Linda Fairstein - The Kills

Hoping that my visitor's attention was fixed on the house's rear side, I pulled at the knob and opened the door wide enough to slip through, still squatting, onto a patch of dirt between the lilac bushes as branches scratched at my cheeks and snagged my hair. The rain was pouring down, and within seconds I was soaked, my moccasins squishing in the cold mud.

I had choices now: I could try to run into the wooded area that ringed my property against the traditional stone walls, or go out the driveway and try to find cover in the yard of either of my neighbors, more than half an acre away at the closest point. Both were summer families whose houses were locked up for the winter months.

But if my burglar had arrived by car, and if there was an accomplice waiting to drive him away, that direction might prove disastrous.

There was only one way to go. The caretaker's cottage was down the steep hill, not even visible from the main house. It would be locked, I knew, but I also knew that there was a crawl space beneath it, rather than a real foundation. It rested on pilings and concrete since early house owners had moved it up from Dutcher Dock. After Adam was killed, I had never gotten around to having it rebuilt, as we had once planned.

I ran to the far end of the main house but couldn't make out anyone from my position behind a stand of hydrangea bushes. Trees were blowing and bending with the wind, and everywhere the shadows danced and took on human form. I was wet and tired and scared. I wanted to click my heels so that the storm would end and I could wind up safely back in Kansas at Auntie Em's farm.

I heard the front door of the house banging furiously behind me. If my tracker could hear it, it would draw him around to see what was making such a racket. Now was my chance to sprint, running downhill, taking care not to fall and slide on the slippery grass. I reached the far side of the small shack and stopped again to catch my breath, fearing that he might hear my heaving gasps.

I lifted my head above the clothesline to see whether I could spot anyone, but I could barely make out the main house's shape through the fog and mist. I would be safe here if he didn't know the property well enough to realize that this little cottage existed.

On my hands and knees I crawled for the hole behind the three steps that bordered the deck railing. I found it and began to slither inside. If someone thought to search down here, I would be hidden completely beneath a sodden blanket of wet leaves. That was a trade-off, then, for bellying down with whatever spiders and snakes and rodents lived in this underground outpost.

I tried not to think about my possible companions and I covered myself as best I could. For more than fifteen minutes, I flattened myself against the ground, listening to my heartbeat, hearing nothing but fierce air currents whooshing over and around my head.

Then suddenly, I heard what sounded like padded footsteps on the thick, wet grass. I was lying on my stomach, my head turned to the side away from the house. I dared not move to look up at my intruder.

I stared straight ahead, frozen in place.

Suddenly the pattering sound stopped. Whoever was coming had put on brakes just a few feet from where I lay.

I smelled the creature before I saw it. Whoever had scared me had also frightened a mother skunk and her brood. She released her rank spray in the direction of the main house before creeping in with them to join me in my lair.

I waited for hours before I inched myself backward out of my flooded foxhole. I was soaked throughout, chilled and shivering, unable to control my tremors and too stiff to straighten myself completely.

The house was still dark, as was the sky, and there was no smoke coming from the chimney. I stayed as close as I could to the stone wall, as far away as possible from my home, until I reached a clearing and climbed over to the neighboring pasture.

The rain had stopped now and the wind had calmed to a mild breeze. I walked through open fields in the darkness, heading downhill, knowing that before too long I would reach the protected inlet at Quitsa Cove. Small boats were tied up there, and as soon as Gretchen cleared the southern shore, fishermen would be back out to check the damage, no matter what time of night. I didn't want to chance the roadway in case someone should be waiting for me, but the odds were good that I would find a familiar face here on the pond where I had so often moored my own day-sailer. I wasn't a runner, but I could outswim almost anything without fins.

Trees were down all over my path, and limbs dangled from overhead branches. I made my way slowly and carefully around the obstacles, sliding the last few feet as I came to a stop in front of the rickety wooden dock that stretched twenty feet out into the light chop of the water.

Again I waited, sitting and staring at the trail that came in from State Road, my arms encircling my knees, which were drawn against my chest as I tried to warm up. I knew that even in the dark, the shape of my body on the end of the dock against the watery backdrop would be apparent to anyone who approached. I wanted it that way. I was looking for help, not trying to scare whoever arrived.

Another hour went by before a pickup truck rattled down the path. Its headlights caught me straight on, and I got to my feet, waving broadly as the driver brought the car to a stop and stepped out, pointing a flashlight at me.

"You okay?" a man's voice called out as he raised his hand over his brow to peer out at me.

"Yes, I'm fine," I said. "It's Alex Cooper. Kenny-that you?"

"Yes'm. You tied up in here? You got a prob-? Jeez, Alex-you look like you been out in this storm all night."

Kenny Bainter's family had been on the island for six generations. He fished and farmed-swordfish and sheep-and had known me for a very long time.

He turned back to the truck and pulled a blanket out of the cab. I followed behind and let him wrap it around my shoulders while my teeth clacked and chattered against each other.

"You fall in the water or something?" he went on.

"No, no," I said, shaking my head. "Someone-someone broke into my house during the storm. I-uh-I ran down here to get away. I was hoping you could drive me to the Chilmark police."

"Who the hell was it, Alex? Some kids looking to give you a fright? I'll go back there with you and we'll-"

"Let's not do that. It wasn't kids, I promise you." Most of the islanders who knew me as a summer person couldn't connect me to the frontline prosecutorial position that carried with it all the attendant dangers of urban violence. I didn't think Kenny would understand that the intruder had been, in all probability, someone who wanted to kill me.

"Well, let's go get the son of-"

"Can you just drive me over to the station? That's really all I need."

"That and somethin' dry to put on, missy. I can't be driving you there. Storm knocked some power lines down and the Crossroads is all blocked off. Made a mess of it up here. Tell you what. Let me check on a few of the little stinkpots I get paid to baby-sit here, and then we can bail one if it's not dry and I'll zip you across the pond. How's that?"

"You think it's safe to go out?" I said, looking back at the surface of the water.

"Be calm as a bathtub in half an hour. Storm's way out over the Atlantic by now. Get up there in the truck and turn on some heat."

"Let me help you, Kenny," I said lamely as I watched him step into the shallow water wearing hip-waders.

"I seen scarecrows be better help than you, Alex. Go on and dry off."

Several small powerboats were upended on the beach, large gashes cut into their hulls. There were lots of damaged craft, and some that had broken loose completely and were bobbing about farther out in the pond. Barrels and buoys, nets and rope, were all strewn around the ground. But Kenny was right about how gently the waves were now lapping against the rocky shoreline.