary respite. She knew she wouldn’t feel the same about these stairs on a hot day.
Up and up they went, and suddenly the trees seemed to part, receding from their path at either side to form a clearing. They came out onto a wide flagstone patio, and the house now stood before them at the edge of the cliff, stark against the water and sky. There was a big oak door at the center, with shuttered windows extending to the right and left of it and more in a long row above. It was obviously an old building, probably from the region’s Spanish days, and the thick stone walls were built to last in the volatile climate of the sea.
“Sweet!” the photographer beside her whispered, and Karen winced at the incongruity of using lame modern slang to describe such serious architecture. She shook her head in mock reproof, as though he were a child, which delighted him. He winked at her, clicking off several shots of the building.
The sudden buzz of an engine coming to life echoed up from the beach below them. Karen turned around. Her view of the cove was mostly blocked by trees from this vantage, but a moment later she saw the
Turnabout
in the distance, moving out between the two points of land toward the sea, back the way they had come. She tore her gaze from the sight and looked sharply at the big man beside them.
“He’ll be back for you,” Mr. Graves said. “We have another boat here, too, if necessary.” He smiled and moved toward the house.
Karen turned back to stare at the retreating craft, at the tiny dot that was Gabby at the controls, at the long white trail of foam he left behind him in the bay. The trail dispersed, vanished, and the sound of the engine faded. There’s no going back now, she told herself; I can only move forward—
Her thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the front door of the house, and a tall, well-dressed man came slowly out onto the patio, leaning on a cane. He limped slightly, but the impairment did nothing to diminish the impression of force and power. He was solidly built, with deep blue eyes that seemed to twinkle, and his handsome, tanned face and large hands were lined with age. He wore a suit of crisp white linen, a pale blue shirt and darker blue tie, and white canvas espadrilles. A silk handkerchief the color of the tie was neatly arranged in his breast pocket. There was something almost regal about him, but the smile on his thin lips was warm and friendly. Apart from the intense blue eyes, the most remarkable feature about him was the fact that he was perfectly bald. His round skull glistened in the weak light, and she had the brief impression that perhaps he actually polished it.
“At last,” he said, and his voice was clear and resonant, belying his age, as commanding as his visage. “Welcome to Hangman Cay, Miss Tyler. I know it’s been rather a long trip, and I hope your excursion hasn’t tired you, but you’re here now, and Mrs. Graves has refreshments for you. And who is this?”
“Don Price, from the
Daily News,
” the photographer offered, coming up to their host and extending his hand.
The old man declined to shake hands with him, covering with a courteous smile.
“This way,” Mr. Graves told them, and he headed toward the base of the stone steps. Karen and Don Price followed, stopping to read the wooden sign beside the bottom stair— PRIVATE PROPERTY–NO TRESPASSING —before climbing up and around, through the press of trees in a long curve. The steps were wide and deep, with a metal rail banister along one side, and the ascent wasn’t as difficult or tiring as she’d expected. Don Price, the smoker behind her, was panting with the effort, but Karen was merely grateful for the sun’s temporary respite. She knew she wouldn’t feel the same about these stairs on a hot day.
Up and up they went, and suddenly the trees seemed to part, receding from their path at either side to form a clearing. They came out onto a wide flagstone patio, and the house now stood before them at the edge of the cliff, stark against the water and sky. There was a big oak door at the center, with shuttered windows extending to the right and left of it and more in a long row above. It was obviously an old building, probably from the region’s Spanish days, and the thick stone walls were built to last in the volatile climate of the sea.
“Sweet!” the photographer beside her whispered, and Karen winced at the incongruity of using lame modern slang to describe such serious architecture. She shook her head in mock reproof, as though he were a child, which delighted him. He winked at her, clicking off several shots of the building.
The sudden buzz of an engine coming to life echoed up from the beach below them. Karen turned around. Her view of the cove was mostly blocked by trees from this vantage, but a moment later she saw the
Turnabout
in the distance, moving out between the two points of land toward the sea, back the way they had come. She tore her gaze from the sight and looked sharply at the big man beside them.
“He’ll be back for you,” Mr. Graves said. “We have another boat here, too, if necessary.” He smiled and moved toward the house.
Karen turned back to stare at the retreating craft, at the tiny dot that was Gabby at the controls, at the long white trail of foam he left behind him in the bay. The trail dispersed, vanished, and the sound of the engine faded. There’s no going back now, she told herself; I can only move forward—
Her thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the front door of the house, and a tall, well-dressed man came slowly out onto the patio, leaning on a cane. He limped slightly, but the impairment did nothing to diminish the impression of force and power. He was solidly built, with deep blue eyes that seemed to twinkle, and his handsome, tanned face and large hands were lined with age. He wore a suit of crisp white linen, a pale blue shirt and darker blue tie, and white canvas espadrilles. A silk handkerchief the color of the tie was neatly arranged in his breast pocket. There was something almost regal about him, but the smile on his thin lips was warm and friendly. Apart from the intense blue eyes, the most remarkable feature about him was the fact that he was perfectly bald. His round skull glistened in the weak light, and she had the brief impression that perhaps he actually polished it.
“At last,” he said, and his voice was clear and resonant, belying his age, as commanding as his visage. “Welcome to Hangman Cay, Miss Tyler. I know it’s been rather a long trip, and I hope your excursion hasn’t tired you, but you’re here now, and Mrs. Graves has refreshments for you. And who is this?”
“Don Price, from the
Daily News,
” the photographer offered, coming up to their host and extending his hand.
The old man declined to shake hands with him, covering with a courteous smile.
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