Chapter One It had been billed as a weekend of rest: two full days of monastic silence, hours and hours of sleep, whole mornings or afternoons spent strolling alone in the dunes at Cape Henlopen. The stack of manuscripts in the trunk of Will's car would remain under lock and key. His laptop, too. He would slow down amid the hurry-up of migrating birds. The ospreys had just returned to the area to nest. No doubt warblers were moving through. Will hoped to add a bird or two to his life list. That was all he considered as he sped eastward through the gritty neighborhoods of northeast Washington, and later, past the outlet malls that clung like barnacles to the shores of the Chesapeake.
He stopped for gas on Kent Island at a convenience store with a huge inflatable crab dancing on the roof. Inside, he bought a cheese sandwich and a six-pack of beer. Will was planning to hold off on the beer until the end of the journey, but succumbed to thirst during the slow crawl through his fourth or fifth Delaware town, speed limit twenty-five miles per hour. It had been years since he had driven out to Lewes, and the last time he had arrived at midday. Now, close to midnight, he drove back and forth on darkened streets, utterly lost until he found himself in the parking lot of the local hospital. By the time he located Michael and Alejandro's large Victorian house two blocks away, a full bladder had him squirming.
In pitch black beneath a droopy evergreen, Will fumbled with the key ring, trying desperately to identify the one that opened the side door of the house. "It's the key with serrations that feel like three-day whiskers," Michael had told him. In the white light of the Amtrak club car this had seemed like a useful tip. But here in the darkened driveway, dancing with discomfort, Will realized that he stood as much chance of locating a key that felt like three-day whiskers as he would have had besting Michael in a Verdi trivia contest. So he abandoned the task and hustled toward the backyard, shamelessly preparing to relieve himself behind a bush. Then he spied steps, and recalled that Michael had mentioned a kitchen door off the deck with a torn screen and a loose pane of glass. Suddenly it occurred to Will that everyone who came out here, straight and gay alike, must have trouble identifying the three-day-whisker key.
So there he found himself a few moments later, noiselessly removing that loose pane of glass, carefully setting it on the ground, reaching through the door to unlock the sliding bolt. He felt for a light switch which was not, alas, where a building inspector would have wanted it. Then he had a foot inside the door, still patting the wall, now wondering if there might be a beaded chain hanging somewhere in the middle of the darkened room. A nearly inaudible murmur -- "Shit" -- had just escaped his lips, when all at once, as if in punishment for this puny curse, Will found himself clubbed to his knees. He screamed out in pain. Then another blow glanced off the side of his head, and he actually saw stars.
Woozily, he tried to escape to the porch, but found himself pinned by the heavy door. He shouted, "Stop! Stop! I'm a friend!" as his assailant continued to pound his arms and back.
A woman's voice called out, "The cops, Hank! Call the cops!"
"Alejo," Will cried. "Michael! I know them!"
The pummeling stopped instantly but the door didn't budge. Will remained trapped like a mouse. "Who are you?" the woman demanded.
"Will Gerard. I ran into Michael on the train. He sent me out here."
"Without a key?"
Will's head throbbed as he tried to sit up; but he found that he couldn't move. "Michael gave me a key. Gave me an entire ring of keys. I couldn't find the right one. Call him. Ask him. I'll stay outside, I promise." Silence. "Q and Seventeenth," he went on. "202-553-something."
The woman leaned heavily against the door, then let it open just wide enough for Will to scoot backward to freedom. Instantly the bolt snapped shut. Will thought about standing up, but rejected the idea. His head, throbbing in time with the mournful call of a distant foghorn, suddenly felt three sizes too large. His back, shoulders, and arms pulsed with aches. Sprawled on the wooden deck with eyes fixed on the black sky seemed the right position until this mess was straightened out.
"Hello, Michael, it's Annie." There was no hint of panic in her voice. No fear. "Look, I'm out in Lewes and I've got a huge problem. Just now a guy tried to break in through the kitchen door. He claims he ran into you on the train, and that you sent him out here." Long pause. "Oh," Will heard her say. "Oh," she said again. Another pause. Then: "Jesus." Then: "Well, I don't know. I must've hit him about twenty-five times with that big flashlight." Then: "Sure...sure. Thanks."
The cordless phone appeared at the empty panel of the door. "Michael wants to talk with you," the woman said.
Will struggled to his knees.
Michael's voice was shrill: "Good Lord, man, are you okay?"
"No."
"You've got a hospital right down the -- "
"I know, Michael. I know. It's not that bad."
"And there's arnica for bruises. In the medicine cabinet. Oh my word. What a screwup!" A ripple of self-conscious laughter followed. "Alejo must've talked to Annie and I talked to you and we never talked to each other!"
"Yeah, right."
"Truly!"
"Let me talk to him."
"He just stepped out." Silence. "He really did." Another pause. "This was a mistake, Will. Honestly, I had no idea." Michael chuckled nervously again. "And that flashlight! Ouch!" Long pause. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'll live."
"Thank heavens!" The laughter deepened to a rumble. "Who would've ever guessed that you'd be the sort to break into a strange house!"
An empty house, Michael. All those damn keys -- "
"C'mon, Will, take a deep breath." His voice dropped: "There could be an upside to this."
Will gazed at the sky.
Michael, in a whisper: "I know you won't believe this, but last week Alejo and I were actually talking about you and Annie."
"Oh, I believe it."
"We would never do something like that."
"He wouldn't."
A snicker now.
"Good night, Michael."
"Who knows, someday you may thank -- "
Click.
The overhead light in the kitchen had flickered on. Will's assailant stood beside the stove with her arms crossed. She was tall, with short brown hair and a narrow face. Her neck was elegantly long. She had delicate features which seemed at odds with the image on her oversized T-shirt: Edvard Munch's Scream. Will faced her through the door. With the pane of glass missing, he felt like a kid at the ballpark waiting for an order of fries and a Coke.
"Look, I'm sorry," he said. "I had no idea you were here."
"Are you hurt?"
"A little banged up." Will shrugged, and the pain in his right shoulder radiated across his back. "My self-respect, especially."
Her face relaxed. The tiniest hint of a smile appeared. One front tooth slightly overlapped the other. Her eyes matched Munch's blue swirl of water. She still held the huge black flashlight in her right hand, and used it to gesture toward Will. He glanced down to discover a gaping zipper.
He pirouetted. "The long drive," he explained. "After I gave up on the key..."
"Sure, sure." The door came open. She was suppressing a grin now. "Look, I'm really sorry about this. I turned off the lights about ten minutes ago. When I heard noises, I thought mice had gotten into the food that I left on the counter. I was already in here when I saw your arm coming through the door. It scared the daylights -- "
"Hank," said Will.
Annie bit her lip.
"Where is Hank?"
"Well," she said slowly, "when strangers come around, Hank generally, um, ret