The sound came again, but this time it was more like little feet pattering across the wood, then something being shifted. Dragged. She wanted to reach down and unzip her bag, but she was afraid the noise would give her away. Damn, why hadn’t she inspected the place more thoroughly before bedding down? Or better yet, just slept in the mess tent?

She started to work her way out of the bag without unzipping it. She had just cleared her shoulders when the dragging sound came again — closer, louder. And this time she could tell there was a live creature of some kind, warm and breathing softly, inching nearer. She didn’t know whether to lie as still and silent as possible, or struggle to free herself from the bag. She craned her head backwards, so she could see into the aisle, and as she did, something slid into view. It was on the ground and only a foot or two from her face. In the moonlight, she could just make out that it was a head, turned toward her. The eyes were wide open, and so was the mouth.

She screamed and turned on the flashlight.

The old man — in an orange life jacket — was staring at her … but just beyond him a pair of fierce yellow eyes glittered like coals in the dark.

The wolf, dragging the corpse by its ravaged arm, stood its ground, not budging an inch.

Nika shrieked at it and waved the flashlight wildly.

The wolf lowered its head, growling. No wolf worth its salt ever released a hunk of meat without a greater threat than this.

She swatted at it with the flashlight, and the wolf ducked, still clenching its prize.

She shrieked again, and a few seconds later there was a clamor at the doors, the sound of running boots and men shouting.

The wolf jerked its head, ripping a hunk of frozen flesh from the old man’s arm, then lunged back into the darkest recesses of the church.

“Nika! Where are you?”

It was Slater.

Flashlight beams were crisscrossing the air above her.

“Here,” she managed to cry out, kicking her legs free of the sleeping bag.

“Where?”

The boots came closer as she scrambled out from between the pews.

“Watch out — there’s a wolf in here!”

“Where?” This was the sergeant’s voice now.

“It just ran into the back!”

Slater threw a protective arm, tight as a hoop of steel, around her shoulders, then he said, “Jesus Christ,” as he took in the corpse on the floor.

“Get out!” Sergeant Groves was shouting. “Get out now! I’ll take care of the wolf.”

But Slater wasn’t going anywhere. He pointed his own flashlight toward the far end of the church. There was a wooden screen, a few feet high and still adorned with scraps of paint, standing behind a jumble of broken boards and furniture.

Among the debris, a black shadow stirred.

“I see it!” Groves said, and she heard his pistol cock.

“Don’t shoot it!” Nika shouted.

But the sergeant snorted in derision, and the gun went off with a deafening blast. A corner of an old chair flew apart in a spray of splinters, and the shadow leapt behind a pew.

“Let it go!” Nika said. “If we leave, it will go on its own!” She pulled on the sleeve of Slater’s shirt.

Just then, there was a blur of motion as the creature vaulted out of its cover and, to their astonishment, came racing straight toward them.

Groves fired again, the bullet hitting an andiron with a clang, and before he could get off another shot, the wolf, like a gust of wind, went hurtling right past them all, head down, eyes fixed on the open doors. Nika felt its fur bristle against her leg as it charged down the aisle.

The sergeant whirled around, but Slater warned him not to shoot.

And then it was gone, into the night.

“Was there just one?” Groves asked her urgently.

“Yes,” she said, “that’s all I saw.”

The sergeant’s eyes now fell on the corpse, and after taking a deep breath, he looked more puzzled than appalled. “Who the hell is this?”

“One of the lost crewmen,” Slater said, kneeling down, and examining the life jacket in the flashlight beam. In white letters, it read NEPTUNE II.

“Wait — I recognize him now,” Nika said. “It’s Richter. Down at the docks, where he worked, they always called him Old Man Richter.” She became aware that there were several other members of the expedition now, clustered on the steps of the church and peering in through the open doors.

“I guess Harley Vane wasn’t the only survivor of the shipwreck, after all,” Slater said.

“But how the hell did this old guy get up here to the colony?” Groves, holstering his gun, wondered aloud.

“When they have no choice,” Nika said, solemnly, “people can do extraordinary things.” And St. Peter’s Island was plainly the place to do them. No wonder she’d had the heebie-jeebies since getting there. The island had a bad rep, and it was living up to it in spades.

Slater awoke in the dark, with no idea of the time. He glanced at the fluorescent numerals on his watch, and saw that it was not even 6 A.M. yet. The sun wouldn’t rise, if that’s what you could call it, for hours yet.

All around him he was aware of the others, still asleep — Dr. Lantos on the insulated rubber flooring under the table, Kozak snoring on a pile of the ground mats, and Nika — safely removed from the old church — curled like a cat into her sleeping bag between some unpacked crates. The thought of what might have happened to her earlier that night, alone with the wolf and its frozen carrion, made him shudder. He had never lost a man — or woman — on a mission before, and he was not about to start now.

Especially with someone like Nika.

Rising quietly, he went to the flap of the tent and poked his head outside. The air was so cold that just drawing a breath felt as if he’d swallowed a bucket of ice, and the colony grounds were dusted with a fresh coat of snow — not as deep as he’d dreaded but enough to prove a nuisance with their dig. The Sikorsky was parked a hundred meters away, with Sergeant Groves and his Coast Guard crew bunked down inside. Like the Greeks hidden away in the Trojan horse, Slater thought.

As he watched, the hatchway slid open, and Groves, his parka flapping open and his boots unlaced, stepped out onto the snow with his flashlight on. Slater raised a hand, but Groves didn’t see him as he made his way to the latrines. There was an immense amount of work to do that day, but Slater knew that if anybody could get it all organized and done, it would be the sergeant.

When he ducked his head back inside, he saw that Dr. Lantos was stirring. “Who let the draft in?” she said, fumbling for her glasses, and even the professor had quit snoring and was stretching his burly arms. All he could see of Nika was the top of her head, burrowing deeper into her bag for a few extra minutes of slumber.

The day was officially under way.

Over the next few hours, Groves and his crew got a hot breakfast going in the mess tent and unloaded the remainder of the supplies in the chopper, while Dr. Lantos and the professor checked over their equipment inventories and made sure everything was accounted for and in order. As soon as the sky showed a glimmer of light, and Slater could see that the crewmen, under the guidance of the pilot, Rudy, were erecting the other prefab structures according to the plans he had drawn up, he left them to it and rounded up his own team for the trip to the cemetery. Dr. Lantos wanted to stay behind for now and personally oversee the construction and placement of the autopsy tent, but the others were raring to go. Kozak, both gloves fastened on the handlebars of his ground-penetrating radar unit, looked like he was about to mow a lawn.

“You sure you don’t want to wait until we’ve seen what kind of access we have to the cemetery?” Slater asked, but Kozak patted the bright red handles of the GPR like it was a trusted dog and said, “It has gone everywhere. And until we do the ground study, what else can you do, anyway?”