Page 110

ONE HUNDRED TEN

I WAIT FOR JIMMY.

My house, no traffic, is fifteen minutes, tops, from the Walking Dunes, one of the natural wonders of eastern Long Island, maybe the best before land’s end. Four parabolic sand dunes, maybe a hundred years old, that have migrated a mile inland over time from the water at Napeague Harbor.

Open to the public during the day, with a nearly one-mile trail of sand and scrub and even a freshwater bog. Steep, sandy hills accessed by narrow paths with a huge drop-off at the first dune, and a spectacular view of the water and Northwest Harbor up top.

The Walking Dunes is an area where I love to take Rip the dog or do a lot of reading. Back in 1921, a production company based in Astoria filmed some of the desert scenes in Rudolph Valentino’s classic silent movie The Sheik there.

The wind has risen to a howl. I know from experience the way hard winds, if you encounter them here, can funnel through the dunes, creating the feeling of being caught in a sandstorm.

“How do we know this isn’t a trap?” Jimmy asks after we’ve parked at the end of Napeague Harbor Road.

“He could be anywhere,” I say. “A million places to hide. If he’s here, that’s why he’s here.”

“Makes it a perfect place to ambush somebody,” Jimmy says. “We don’t know this isn’t a setup.”

“We don’t,” I tell him. “But we’re both armed and extremely dangerous.”

“He said he knows things?”

“And that he can only tell if we save him from the bogeyman. Or men.”

“My new pal Len Greene told me he knows things, too.”

“How come everybody knows things except us?”

I lead the way up the narrow trail, past the helpful sign that tells you to enjoy the view before you descend into the wind tunnel. Branches occasionally slap against us, a few catching me in the face and making me curse. The wind seems to have picked up even more since we got out of our car. The moon is very bright and high in the sky.

We both have our guns out as we slowly climb and stumble our way to the top of the first dune, the approach so steep you can put your hand out and touch the sand. You’re supposed to stay on the path when you come here in the daytime. I tell Jimmy I won’t tell we’re breaking the rules if he won’t.

I fall a couple of times. So does he. Now we’re both cursing quietly.

We finally make it to the top, staying low when we get there.

I know how steep the drop is in front of us, the distance down to an open area of sand always looking to me like it’s the length of a football field.

“McKenzie!” I yell. “I’m here.”

Underneath the wind, from down below, I hear a voice now.

“Here.”

I look at Jimmy. He nods. We circle back to the trail, staying low until we approach the bigger open area of sand and scrub facing north. Something to behold in the daytime, the whole sweep of this place.

Just not tonight.

We still may be walking into a trap. We both know that. But we’ve come this far.

And maybe McKenzie was telling the truth about the things he can tell me.

“You wanted to talk,” I yell. “Show yourself and we can talk.”

“Let’s talk,” a voice from behind us says. “But first let me see you turn around and toss those guns behind you. It will make our conversation much more relaxing.”

Jimmy and I slowly turn, and toss our guns into the sand. When we turn around, we’re staring at the long revolver held by Anthony Licata.

He touches the top of his head.

“Had to get a new Rangers cap after I died,” he says. “Like it?”