"What are you trying to do?"

"I want to tape this knife to my lower back." She turned, showing him the smooth plane of her back that tapered to her narrow waist. With her fingers, she indicated the area above the swell of her derriere. "Right here."

"Okay. Looks doable."

"Does it?" She glanced at him over her shoulder, winked. "You want to prove that?"

He laughed. "I wish we could. But we don't have time. In less than an hour . . ."

"Yeah, I know." She twirled around to face him, hooked her fingers into the belt loops of his jeans. Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed him lightly on the lips. "But we'll have plenty of time later."

"Of all the times for us to start feeling horny, why now?"

"I think it's because we feel so alive. I mean, I've hardly gotten any sleep in the past three days. I should be passed out on the floor. But I'm just crackling with energy." She snapped her fingers. "Aren't you?"

"I'm hyped, ready to roll."

"I'm glad you talked me into staying put," she said. "This is where we're supposed to be, you know? Dealing with this situation, together. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world right now."

"I wouldn't mind being on a beach in Hawaii."

"Actually, me neither." She kissed him. "You know what I mean."

"I know, and I agree." He glanced at her handgun, lying on the counter beside the paring knife. "I've been meaning to ask you: how long have you had that gun?"

"I bought both of them-the one I gave you and the one I have here-shortly after I moved to Georgia. Why?"

"You any good with it?"

"I'm a decent shot. I've taken lessons at a firing range."

"Let's hope you don't have to use it." Moving out of her arms, he reached for the tape, cardboard, and the knife. "Or this, either."

"I fought him off once," she said, iron in her voice. "I could do it again, if I had to."

Joshua remembered the puckered scar on Dexter's cheek, as if he'd been kissed by a pit bull in a foul mood. "You put the scar on his cheek?"

Fire blazed in her eyes. "I did that after he'd cut me and started choking me. Biting him was all I could think to do, but it did the job. I got away from him and called the police." She picked up the blade. "But I swore that if I ever had to face him again, I was going to have more than my bare hands to protect myself."

"I heard that."

She turned around. "Tape this knife to the cardboard, and then fix the whole thing to the small of my back, please. It's going to be my secret weapon."

Joshua did as she asked. She put on her t-shirt and jacket and tested it a couple of times. To her satisfaction, she was able to tear the knife away from the cardboard backing with only a quick, forceful tug.

Joshua did a final walkthrough of the house. Everything appeared to be in place.

He checked his watch. It was a few minutes to five. Darkness was stealing over the island, and the strengthening winds were battering the palmettos and the live oaks that surrounded the house. The lights flickered for a moment, and then came back on.

Rachel lit a couple of Kerosene lamps, and double-checked that her flashlight was functional. "Now what do we do?"

Joshua sat on a step near the bottom of the staircase, the .357 on his hip, a flashlight dangling from his belt, and the Molotov cocktail strapped over his shoulder.

"Now," he said, "we wait for him."

Chapter 63.

Gravel spinning from the tires, Dexter veered the Mustang into the parking lot of the Hyde Island Visitor Center.

It was a quarter after four. He'd driven no slower than ninety miles an hour during the trip. He had only fifteen minutes before the day's last ferry departed.

He surveyed the lot for some confirmation that this was the right place-and saw two telling clues: Joshua's Ford Explorer. And an Acura sedan, parked in the far corner. A closer look at the bumper sticker on the Acura-it advertised her hair salon-clinched the deal.

There's no escape from me, baby.

The visitor center was ahead, a small, red-shingled building on a thick concrete slab. He peered around the corner of the structure, and saw a dock at which several boats, include the island ferry, were tied. The dock was accessible via a short stairway.

He couldn't risk setting foot inside the visitor center. When he'd seen himself in the car's rearview mirror, he looked as savage and dangerous as he felt. His appearance would set off alarms, and he couldn't take a chance on someone alerting the cops before he reached the island. He was too close now.

So he invoked the cloak, and went around the side of the building. He climbed the steps to the dock.

A middle-aged black man with a goatee lingered at the gangplank to the ferry. There were few passengers boarding, and the guy wasn't paying close attention. He was chatting on a cell phone.

Dexter strolled to the ferry, waited until the guy moved away from the entrance as he attended to something on deck, and hopped on.

Dexter knew that his body was giving off a strong odor-a wild, musky smell. But the pungent scent of the saltwater sea should conceal him from detection.

There were about ten other passengers on board. Dexter went aft, away from them, and leaned against the railing.

A strong wind buffeted the vessel, shrieking across the deck. Dexter worried that the captain would attempt to postpone the trip due to the weather, in which case, Dexter would have to force him to go. He was too close to finding her, at last. He would not be denied, or delayed.

Thankfully, at four-thirty, the ferry cast off. Dexter maintained his cloak as the ship crested the rippling waves. The first mate went into the cabin, oblivious to Dexter's presence.

On the bench seats, Dexter found a booklet about Hyde Island that someone had left behind. He began to skim through it, and when he came across the section about Hall Hammock, he had to smile.

Now he knew where his wife was hidden on the island.

A half hour later, the ferry, braving powerful winds, docked at Hyde Island.

The first mate secured the ferry to the dock, and then disembarked from the boat.

Cloaked, Dexter followed. The captain was messing around in the cabin, and he wasn't going to wait for him. Besides, the first mate seemed to know exactly where he was going.

Dexter tailed him across the dock, and to a small, dusty parking lot occupied by a handful of vehicles. He was heading toward a rusty Ford pick up.

He opened the door, climbed behind the wheel. As he went to close the door, Dexter moved in. He grabbed the guy by the back of his neck and drove his head forward into the windshield, hard enough to hurt him but not with enough force to knock him out. The man's head rapped against the glass, and he let out a strangled yelp.

"Shut up." Seizing the man by his shirt, Dexter shoved him into the passenger seat, and slid behind the steering wheel.

The man slumped in the seat, dazed, blood streaming down his face from a gash in his forehead. "What the-"

"I told you to shut up." Dexter grabbed the crotch of his pants, got a firm hold on the family jewels, and squeezed.

The guy let out a thin whine of agony, his eyeballs swelling.

Dexter spoke quietly: "You scream for help, you do anything other than what I tell you to do, and I'll crack your balls in my hands like a couple of peanuts. Got it? Nod if you do."

The man bobbed his head feverishly. There was a name plate affixed to the breast pocket of his work shirt. Jimmy.

"Okay, Jimmy." Dexter relaxed his grip a little. "I'm looking for my wife. She's on this island. I think she's on Hall Hammock-her first name is Joy or Rachel. Her last name is Hall, or Moore."

The recognition that sparked in Jimmy' eyes told Dexter this man knew exactly who he was talking about.

"You know where she's staying?" Dexter asked.

His face greasy with scared sweat, Jimmy nodded.

"Good boy." Dexter took his hand away from Jimmy' little package. Jimmy cried out softly, buckled over in the seat, and vomited in his lap.

Dexter thumped him on the back. "You'll be all right, man. But don't try me. You do what I say, and we'll be cool."

"Please . . ." Jimmy said.

"Shut up," Dexter said, and Jimmy promptly swallowed his words.

Dexter turned the key in the ignition. The truck started with a rumble.

"Now, Jimmy. Tell me how to get to where my wife is staying."

Ten minutes later, they had entered the so-called historic community of Hall Hammock. It looked like the land that time had forgotten. No wonder the place was fading, as the island booklet had said. Who'd want to live in such a dump? These nostalgic assholes should have sold out to some real estate developers and gone about their merry way.

Jimmy pointed weakly. "She lives there. The house around the bend."

"I see it. Where do you live? I'll drop you off and go on about my business."

Jimmy looked at Dexter skeptically.

"I asked you a question," Dexter said.

"The house . . . on the right here," Jimmy said.

It was a pathetic home, little more than a shotgun shack sitting on timbers. Dexter parked in the weed-choked driveway next to an old Chevy rusting on cinderblocks.

"You live alone?" Dexter asked.

Jimmy nodded heavily. "My wife passed a year ago. She's gone with God now."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Jimmy. I understand as well as anyone what it's like to lose a wife . . . and then to find her again."

"Pardon?" Confusion muddied the man's eyes.

"Let me make myself clear." Dexter put his hand around the back of the man's neck, like a father figure offering consolation. But his grip was like an iron vise.

"How would you like to join her today?"

Chapter 64.

The wind continued to increase in ferocity. It swept over the house, tearing at the eaves, howling around the walls, and punching the windows like a barrage of fists.

Sitting on the steps, Joshua kept his finger on the flashlight, waiting for a blackout. The lights flickered several times, but remained on.

Beside him on the stairs, Rachel put her hand on his arm. "What time is it?"

"Almost six," Joshua said. "You think the ferry would've still run in this wind?"

"It would take something much worse than this to keep the ferry on the mainland. A lot of people depend on it for their livelihood, you know. Children go to school on the mainland, all of the jobs are there . . . trust me, the boat ran."

He nodded, quiet. He happened to glance at her hair, and on impulse, touched it.

"I found out that your natural color is auburn," he said.

She gave him a curious look. "How'd you find that out?"

"Tanisha told me."

"Oh." Grief stung her face. "Well, she would've known, she used to dye it for me. My hair used to be halfway down my back. I cut it and started to color it after I left home. It was part of my disguise, along with the glasses."

He ran his fingers through her soft, dark curls. "I love how your hair looks now. But I'd like to see it how it used to be. There's no reason to hide any more, is there?"

"You're right-" Rachel started to say, but then the lights sputtered. Another gale blew around the house.

The lights flickered, and then died. They didn't come back on.