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Archie’s relationship with God was polite but increasingly distant. He listened absently to readings from Scripture, the eulogy, various prayers for the deceased and the bereaved, the Apostles’ Creed, and finally the commendation and farewell. He obediently recited the Lord’s Prayer with the rest of the congregation, waited through final hymn, the final blessing, and rose with everyone else as Mother Angelica led the recession of the casket out of the church.

This time Leo was on Archie’s side of the aisle, and Archie was startled at how much Leo seemed to have aged overnight. His eyes looked like black holes in his white face. As he passed, Leo glanced at Archie and smiled. A weird sensation slithered down Archie’s spine. That alarming show of teeth looked like a death’s head smile.

The mourners began to file out of the church.

As Archie went down the front steps, his cell phone buzzed.

“Crane.”

“It’s me,” Beau said. “Are you still at the church?”

“Yes. They’re heading over to the cemetery now.”

“Is Baker there?”

“He’s a pallbearer. Yes.”

“Okay. Were you still intending to head down to Winchester Bay today?”

“I planned on it. In fact, I thought I’d leave now. After the funeral most people will be going over to Judith’s for refreshments.”

“Maybe you should hold off until I can drive you down there.”

Archie frowned. “Why?”

“Jon Monig’s body was just found in the fountain in the garden behind the library. It looks like he was shot to death last night.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

The air at Salmon Harbor Marina in Winchester Bay was thick with the mingled scents of saltwater and sun-warmed wood, layered with the faint tang of diesel and imminent rain. Rows of boats rocked gently against their moorings, their white hulls catching the unsettled glint of afternoon sun: fishing boats, scarred and sturdy, their decks cluttered with ropes and buckets; sleek yachts with polished railings and carefully coiled lines. In the gray sky above, gulls wheeled, their cries sharp against the steady slap of water against the docks.

As the Uber drove away, Archie walked past the small harborside café, where deserted picnic tables were scattered under wide umbrellas, past a line of worn wooden benches looking out over the water.

After Beau’s phone call, he’d returned to McCabe house to change clothes and to pick up Beau’s Glock. Desperation made people stupid, and he did not want to underestimate the potential threat. But coming after him, particularly now, would be beyond stupid.

Still.

The pistol in its side holster was a comforting weight on his hip.

No one paid any attention to him.

Fishermen and deckhands moved about their boats with practiced ease, their conversations low and punctuated by laughter that rolled across the docks. The marina was quiet on this gloomy Thursday afternoon. Archie’s rubber-soled footsteps echoed faintly on the planked walkway as he made his way toward the end of the dock.

Even among the rows of sturdy fishing vessels and glossy weekend yachts, the Hinckley Sou’wester 52 stood out, like a swan amongst a flock of ducks: El Fantasma Blanco resting gracefully in her slip, waiting for her next adventure.

He reached the ship, and placed his hand on the polished teak railing, feeling the warmth of the wood beneath his fingers, smooth from years of care. He could almost hear John’s voice quoting, “The three great elemental sounds in nature are the sound of rain, the sound of wind in a primeval wood, and the sound of outer ocean on a beach.”

With a slight hop, he climbed aboard, careful to steady himself. He wasn’t quite sure how his concussed brain was going to handle being on water. He closed his eyes as the ship swayed lazily beneath him, a subtle reminder of the shifting currents below. The motion was lulling. He was not dizzy. He was fine. He opened his eyes.

The mast, tall and tapered, rose skyward, its lines neatly coiled and stowed, the mainsail, tightly furled, resting snug against the boom.

The wind whispered through the rigging as he made his way toward the hatch that led below deck.

The hatch was locked, as he’d expected. He reached into the pocket of his Levi’s, withdrawing the key—old brass, dulled with age but still weighty. The lock clicked open easily, and he slid back the door, stepping down onto the narrow companionway stairs, feeling a cool draft of air rush up from below.

He steadied himself, hand on the rail, as he climbed cautiously down to the enclosed space below deck. At the bottom was a closed wooden door. He turned the handle and pushed the door open, inhaling a faint gust of cool, musty air as he stepped inside.

The door closed gently behind him.