"Goes with the territory. You can give me two large coffees to go, and I'll take one back to him. This guy's springing for them," she added, jerking a thumb at Mac.

"A large for me, too, but I'll have it here. And ... is that apple pie?"

"It is. Want a slice warm?"

"Oh, yeah."

Ripley leaned on the counter, idly scanning the cafe. "I better tell you I invited Mac's appetite to dinner, and to bunk over."

"We're having chicken pot pie."

Mac's face lit up. "Homemade chicken pot pie?"

Nell laughed as she fit tops on the takeout cups. "You're too easy."

Ripley shifted her body away from the table area. "Who's the guy sitting by himself?" she asked Nell. "Brown sweater, city boots."

"I don't know. It's the first time he's been in. I got the impression he was staying at the hotel. He came in about a half hour ago."

"Did you chat him up?"

Nell cut a generous slab of pie for Mac. "I spoke with him in a friendly manner. He came in on the ferry a couple of days ago, just beat the nor'easter. People do come here, Ripley."

"It's just an odd time for a slicker to head over. No business groups at the hotel now. Anyway." She took the cups Nell set on the counter. "Thanks. See you later," she said to Mac, and might have warded off the kiss if her hands hadn't been full.

"Be careful out there." He yanked her cap out of her pocket and tugged it onto her head.

Harding watched thebyplay from behind the newspaper he'd brought over from the hotel. He'd recognized Ripley Todd from his files. Just as he'd recognized Nell. It didn't explain his reaction to both.

He'd expected to feel a nice zing of anticipation as he lined up the players on the stage. Instead, in each case he'd felt nearly ill. A kind of white-hot fury had pumped through him when he'd topped the steps and seen Nell back at the cafe counter.

He'd been forced to turn away, to walk behind book-shelves until he had himself under control. There he'd sweated like a pig. And had imagined his hands closing around her throat.

The violence of the experience had nearly caused him to turn around and leave. But it had passed, almost as swiftly as it had come. And he'd remembered his purpose.

The story, the book. Fame and fortune.

He'd been able to approach the counter, to order lunch, with his usual calm. He wanted a day or two to observe her and the others before he attempted to interview them.

He'd already lost some time. For the first twenty-four hours on the island, whatever bug he'd picked up had plagued him. He had been able to do little more than lie in bed, sweating his way through vivid and unpleasant dreams.

But he'd felt better by that afternoon. Nearly himself again.

He was still shaky, Harding told himself. There was no doubt about that. But a little food and a little exercise would help right him.

The soup had certainly soothed his system, at least until the brunette had walked in.

Then the clamminess had come back. The headache, the unexplained rage. He had the strangest image of her, pointing a gun at him, shouting at him, and he'd wanted to leap up and pummel her face with his fists.

Then another, fast on its heels, where she loomed over him in a storm, her hair blowing and tipped with light, and a sword that gleamed like silver gripped in her hands.

He thanked God she was leaving, and that the strange mood was leaving with her.

Still, his hand trembled as he picked up his spoon again.

Ripley brought Zackhis coffee and sipped her own while he finished a phone call. As she paced she heard him reassuring someone about the storm, emergency procedures, medical aid.

Had to be a new resident, Ripley thought. Probably the Carters, who'd moved on-island in September. There was no one else new enough to the Sisters to panic over a midwinter storm.

"Justine Carter," Zack confirmed when he hung up. "Storm's making her buggy."

"She'll get used to it, or head back to the mainland before next winter. Listen, I told Mac to come to our place tonight. Power's bound to go."

"Good idea."

"And I asked him to hang at the bookstore until Nell leaves, to make sure she gets home okay."

"And an even better one. Thanks. What's up?"

"Maybe the storm's making me buggy. I got an itch over this guy I saw at the cafe. Can't pin it down. City. New boots, manicure, upper-end-department-store clothes. Late forties. Strong build, but he looked a little sickly to me. Pale, sweaty."

"Flu runs around this time of year."

"Yeah, well. I thought I'd go by the hotel, see if I can wheedle some information on him."

Because he trusted Ripley's instincts, Zack pointed to the phone. "Call them and save yourself another trip out in this mess."

"No, I'll get more in person. He gave me the jitters, Zack," she admitted. "The guy was just sitting there reading his paper and eating his lunch, but he gave me the jitters. I want to check it out."

"Okay. Let me know."

CHAPTER Sixteen

Procedures, taken inplanned steps after calculations and hypotheses. The tools of his work. Science, even that still considered out of the mainstream. These were all familiar to him. They were, had always been to Mac, a kind of comfort as well as a path to discovery.

For the first time since he'd started on that path, he was uneasy.