When I had finished the job, I went back out to sit at Streeter's desk. I described to him what had happened at the house a few hours earlier, during the storm.
"You sure you weren't imagining things?"
I bit my lip. "My imagination isn't that good. Have you got someone to take me home to check it out?"
"Like Kenny told you, we can't get through up that way by car. When the harbormaster gets on duty in the morning, he'll give us a boat to head on over. All my guys are out on calls on the North Road as it is. Hell of a lot of property damage, and we're checking on some of the seniors to make sure nobody's hurt or got any kind of medical emergency without power. Break-ins are taking a backseat right now. Anyone off-island you want to call?"
I shook my head. "Mind if I stay here till morning?"
"I'll brag about this for a long time to come. Only police officer in Dukes County to have a prosecutor in residence. Wouldn't have it any other way. We've got a couple of cots upstairs if you want to stretch out until daybreak."
I ached to close my eyes and be in a safe place. "Is it too much to ask for milk and cookies?"
Chip smiled at me and led me up to the small locker room. I thanked him and stretched out on the narrow bed, tucking Kenny's dog's blanket around my body.
I tossed fitfully for most of the remaining hours of the night, getting up to brush my teeth and try to give some direction to my hair a little after six-thirty in the morning. Sunlight was streaming in the window and reflecting off the water's bright blue surface. By the time I got downstairs, a fresh pot of coffee was brewing on the hot plate and two other cops had reported in for duty.
I introduced myself and asked for Chip.
"Gone up to your place to look around," one of the guys told me. "Somebody picking up lobster pots from the pond ran him over there. Asked to have you wait here for him."
I sat on a bench in front of the station, sipping my coffee. I could even make out my house on the hilltop across the way. Within the hour, Chip Streeter walked up the driveway, a clipboard swinging in his left hand, and what looked like a pair of my rain boots in the other. I stood to greet him.
"You find anything?"
"Sure looks like Bigfoot was roaming around up there."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't want to alarm you too much, but you weren't exaggerating the least bit. There's some impressions in front of the house, going off to the right, that must be your feet. Something with a soft bottom, no ridges?"
I stuck out my foot and showed him the plain sole of my suede moccasin. I nodded my head. That was the direction from which I'd left to go down to the cottage.
"But there's a set of footprints-I guess 'bootprints' is a better word-that circles the entire house. Firm and deep in the mud-"
"Did you take pictures? Can you make an impression of-"
"CSI, we ain't, Alex. Maybe the state police can do that kind of stuff. I'll give 'em a call."
"Could I go back over with you? Sometimes there's such a clear imprint that you can make out the brand and size of the footwear."
"Suit yourself. Road crew is out already, trying to clear the debris away. Somebody can drive over with you in an hour or two, if you're willing to hang around. You ought to know that whoever it was tracked inside the house, too. All over, like he was looking for you, or for something you had."
I sat back down on the bench, trying to think about who this could possibly have been.
"Alex, you got any ideas? You'll have to look the place over and tell us whether anything is missing. I checked the usual stuff-TV, CD player-all that's still there. I got no way of knowing about your personal things, cash or jewelry. Thought you might need these to get around, though."
Streeter handed me the boots. I removed the damp moccasins and pulled on the heavier gear.
"I'd like to ride over when you get the chance. I didn't have anything valuable with me." I didn't think my visitor was a petty thief, but there was no point pressing the issue with Streeter.
"Well, hang around and make yourself at home. They got some doughnuts down at the Texaco station. That's about all we got to offer so far today."
"Sounds perfect."
"Ever see those photographs of the thirty-eight storm, the one that washed out half of Menemsha and killed scores of folk all over the area?"
"Yeah."
"Check out the beach parking lot. Doesn't exist anymore. It's covered with mounds of sand, rocks the size of my head, dead fish everywhere. Makes you understand that mean old hurricane and why so many people died back then. Puts your own bad night in perspective."
It was only a short walk from police headquarters, past the closed shops and fish stores, to the gas dock at the marina adjacent to the state beach and jetty. I was stunned by the amount of destruction that Gretchen had visited on this strip of land. This was the road I had driven down the night before last, and now it was clear that water had breached the beachfront and swamped the pavement, making it unrecognizable as the same ground.
I stepped in sandpiles that came up to the tops of my knee-high boots, bypassing crabs and shellfish that had been crushed by the waves. The Unicorn and Quitsa Strider, massive steel commercial-fishing boats, had weathered the storm just fine. But the old shacks that bordered the waterfront had thrown off shingles and shutters, pieces of wooden board sticking out from the sand all along the way that I walked.
The lone outpost at the end of the road was a small gray building just beyond the harbormaster. On the land side, the gas pumps that fueled our cars were half-covered with what had once been Menemsha's beach. The other side was known as Squid Row, where boats gassed up before heading back out to sea, through the Bight, onto the corner at Devil's Bridge, where Vineyard Sound met the Atlantic Ocean. On a given morning, the old-timers filled the benches there, trading yarns and fish tales, while cabin cruisers vied for space at the dock with working boats that trolled the waters for blues and stripers.
Cassie, the sixteen-year-old girl who usually pumped my gas, held open the door for me when she saw me coming in. "Hey, Alex, wasn't that awesome last night?"
"Guess so. Hope you were home with your folks."
"Yep. Drove down here this morning but had to leave the car at the top of the hill and walk down 'cause of the sand and all. Picked up some stuff from Humphrey's," she said, lifting the lid on a box of pastries and baked goods. "Got a little generator, too, so we have some coffee brewed. Help yourself."
She turned away and walked to the door that opened onto the dock, pushing it and sticking her head out for a look at something. "Hey, Ozzie," she called out to one of the ancient mariners seated with their backs against the shop, "let me know when that big one pulls in. I don't want to miss her."
"She's next. Get yourself out here," came the reply.
"Wanna see a beauty?" she asked me. "Fancy yacht out here waiting to fill up."
I poured myself a cup of coffee and grabbed three sugared doughnut holes before stepping out onto the dock and saying hello to several of the regulars who had parked themselves at the water's edge for a bird's-eye view of the day's events. It was certain that there would be no traffic on the land side for the foreseeable future.
By the time I stepped out onto Squid Row, the gleaming black-hulled vessel had maneuvered its way into the harbor and turned around so that its rear end was against the dock, ready to start refueling.
The gold letters shined brightly as the sun glanced off them. Pirate was the name of the boat, and its home port was Nantucket. Graham Hoyt's yacht.
I closed my eyes and thought of last night's prowler. Could it possibly have been Graham Hoyt? How could I have forgotten that he was the one who first talked to me about coming to the Vineyard because of the storm?