Ray led the way over the beach and up the hill, stopping near the remnants of a wrought-iron fence that marked the perimeters of the cemetery. They walked among a small collection of headstones, some standing, others fallen flat over graves.

“Rex, Star, Lady…looks like mostly pets in this section,” Hannah said. “And on the human side, the ones I can read go back a hundred years.”

“This is probably the newest one.” Ray pointed at a monolith of gray granite, the largest headstone in the cemetery.

“What are the rules on cemeteries? Can you make one anywhere?” asked Hannah.

“Not now. There are zoning and environmental rules. In the early days, though, you could pretty much do what you wanted.”

They walked around, looking at head stones, at times stooping and brushing off the surfaces of the markers to read the inscriptions. Eventually they met each other. “Did you find what you were looking for?” Hannah asked.

“I came here mostly to get a sense of the place. I wasn’t anticipating any major discoveries.” He nodded toward the lake. “We better get going. I want to get back before it’s completely dark. Looks like the wind’s come up.”

The surf had started to build while they were on land. After getting their gear back on, Ray helped Hannah launch into the breakers. Then he climbed in his boat, secured his spray skirt, and pushed into an oncoming wave with his hand. His bow was immediately shoved parallel to the shore. He struggled to get it turned back into the surf, and finally, he was able to break free of the beach and the pounding waves. Together, they paddled out about a 100 yards , beyond the second sand bar, where the rolling action of the waves was a bit less intense.

The trip out had been relaxed. The return was tense—the wind and waves building as the light diminished. They had to paddle hard through the troughs, bracing at the tops of the waves on the windward side to keep from getting rolled.

Ray didn’t see Hannah capsize. They were often on opposite sides of five-foot crests. But as he moved into the next wave, he saw the white bottom of Hannah’s kayak turned skyward. She rolled up, only to be knocked over by the powerful crest of the next wave. When she rolled up, Ray was relieved to see her brace against the following wave and quickly settle back into a muscular stroke.

They pushed on. Ray checked his watch and worried about Hannah getting too cold. He estimated that they had about 20 minutes more of hard going before they would come under the protection of the headland. In the roaring wind he didn’t hear the shriek of the Jet Ski engine until it crashed over the wave in front of him, coming between his boat and Hannah’s. It disappeared out into the lake for 20 or 30 seconds, then returned, splashing across Hannah’s bow and crossing Ray’s a second time. Then it was gone. Ray tried to remember the details as they paddled toward calm water.

“I thought you told me there were never any boats out here at this time of year,” yelled Hannah as they approached the shore in the protection of the headland.

“There aren’t,” said Ray.

“Then, what was that all about?”

“Come on Ray, what was it all about, that Jet Ski?” Hannah asked. They were back in Ray’s kitchen, having endured a stricken paddle to the shore and a tense, silent ride home. Hannah had found solace in the inner workings of an espresso machine.

“How is it that you have two of those?” Ray asked.

“Don’t change the subject.” She gave Ray a look. “It’s a long story. A certain someone dropped off a machine that I never thought I’d see again. I had already bought a replacement. And it’s not that I don’t like your French press, it’s just that I like cappuccino so much better. You needed one.” She walked him through the process of pulling a good shot, explaining that if the grind is right and tamped with 30 pounds of pressure in the portafilter, a lovely crema will form on the top of the coffee. When they were seated at the table with their cappuccino, she sighed deeply.

“All right. I don’t know. Someone was giving us a look. Maybe trying to scare us,” Ray said.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Technically, he was getting too close and running without navigation lights. Other than that, he didn’t do anything that was illegal.”

“Yes, but don’t you want to talk to him?”

“If I know who he was, sure, I’d like to know why he was out there. But he’s not going to be easy to find. I didn’t see a registration number on the boat, not that there was much light. It might have been there.”

“I needed your flare gun for protection. And I hate those things. Jet Skis.”

“I don’t like them, either. Maybe when gas goes to $10 a gallon most of them will disappear.”

“Did you see me capsize?” Hannah asked, sipping.

“No, I only saw your white hull and knew you were over.”

“I was trying to brace, and I missed the top of the wave. Bingo, I was upside down. Then I rolled up and got nailed a second time. In the dark water and the low light, I had trouble finding the horizon. I was really disoriented. I love to roll, but I didn’t like that. I was out of control.” She shivered.

They sat in silence for several minutes, attending to their coffee and reflecting. “You know what I’d like to do?” Hannah said, pushing away her empty demitasse.

“What’s that?”

“Raid your refrigerator for the remnants of your last box from Zingerman’s, open a bottle of Mawby, mess around awhile, and spend the night.” She stood up and was by Ray’s side, bending over and kissing him hard on the lips. Then she picked up their cups and set them noisily in the sink. “But,” she said, “I’m on call tonight, so our friendship can remain blissful and uncomplicated.”

As they kissed again, Ray pulled her close. “I think we have broadened the definition of speed dating,” she said on her way out the door.

13

Ray wandered around the house after Hannah’s departure. After finishing with the kitchen, he hung his PFD and spray skirt in the mudroom and carefully balanced his mukluks, the open side down, over a floor vent. He draped his dry suit, inside out over the shower curtain rod in the guest bedroom, along with the fleece jumpsuit he wore under it.

Although physically exhausted, his mind was still buzzing from the events of the day. He retrieved his journal and a fountain pen and stood for several minutes looking at a blank page. Finally, he unscrewed his pen and brought it to the top line of the verso page. He moved the point in an upward sweep, and the line of brown ink went from thin to invisible. Ray pulled a small pad from his desk and tried the pen again, making gentle circles—a few more blotches and then nothing. He refilled the pen, wiping the tip carefully and returning the inkbottle to its cubbyhole.

Starting again, he wrote about Vincent Fox, the man in the worn buckskin jacket with the fringes, the old guy with the long gray hair in pigtails he had seen occasionally shopping in the market. The character walking along the side of the road with a weathered, leather backpack. He thought he also remembered seeing Fox on his old bicycle, maybe a Schwinn.

Real and false memories occupied his thinking for several minutes.

Did he actually remember seeing Vincent Fox on a bicycle or was that just an invented memory, an imaginary connection his brain made seeing the bike or hearing Fox’s daughter talk about her father?

The scene with Fox’s body flashed across Ray’s memory. He reflected on the hardest part of police work, crimes against the most vulnerable members of the community, usually the young and the old. Ray wrote about controlling his rage as he viewed Fox’s body in the water and his revulsion as Dr. Dyskin pointed out the charred area on Fox’s foot. Then he recorded his conversation with Sue about the aluminum bats, adding a few lines about a colleague from his first year of police work, an avid tennis player, who had a steel racket he repeatedly slammed into a large canvas beanbag chair as a way of unwinding after a particularly rough shift.