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Chapter One

I moved to Sakonnet Bay to save Sam. I woke up with the idea. It had been one of those problem-solving nights. Having fallen asleep in a state of intense distress, I awakened with the notion that if I uprooted my life for three years, I could avert disaster.

I'm a journalist, a small-time, freelance magazine writer, and there is no telephone number I can't wheedle out of someone, no tid-bit I can't unearth. If the front door is locked, I know how to sneak in the back. Now I would simply apply my creative doggedness to the problem of keeping my teenage son safe.

Once I made this decision, I rented a car and drove out of Manhattan. I felt virtuous, even noble. I turned on the radio and was able to listen. For the first time in weeks my mind was at rest, which is to say lying in wait for the moment when it could become agitated once again. Agitation is normal for me, calm is unexpected. I veer toward agitation, list naturally in its direction. Taking action, almost any action, calms me, regardless of whether or not it is the correct action. I assume this is true for everyone, a small measure of peace secured when one goes from worrying a thing to death to doing something about it.

I felt noble and virtuous because I love Manhattan, and even before finding my new town, I had committed to giving up New York. To sacrifice. For a time. I had moved there originally from Los Angeles to attend Barnard College. I don't remember my first sighting of a New York City street, or my first glimpse of its magical skyline, but I fell deeply in love. Every single time I left my dorm, later my apartment, and walked outside, I felt a rush: I live here. I get to live in this amazing place. It's very strange when a city can do more for you than a husband or a lover, but for me, that was always the case.

I drove 495 east, then cut south and prowled the Long Island coast, trusting that someplace would strike me as the solution. On one of those roads that jumped to fifty mph between towns and then abruptly announced thirty mph as it became a main street, I found myself in Sakonnet Bay. It felt like Brigadoon, a village that came to life for only one day every hundred years, so perfectly was it a dream come true.

Sam needed order and this town was orderly. Main Street, which formed a T with the only other commercial stretch, Barton Road, was lined with charming nineteenth-century buildings of clapboard construction-- a visually comforting style, each narrow strip of wood tucked obediently under another, everything painted in refined grays, whites, and blues. Awnings shaded display windows, giving shops a proper, well-mannered look. There were no chain stores, no outlets that felt transient or common.

In my present condition, I was willing to leap to many conclusions to believe this move was right. Still, Sakonnet Bay's harmonious facade appeared to be a statement not just about its architecture but about its inhabitants. I had read Sherwood Anderson, knew that odd behavior could fester beneath the surface of small-town life, but that did not seem relevant. "Pretty" was the word for this sweet place. It was immensely pleasing and at the same time innocuous. This town could not possibly attract or foster trouble.

I stopped at a real estate office and in one afternoon located a house to rent and a future best friend. In my mind, meeting Jane Atkins, my Realtor, elevated the discovery of Sakonnet Bay from luck to destiny. The first person I met was simpatica. A former New Yorker, sharp and witty. I would not be lonely.

Jane toured me through town to see the sights that would make a New Yorker happy: the perfect food--doughnuts (plain and powdered-sugar), deep-fried and flipped automatically for everyone to see on the old-fashioned doughnut machine in the window of LePater's Grocery; a produce stand featuring local goods, which reassured me that Sakonnet Bay was country, not suburbs; and the bookstore, selling new and used--this was no intellectual wasteland--owned by an ancient sparrow of a woman, as quaint as the doughnut machine, whose thinning white hair was twisted into a tiny knot.

White hair. In one day, I noticed more than I had seen in a year in Manhattan. And permanents. Curls all over heads, turning older women into lambs. Fashions dating back in time. No, that's not quite accurate. No sense of fashion. A sort of immutability in women's looks. But not Jane's. While her approaching middle age might be visible in a certain widening about the waist, her hair remained a flashy honey yellow, a color that could be created only artificially. Hair dye alone identified her as a transplant.

In Sakonnet Bay, people aged and looked it. I had auburn hair and there was no way I was going to let nature take its course. At this time of my life, age thirty-seven, the only thing I had to do about gray hair was extract one strand at a time, but I already had plans to eradicate one irritating vertical crease between my eyebrows. I'd read in Elle about this magical remedy, Botox. A little shot of botulism. No beau of mine would ever boast, Lily doesn't wear a lick of makeup. But many women here didn't wear a lick, and I found it cozy. Sam and I were moving into a village of grandmas.

After we walked the business district, Jane took me on a ride through the pricey area. "The ocean-side of Maine," she called it. An elegant landscape of groomed gardens and sprawling houses, but deserted, lifeless. It was late April, a month before the weekenders and summer residents from Manhattan would begin their occupation. Then we went north into my future neighborhood.

Here locals lived on tree-lined streets in two-story shingled dwellings on identical quarter-acre lots. The houses appeared to have been built at the same time, because they resembled one another like members of a large extended family. Jane said they dated from between 1875 and 1920. Each had a bit of personality--a path bordered in whitewashed rocks, dormer windows edged with ginger-bread-- but only personality, not eccentricity, and that was further confirmation of solidity, of a world that fads passed by.

I wrote about our move for Ladies' Home Journal, in a cheerful upbeat piece, which was what the magazine always wanted. I described my going-away party at a SoHo bar, claiming that my friends had sworn to visit. They did promise--that was true--and we all kissed and cried; but they were like me, diehard Manhattanites. To leave the city, unless it was to go someplace thrilling like Paris, they would have to be towed. I said that the traffic, crowds, and noise were driving Sam and me away. In fact, I thrived on chaos. It was unlikely we'd be back, I insisted, neglecting to mention that we'd sublet our rent-stabilized apartment month to month, to a writer friend who needed an office. I also enthused about how glorious it would be to see stars at night, when actually a grand sparkling night sky would turn out to be intimidating. Fodder for my overactive fearful imagination. Until I moved to a quiet place, I didn't understand how fears and fantasies could expand to take up all available space. So in this article, I was as inaccurate in projecting my tranquil future as in describing my troubled present. I omitted that my fifteen-year-old son was sneaking out to Manhattan clubs. Several times I'd caught him returning at four in the morning. And I certainly didn't mention the incident that had triggered my panic and subsequent break with the city: I had found a knife in Sam's underwear drawer. A steak knife, imitation-wood handle and blade with serrated edge. I'd been hunting for drugs, been prepared to uncover a baggie full of grass, when I discovered the knife instead.

I removed it and mentioned it to neither Sam nor his father, whom Sam visited in Massachusetts every fourth weekend. I couldn't imagine waving and yelling, What was this doing there? Besides, I thought I knew. Its presence was consistent with a crayon drawing Sam had made as a six-year-old, after the divorce: a stick figure of a boy under a sky filled with long narrow triangles.

"What are these?" I had asked.

"Missiles," he told me.

I showed the picture to his pediatrician, who announced, "Sam doesn't feel safe."

Nine years later, he evidently still felt unsafe. Perhaps his club-hopping was a way of seeking danger. He was going after an experience that would confirm an existing feeling. Mulling the situation, that's what I concluded. The knife was not a weapon but protection. I didn't think that anyone else would necessarily accept this interpretation of the facts, but I didn't care. I knew Sam. What I couldn't determine was whether his late-night expeditions to clubs where alcohol and drugs were readily available marked the beginning of a downhill slide.

I continued to obsess until I made the decision to leave Manhattan. Until Sam was out of high school, when his fragile teen years were over, we would live in a missile-free town.

"We're moving to Sakonnet Bay because I think you'll be better off there," was all I told him. I came armed with a map so I could point out our coastal town.

He didn't bother to look.

I started to fill in the details, to describe a place he'd never been able to visualize in his childhood drawings, but I choked up. He hadn't stomped away in anger. There was no one he wanted to phone, no friend to bitch and moan to.

Four months and no questions later, that August, we moved. Ladies' Home Journal wanted to accompany my peppy article with a photo of Sam and me attempting to install a hammock in our first backyard. I remember this day fondly, my pounding a nail into a tree while Sam held the hammock aloft as if it were a giant fish he'd landed. Sam, my baby, was now six feet tall, his flesh as pale as mole rats I'd seen on the Discovery Channel, animals that never once encountered the sun. He wasn't fat, more soft and squishy from a disinclination to move except when absolutely necessary. Still he was sweet-looking. Impish blue eyes, and brows that curved comically over them like quarter-moons. Nose straight and fine, a strong chin with a dimple. As the photographer snapped, Sam squinted into the sun, his head cocked back as usual. He led with his chin, walked with it tilted up and out.

I had stuck a copy of the photo in a frame, a reminder of the last time I could look at my son without wincing. The morning after that lovely afternoon, when he had, incredibly, swung in the hammock, and Jane had arrived with housewarming presents--candles and a transistor radio for the inevitable power outages--Sam shaved the sides and back of his head and pulled his remaining dirty-blond hair into a rubber band so it looked as if he had a spout on top of his head.

In Manhattan, Sam had gone through a phase in which he wore a set of plastic werewolf fangs to school--they fit neatly over his upper teeth--and that was fine. That was, in my opinion, in the normal range of teenage behavior. But one evening he had confessed to forgetting his algebra homework. This was well into his freshman year, and when I suggested he call someone in class, he said, "I don't know their names."

"No."

Not in the normal range.

I tormented myself with this code of measurement. No friends. Not in the normal range. Hair spout: NNR. I longed for normal range, lusted after it. When I signed the lease for our new home, I envisioned Sam strolling down Main Street, laughing and talking to other kids, munching a doughnut, powdered sugar misting his neatly-tucked- in alligator shirt. Within months, he would be as pretty inside and out as Sakonnet Bay. I caught myself, wanted to bang my head against the real estate office wall, dislodge a few pictures of ocean-front houses to knock some sense in. I must keep my expectations reasonable. Still, in the recesses of my heart, where reason did not dwell, a boy was talking and laughing, walking with friends, munching doughnuts. Having a wonderful time.

Our transition was initially easy. I worried that Sakonnet High might reject Sam because of his hair spout, but the registrar handed over the forms and he enrolled. This surprised me so pleasantly that I stopped at a nursery and purchased tulip bulbs. That evening I planted, measuring an exact six inches from one bulb to the next. The following day I started work at the weekly paper, The Sakonnet Times. A piece of good fortune, landing this job--the editor, Art Lindsay, happened to be the uncle of one of my city friends. Each week I would write a column on a subject of my own choosing, as well as several articles on assignment. I was thrilled to give up freelancing. It's an outsider's existence. With this work, I could set an example for my son. I would join the community, be part of the life.

On October 4, the day events took an unexpected turn, Sam sat at the kitchen table ignoring his bowl of cereal, which he had saturated with so much milk that the Cheerios floated around like pool toys. NR--normal range. One leg was pulled against his chest, permitting a crusty size-twelve foot to rest on the chair seat. He picked at the cuticles on his toes. NR, but disgusting.

"Isn't it beautiful out today?" I was reduced to weather talk with Sam. Weather talk had turned out to be a big activity here. Commenting on how crisp it was, or how great the air felt on one's cheeks. Sam didn't bother to reward me with his usual grunt. I tried a more provocative approach. "I saw a fox the other day, hanging out down the street, near the corner." Sam poked the Cheerios with a spoon, sinking them and then allowing them to bob up. "I think the fox had a baby in its mouth."

He made the strange noise that I heard from him a couple of times a day: he opened his mouth as if to yawn, but what issued forth was somewhere between a sigh and a wail. I hadn't yet settled on a rating for this behavior--NR or NNR.

I really had thought the fox had a baby clamped between its jaws. In a foggy twilight, I was driving home from the Italian deli when I spied the animal by some tall shrubs. First I noticed the flat bushy tail--unmistakable, definitely not dog--then how surprisingly lithe the fox was. Just as it vanished, I thought I saw ...

As a part of my job on the paper, I was allowed to peruse the log, the town's official computer printout of reported crimes. I went to the police department dispatch office and looked:

Ellen Franklin, 245 Cummings Lane, complained that a sport utility vehicle pulled in and out of her driveway three times in approximately fifteen minutes.

Victor Marcum reported that he had received one hang-up call a day for the past three months.

An intruder entered Stanley Lamb Housewares, 106 Main Street, via an unused doggie door, rearranged some merchandise, but removed nothing.

I loved the log. I loved the innocence of the crimes and the idea that crimes could be innocent. In addition to mining the log for ideas for my column, I read selections from my notes to Sam at dinner. "Listen to this: A kitchen door was stolen. Someone's mailbox. Three Dr Peppers were lifted from the refrigerator at Oscar Limpoli's chicken ranch."

Ilaughed gaily, alone, about these incidents. But I have a theory that just because a child isn't reacting doesn't mean he isn't listening or appreciating. I was influenced in this belief by Enchanted April, the only movie I have seen that is about being in love as opposed to falling in love. It explores the power of relentless kindness. Even though Sam was not my husband or lover, I believed the film's message still applied. One day he would not be able to resist my stories, my enthusiasm, my jollity, and would end up, against all inclination, having fun.

"I checked that log," I continued, despite Sam's manifest lack of interest. "I scoured it from top to bottom. No missing baby. I must have imagined the whole business."

Without any assistance from his hands, Sam worked his feet into laceless sneakers. He got up from the table.

"May I please have your bowl?"

He passed it over, and milk slurped over the side onto his hand, which he licked. I put the bowl in the dishwasher, opened the cabinet under the sink to get some Cascade and discovered a dead mouse.

I slammed the door closed. "There's a dead mouse under the sink."

"This place sucks," said Sam. He disappeared into the hall, his jeans drooping off his hips, the bottoms drooling around his toes.

After pacing, trying not to wish there was a man around the house, I opened the cabinet again, this time squinting so that whatever was in front of my face would have a vague shape. The gray blob, undoubtedly the mouse, was between a blurry green--the Cascade-- and a yellow blotch, probably sponges. With a wad of paper towels, I reached in and seized the soft gray item, which stiffened and squirmed. I screamed, throwing the wad into the air. The mouse landed on the floor, ran across my feet and under the stove.

"What was that?" Sam called, his voice remarkably flat given my shriek.

"Nothing, nothing, forget it, nothing." I didn't know that mice slept. I had never heard of a sleeping mouse, except perhaps in a children's book where mice wore aprons.

The front door rattled as Sam left. My son never did anything gently. In our New York apartment, drawer pulls were falling off his bureau, his window no longer shut properly, the bathroom doorknob no longer worked. Out the window, I saw him kick up some dirt for no apparent reason as he passed several deer chomping bushes in the front yard. Did deer ever charge, did they bite, did they carry rabies as well as ticks? I rapped on the pane to shoo the animals off, but they ignored me. Possibly they were smart enough to sense the difference between a real order and a feeble one: Please leave, okay? As I cleared the table, and set the milk carton back in the refrigerator, where there was a heap of squash, four varieties, the phone rang. It was Art, my editor, suggesting that I skip the weekly staff meeting this morning and head to Claire's Collectibles on Barton Road. Over his police band radio, he'd heard that a baby's head was stuck in a pitcher.

Another baby. This one should prove less elusive than the last.

It was before nine and stores weren't open yet. The child must belong to the owner, Claire. Whoever that was. I started to leave by the front door, but the deer were still nibbling and a convention of squirrels had gathered on the lawn. Squirrels did get rabies, and a person bitten by a rabid one didn't always survive the antidote: shots injected into the stomach. A sixth-grade classmate had informed me of this, his eyes bulging excitedly as he whispered behind his earth science book. Exiting by the back instead of the front, I ran down the driveway to my car, jumped in, and slammed the door. Even locked it. I hit the horn several times. This caused the squirrels to scatter and the deer to amble off my property. For a second I felt smart, as if I'd invented a new use for the horn. The honking attracted the attention of my neighbor, Mr. Woffert, who was on a ladder engaged in serious construction. He had removed his clapboards and was stapling on Tyvek, the house-wrap. "Insulating," he had informed me. The task kept him busy from sunup to sundown. I waved and pulled out.

The trip was quick--a scoot three blocks through my residential neighborhood, a left turn onto Route 35, which almost instantly declared a name change to Main Street. In five minutes, I had reached the intersection of Main and Barton. The site of the calamity was obvious. Three squad cars had spun in at odd angles. How dramatic. They'd been summoned while passing and had to make last-second screeching U-turns across the road. I drove past the shop, then turned into the public lot that backed and serviced businesses along both of Sakonnet Bay's commercial streets. After trying the rear entrance to Claire's, which was locked, I hustled down a pedestrian alley to the sidewalk. Flashing my reporter's ID, I squeezed between some gawkers and pushed my way in.

The small gift store was cluttered with glass and china plates, teapots, figurines, and also ruffled velvet throw pillows with gingham bows, mirrors, shelves of soaps and body lotions. Three cops--three-quarters of the on-duty force--huddled at a skirted table, while a plump woman in a flowered dress fluttered around, trying to see over their shoulders.

"Excuse me, I'm Lily Davis from The Sakonnet Times. I'm sorry about--"

"Baby." She pressed her hand against her heart. "He gets into everything."

A policeman turned around. "We're taking him to LePater's, Claire. We'll grease him out, don't worry about it. Who are you?" he asked me.

"Lily Davis," I repeated. "Sakonnet Times."

"Stay back, out of our way."

"Of course." I read his name tag, Sergeant McKee, and wrote it down on my pad.

He returned to the problem at hand, allowing a viewing instant, and I saw that the baby, Baby, was a dog--a dachshund, to judge from its unmistakable hot-dog shape. A silver pitcher sat upside down on its head. "I should have given him obedience training," wailed Claire. I took notes, as the sergeant scooped him up, supporting his tummy with one hand and the pitcher with the other. We could hear Baby's muffled moans as we moved out of Claire's Collectibles. A small crowd fell in behind for the short walk around the corner to LePater's.

A female officer herded the shoppers into a compact viewing gallery next to a rack of chips. Matt, the cashier, handed over a bottle of Wesson oil. While the third officer held Baby in place on the counter, Sergeant McKee lubricated his hands and began massaging Baby's neck, sneaking his fingers into the pitcher. Onlookers strained with anticipation. Would Baby be pried from the silver jug before he expired from fear? The only sound was the rustle of a paper bag when someone reached in for another doughnut.

Finally McKee managed to ease the pitcher off the dog's head.

Everyone hooted and cheered. Baby barked. His sausage body rippled and twisted. The cop tried to adjust his grip, moving his hands from the animal's haunches to his middle, when Baby squirmed free and fell or leapt about four feet to the floor. He hit the ground on his side, and waved his legs before righting himself. Then he dashed at me and sank his teeth into my ankle.

"Eek." I heard myself utter the tiniest squeal. Baby released my flesh and raced through the fruit section. He skidded a few feet, trying to stop, scrambled in an attempt to move in another direction, and then shot right back. Sergeant McKee seized the dog just before it attacked again.

"Oh my goodness, give me that poor angel." Claire snatched Baby from McKee. "He was only excited, weren't you, my honey?"

I looked down to see if my pants were ripped, and now heard laughter, which made me snap my head up quickly. All I saw was the group of shoppers staring, some slowly chewing. They might have been an audience riveted by an exciting movie but continuing, as if on automatic pilot, to shove snacks into their mouths. McKee moved in close. "Are you all right?"

"Fine."

"Eek." I heard someone mimic the sound I'd made when I was bitten. Then snickers of laughter. "Eek," someone else peeped. More titters. A wave of amusement swept the crowd.

"Do you want to press charges?" asked McKee.

"I don't give a shit. I don't give a goddamn shit, you idiots." I walked out of the store.

No sooner did I reach the sidewalk than I was horrified. I'd insulted the Sakonnet Bay police. "Idiots," I had said "idiots," hadn't I? And I'd flung "I don't give a shit" at the cops in front of nearly half the town's residents. My ankle hurt, it really hurt. I'm not good at pain. I've cried at the dentist's office, winked tears simply from a novocaine shot, and now my ankle was throbbing. Why hadn't they expected Baby to freak? They should have summoned an animal expert, phoned the SPCA, or taken the dog to the vet. Instead, they oiled it up and yanked it out.

I became aware that I was standing in a throng. People who had been peering in the window were now backing away from me. It was a dog bite. I can't be brought down by a dog bite.

Fixing my eyes on the wall of the building, focusing on dry fragments of flaking paint, I forced myself to walk normally, making sure the heel of my right foot grazed the concrete each time I took a step. The cops might be watching. As well as everyone else. I wasn't going to embarrass myself toe-hopping through the alley and across the public lot.

I sighed into my car as if I had fallen into a safe house.

I sat there not knowing what to do. Suddenly I was hot. Roasting. I fished my keys out of my purse and turned on the ignition so I could roll down the windows. I hit the wrong button and locked the doors first by accident. My eyes were wet. Tears of pain, I hoped, not humiliation. After rubbing them with the back of my hand, I tilted the rearview mirror to assess my face.

I looked like a clown in a sad circus skit. My normally peachy complexion was white, with a watery smear of mascara under each eye. My face, a pleasing oval, had grown mournfully long. Serious gray eyes had a panicky pinpoint intensity. So piteous was the image, it would not have seemed inappropriate if a teardrop had been painted on my cheek. Most alarming, however, was my hair. The burnished red had acquired a garish glint, and short pixyish strands stuck to my forehead and cheeks, while others, on top, torpedoed skyward.

I was beyond repair. I reset the mirror for driving, and forced myself to examine my ankle.

Using both hands, I hoisted my right thigh and gently lay the calf across my left leg. I folded up the hem of my slacks. The back of my tan sock was red.

"I'll have a look at that." Sergeant McKee materialized at the window, a spook, and without asking permission, stuck his head further in, an invasion of my personal space. "I'm going to push the sock down all around, okay?"

I didn't answer, since I would have been talking directly into his hat. Also, I didn't trust myself to speak. Who knew what the simple act of having someone fuss over me might unleash? As I pressed back, trying to merge with the seat so our bodies wouldn't connect, I felt the sock resist separating from the sticky wound.

McKee pulled his head out the window. "It's probably going to swell up a little. You might need a tetanus shot."

"I'm fine."

He folded his arms on the window ledge and drummed his thumb impatiently.

Suppose I became a joke? I just moved here, and already I'm a joke? I could see the sleepless nights ahead. The obsessing. The endless replay of worry. I'd heard those people in the store laughing.

"Let me drive you to the hospital," he said.

"That's not necessary."

"Get out, goddammit, I'm taking you."

"Okay." Capitulating was such a relief that concealing it became paramount. I busied myself, dropping my keys back into my purse, organizing objects there. This must be post-traumatic shock. I was going to either shout insults or sob.

His car was parked behind mine. While I stood, mostly on one foot, he quickly cleaned up the passenger seat, tossing a bag of Fritos and a Rush Limbaugh paperback into the trunk. He must be a conservative, big surprise. This was a Republican town.

"I'm Tom McKee, by the way," he said as we drove out of the lot.

"Lily Davis."

"I remember. Do you have a doctor?"

I shook my head and then, since his eyes were on the road, bleated a short no as well. My doctors were in Manhattan. So was my hairdresser. I wouldn't be caught dead getting a haircut in Sakonnet Bay. I considered whether to mention this, undoubtedly for perverse reasons--having already begun to irritate people today, I now couldn't stop myself. I heard a beep.

"That's my pager," said McKee. "Ignore it. Mynten?"

"Excuse me?" I turned to find that he was offering me a hard candy in a wrapper with a twist at each end.

"What's this?"

"An orange-mint thing. A throat lozenge. My wife buys them wholesale by the gross."

"Thank you." It didn't taste bad, somewhere between medicine and a sweet: even better, sucking it gave me something to do. McKee removed his hat, balanced it on the armrest between our seats, and I got a good look at him for the first time.

He seemed about thirty-two. Five years younger than I. Maybe not. Maybe thirty-four. My obsessing was taking a new turn, compulsive age-guessing. He radiated health, almost glowed with well-being. That's what struck me the most: how robust the sergeant looked, with fair skin and ruddy cheeks, as if he'd just come in for milk and cookies after riding his bike on a cold November day. From the side, he was compelling, mostly owing to an elegant, pronounced jawline. Less impressive from the front, I decided, as he glanced over. Something was out of sync about his features. Thick brows jutted over brown eyes that were possibly too close together, or perhaps the problem was that his nose, while straight, was slightly too wide. No, he was not quite handsome, but boyishly winning.

His dark brown hair was styled for Sunday school: short, side part, front combed up and over into a stiff wave. He might be excessively neat. He might also use mousse. Borrow his wife's. A secret vanity. I imagined him pulsing a bit into his palm, rubbing his hands together, and then, in one motion, coating his hair from front to back. I must have been recovering, or I wouldn't have been speculating about the officer and his hair products.

"Where'd you get those dumb ideas about deer?"

"Excuse me?"

"Deer don't cross the road looking for love. Pumpkins, maybe acorns." He was referring to the article I'd written last week about the increase in car accidents caused by lovesick deer or, depending on one's point of view, the increase in the number of deer killed by careless drivers.

"As a matter of fact, deer do travel farther during mating season, and when they pair off they'll cross the road to get to . . ." I couldn't think how to describe it. "Their love nest, I guess."

"Love doesn't enter into it."

Oh God, was he a hater of hyperbole? A stickler for accuracy? Like, I have to say, my ex-husband. I wasn't going to concede, so I shut up. The beeper went off again.

"Isn't that for you?" I asked.

"I've got a security company, and when I'm on duty my brother's supposed to pick up. Don't know where he is." He looked exasperated by this problem. Did it occur often? He extricated his beeper from his front pants pocket, lifting his rear off the seat to do so. He was chunky around the midsection. "You should write about DUIs instead of Mary Burns." This was a reference to another column I'd written, about a woman who had reported her underpants stolen from a dryer in the laundromat. I hadn't realized until now how carefully my work was read. By everyone? Or just by him?

"DUIs. I'll suggest that to the editor."

"Under-age drinking, too. That's another problem."

I jumped on him. "Are you talking about my son?"

"Sam?"

"Do you know him?"

"Everyone knows him, he's got no hair. Hangs out with Deidre. I wasn't referring to him."

"Oh." Everyone knows Sam? No, everyone knows of Sam. Points out the weirdo. Speculates about him. And who was Deidre? Did McKee know more about my child than I did?

He tapped some more numbers into his beeper and studied the response. "How's your ankle doing?" He turned and smiled. This had the effect of a car's brights coming at me on a dark night.

"My ankle's fine." If I didn't move, it didn't hurt. "I'm fine."

"You say that a lot. 'I'm fine.' " He imitated me, catching the cadence of the brave little soldier.

"I'm sorry I was rude to you before. In the market. I truly am sorry." I changed the subject and spoke in what I hoped was an especially bland manner. "Is someone's alarm going off?"

"Yes. I need to take a detour. Five minutes is all."

So he wanted a favor. That gorgeous smile was manipulation, his ace in the hole.

"Are you in pain?" he asked.

"No. Absolutely not." I urged him to go ahead, take his detour, not to think twice about it. I practically slobbered goodwill. It was a way to regain equal footing.

"You can't write about this," he said.

"Of course not." We both knew why. It wasn't police business.

McKee turned left, heading south of Main. He informed Dispatch that he was taking a short break, and we sped through the posh part of town. In less than two minutes we reached Ocean Drive, where residences could house battalions.

Although most of these mansions, spaced football fields apart, were uninhabited in the off-season, the air was alive with electronic buzz. Upkeep. Gardeners, carpenters, contractors--their vans and trucks lined the road. The noisy equipment provided an affectionate reminder of jackhammers in New York City streets. My ears were at home here.

We entered a narrow driveway between two fat round bushes. On an identifying marker, NICHOLAS was spelled out in brass letters on white wood. McKee slowed the car to a crawl.

"I don't hear an alarm."

"It's silent, but in any event, it's not registering on the pager. Probably someone leaving the house tripped it and screwed up a few times before setting it right." His voice was relaxed, but his posture alert, attention shifting left to right. Perhaps someone was lurking behind the stately trees along the gravel drive.

"Why do these people have alarms, anyway?" As a devotee of the police log, I knew that Mary Burns's purloined underpants was about as serious as crime got.

"Who knows." He laughed. "They like to spend money. They like to imagine someone's after their stuff. They like to keep my business going." He snapped open the ashtray; it was jammed with old Mynten wrappers. As we wedged ours in, the shade trees ended, releasing us into a bright sun that illuminated a blanket of pea green. Couture grass. It stretched for what looked like a quarter-mile, inter- rupted by a few freestanding curved and clipped hedges. On a small upward slope stood a two-story gabled house with weathered gray shingles and white shutters. The white rail on the wooden porch broke for wide shallow steps to the door.

McKee pulled up in front. "Stay here."

"In the car?"

"Yes. And don't take any notes."

"I won't. I told you, I'm not working. I can't even walk."

Craning this way and that, I spotted no life whatsoever--nothing left out that needed to be put back, like lawn furniture or bicycles or a stranded mower. No cars were parked in the driveway or near the garage. This was obviously a false alarm.

After ringing the doorbell repeatedly, McKee began peeking in windows, then disappeared around the porch to the back. I occupied myself by inspecting his vehicle.

Was it a department violation to leave me alone inside? That would make two department violations, doing private work on police time and leaving an unguarded citizen in his cop car. His walkie-talkie hung off the dash; I could transmit false messages. I could completely screw up his life. Why this notion crossed my mind, I have no idea. I consider myself a moral person, the sort who accepts the first invitation and never cancels if a better offer comes along. When a waitress miscalculates a bill in my favor, I point it out. What was in McKee's briefcase? To take my mind off subjects that were none of my affair, I examined my ankle.

Baby had left little doggie teeth marks. The skin around them was rosy pink and puffy. I tapped the wound lightly. This produced a drumbeat of pain, not terrible, even by my standards. There was no serious blood loss. If I washed the cuts, I probably wouldn't have to go to the hospital. All I needed was water. And Bactine. I should definitely apply some antiseptic, and soon.

I opened the car door. The Nicholases must have some form of germ killer. I didn't want to get a massive infection from a dog bite and lose a leg. I could imagine my city friends discussing how ironic it was. Lily moved there to protect her son, and look what happened to her. People in the city loved irony, while it didn't seem to be valued at all in Sakonnet Bay. I suspected this was something Sakonnet citizens were right about. I'd find McKee and ask him to let me borrow some Bactine from the medicine cabinet.

I stood outside the car. The quiet was daunting. "Sergeant McKee?" I called softly.

The air was cool, a damp cool, and the breeze chilly. I zipped my jacket and tried to walk. If I pressed only the ball of my right foot on the ground, I could move along briskly. Holding the railing for support, I hopped up the front steps, and then, following McKee's trail, jerked my way across the front porch and around to the back, where I stopped. Everyone knew this was beachfront property, but the contrast between the manicured, civilized front and this wildness behind was startling. Had a kind of truth-telling to it. This is what's really here. This is what's hidden. I half expected to hear Twilight Zone music, but the moment passed quickly and then it was only beach. Beach on a gray day. Waves choppy, sand strewn with detritus left by low tide and angry water. Beyond the porch and a tangle of beach plums, I could see tire marks in the wet sand.

A French door in the back stood partly open. "Sergeant McKee? Tom?" I wasn't sure how I was expected to address him, but made my voice sound both inquiring and cheerful. No answer. I stepped in.

The restrained exterior turned out to be a cover for extravagance: overstuffed couches upholstered in richly textured damask, gilt coffee tables and end tables, gold-painted porcelain lamps with silk shades. The living room was large enough for two formal geometric seating areas, one in front of a pink marble fireplace that must have replaced a carved oak original, the other by a picture window offering a splendid ocean view.

I wandered into the foyer, where a chandelier of glass teardrops descended from the double-height ceiling, and then located the powder room off it. Shiny red walls, brass sconces, and a bowl of scented soaps next to a sink shaped like a scallop shell. No medicine cabinet.

I didn't see McKee anywhere, not in the dining room on the other side of the foyer or on the second-floor landing. The Bactine must be in an upstairs bathroom.

I was beginning to enjoy myself. I loved traipsing along with Jane to Open Houses. I had occupied a few Saturdays that way, fantasizing about owning places I couldn't afford. This house was clearly unoccupied. There was no personal scent, no cooking or cleaning smells, no natural or artificial perfumes. I moved up the stairs slowly, using the waxed walnut banister as a crutch, and then opened the first door that presented itself.

The master bedroom. It stretched out to my left in a long rectangle. Directly ahead, across from the door, my eye was drawn to a beautiful twelve-paned window behind a satin-covered settee. The glass was old or slightly tinted, and the ocean beyond changed color as though I were looking through a prism. The window was slightly open, and white lace curtains billowed inward, caressing the burnt orange of the satin couch. I heard footsteps behind me, and as I turned to confront McKee, to explain my presence, I noticed the canopied bed at the far end of the room. There was a naked woman on it, asleep. I halted mid-turn and began to retreat, when I sensed McKee's body behind mine. I stepped on his foot and stifled a whoop of surprise. He caught me by the shoulders as he saw the young woman, too. She lay faceup on top of the covers, one arm flung out dramatically. My eyes landed on her breasts, got stuck there, then jumped the rest of her body to her toes. Each nail was painted a different color. I was about ten feet away, and as McKee pulled me backward, her body became topographic--valleys, mountains, undergrowth. I smelled something heady ...realized it was McKee's aftershave, felt his warm breath on my neck. I was almost faint while he steered me out and, with one hand gripping my arm, closed the bedroom door behind us. He had a silken touch, turning the knob quickly, silently.

I twisted away and took the stairs at a clip, but the pain in my ankle erupted with ferocity. So I grabbed the banister and hopped. The plush carpet muffled my thumps like a silencer.

We left by the back, the way we had come in. I limped after McKee, around the porch, down the front steps, and to the car. Following his example, I closed my door gently. He gave the car the barest hit of gas, and we rolled out of the driveway.

I kept my eyes on the road ahead, and assumed he did, too. I had the feeling that I should start laughing, turn the encounter into one big joke, but I kept envisioning that naked body, displayed like some sort of feast. The downy, smooth, coppery skin. The ample breasts sinking comfortably sideways, legs provocatively apart, an arm unfurled. Her waist was tiny, accentuating her curves. My waist was tiny, too, and I always imagined that one day I would meet a man whose hands could circle it. Not a man with big hands, that wasn't part of the fantasy--it was the idea of a lover finding my waist as delicate as the stems of a small bouquet.

McKee suddenly pulled the car over and parked. He plucked a Mynten from his shirt pocket and licked it off the paper.

"Could I have one?"

"You're crazy."

"But my mouth is dry."

"What?"

"I'm asking for one of your Myntens."

He punched open the glove compartment and removed an entire bag. "Take them. What were you doing in that house?"

"I don't need all these."

"What were you doing there?"

"I was looking for some Bactine."

"Bactine." He repeated the brand name as though he had never heard of it.

"I thought I could fix my ankle, you know, I thought they'd have some antiseptic in the medicine cabinet." I could see the nugget nestling inside his cheek.

"You went in that house to write about it."

"I did not."

"Come on."

"I told you, Bactine."

His arms rested on the steering wheel and he twisted the Mynten wrapper, spun it between his fingers. He occupied himself this way while I sat there. "You could have been killed," he said finally.

"Oh, please, by whom?"

"See, you don't take anything seriously."

"What are you talking about? You told me that alarm had been deactivated."

"You never know what's going down."

What's going down? Honestly. This was ridiculous. There was only one thing to say. "I'm sorry." I spoke contritely. I knew what was bugging him. Suppose that woman had awakened to find us? My trespass would have cost him an account. "Who was she?"

He started the car again. "None of your business."

"I just wondered." This whole thing was getting upsetting, what with him so short with me. I was wounded, I had a serious dog bite, thanks to his carelessness. I tried to open the bag of lozenges. The slick paper wouldn't tear. "This is like plastic on a new CD. A person could spend a year trying to strip that off. I always wanted to write a short story in which a woman gets murdered because she can't get the plastic wrapping off in time." My words hung around unanswered, McKee correctly identifying them as nervous babble. I noticed a big blue vein snaking across the back of my hand, which was lying in my lap, clutching the Mynten bag. The woman on the bed didn't have fat bulging veins, I bet. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five.

Now I was feeling unaccountably deflated.

"Cheer up."

"What? What are you talking about?" How did he know?

"Just generally. It's no big deal, right?" He flashed a smile.

"Right." I could see the medical center ahead. What a relief. I would welcome a shot of novocaine. Perhaps directly into my brain.

He kept the car idling while I stuffed the Myntens in my purse. "Thanks for these."

"Do you have someone to come and get you?"

"Yes. Don't worry about it."

"You should drink vinegar tonight. One teaspoon of cider vinegar with a tablespoon of honey."

"Is that a health potion?"

"For your ankle. In case you have a boron deficiency. And take it easy."

"I do."

He laughed, as though it was absolutely clear that I was full of it. "If you ever need help on stories, other stories, call."

"Sure."

"If it's not my shift, leave a message."

"Okay." He must have been buttering me up so I wouldn't betray him.

I put out my hand to shake his. Too formal for what we'd just experienced, and very awkward in the confines of the car. "Take care," he said.

"I will. Thanks for the ride."

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