and from the Isles of Shoals could take as long as nine or ten hours.
County Attorney Yeaton reconstructed Wagner’s plan as follows: Maren would be asleep in the southwest bedroom, and Anethe would be upstairs. Wagner would fasten the door that linked Maren’s bedroom to the kitchen by sliding a slat from a lobster trap through the latch. Since the money would be in the kitchen in a trunk, he felt there would be no difficulty. Wagner mistakenly assumed that Karen would still be on Appledore. He brought no murder weapon with him.
Wagner, who had the current with him, moved quickly down the river and past Portsmouth. When he reached the Shoals, he circled the island silently to see if, by some chance, the Clara Bella had returned. When he was certain there were no men on the island, he rowed himself into Haley’s Cove. This was at approximately eleven P.M. He waited until all of the lights in the houses on Appledore and Star had been extinguished.
When the islands were dark, he walked in his rubber boots up to the front door of the cottage, where an ax leaned against the stone step. He entered the kitchen and fastened the door to the bedroom.
The dog, Ringe, began to bark.
Louis turned abruptly. A woman rose from her bed in the darkness and called out, “John, is that you?”
I take Billie below to get her ready for bed. She still finds the head a novelty, particularly the complicated flushing of the toilet. She brushes her teeth and then puts on her pajamas. I settle her into her berth and sit next to her. She has asked for a story, so I read her a picture-book tale of a mother and her daughter gathering blueberries in Maine. Billie lies in a state of rapt attention and holds in her arms a threadbare cocker spaniel she has had since birth.
“Let’s say our things,” I say, when I have finished the book.
When Billie was a toddler, she learned to talk, as most children do, by repeating what I said to her. As it has happened, this particular bit of repetition, a bedtime litany, has lasted for years.
“Lovely girl,” I say.
“Lovely Mom.”
“Sleep well.”
“Sleep well.”
“See you in the morning.”
“See you in the morning.”
“Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
“Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
“Sweet dreams.”
“Sweet dreams.”
“Love you.”
“Love you.”
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
I put my lips against her cheek. She reaches up her arms, letting go of the dog, and hugs me tightly.
“I love you, Mom,” she says.
That night, on the damp mattress that serves as a bed, Thomas and I lie facing each other, just a few inches apart. There is enough light so that I can just make out his face. His hair has fallen forward onto his brow, and his eyes seem expressionless — simple dark pools. I have on a nightshirt, a white nightshirt with pink cotton piping. Thomas is still wearing the blue shirt with the thin yellow stripes, and his under shorts.
He reaches up and traces the outline of my mouth with his finger. He grazes my shoulder with the back of his hand. I move slightly toward him. He puts his arm around my waist.
We have a way of making love now, a language of our own, this movement, then that movement, signals, long-practiced, that differ only slightly each time from the times before. His hand sliding on my thigh, my hand reaching down between his legs, a small adjustment to free himself, my palm under his shirt. That night, he slides over me, so that my face is lightly smothered between his chest and his arm.
I freeze.
It is in the cloth, faint but unmistakable, a foreign scent. Not sea air, or lobster, or a sweaty child.
It takes only seconds for a message to pass between two people who have made love a thousand times, two thousand times.
He rolls away from me and lies on his back, his eyes staring at the bulkhead.
I cannot speak. Slowly, I take the air into my lungs and let it out.
Eventually, I become aware of the small twitches in Thomas’s body — an arm, a knee — that tell me that he has fallen asleep.
To get a landscape photograph at night, you need a tripod and decent moonlight. Sometime after midnight, when everyone is asleep on the boat, I take the Zodiac over to Smuttynose. I use the paddle, because I do not want to wake Thomas or Rich with the motor. In the distance, the island is outlined by the