It was getting so dark. It was hard to see. At the bottom of the stairs, Michael looked around, confused, then darted towards the back of the house. He was in the kitchen. The outside door was over there. He rushed to it and reached for the knob. He was just about to turn the lock when he heard the footsteps approaching. Mr Parrish. His knees trembled. If the door stuck, Mr Parrish would grab him. Quickly, noiselessly, Michael raced out the other kitchen door, across the small foyer and into the little back parlour. He heard Mr Parrish bolt the kitchen door. He heard him drag the chair over to it. The light in the kitchen was snapped on, and Michael shrank behind the heavy overstuffed couch. Crouching quietly, he barely fitted into the space between the couch and the wall. Dust from the couch tickled his nose. He wanted to sneeze. The light in the kitchen and hallway went out suddenly, and the house was black dark. He heard Mr Parrish walking around, striking a match.

A moment later there was a reddish glow in the kitchen, and he heard Mr Parrish call, 'It's all right, Michael. I'm not angry any more. Come out, Michael. I'll take you home to your mother.'

John Kragopoulos had intended to drive directly to New York after leaving Dorothy, but the vague sense of depression coupled with a headache over the bridge of his nose made the five-hour trip seem suddenly insurmountable. It was the frightful weather, of course, and the intense distress Dorothy was suffering couldn't help transmitting itself. She had shown him the picture she carried in her wallet, and the thought of those beautiful children's having met with foul play left a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach.

But what an incredible thought, he mused. There was still the possibility the children had simply wandered away. How could anyone hurt a child? John thought of his two twenty-eight-year-old twin sons – one an Air Force pilot, the other an architect. Fine young men, both of them. A source of pride for a father. Long after he and their mother were gone, they would live. They were part of his immortality. Suppose when they were babies, he had lost them…

He was driving down Route 6A towards the mainland. Ahead on the right an attractive restaurant was set back from the road. The lighted sign, THE STAGEWAY, was a welcoming beacon in the afternoon gloom. Instinctively, John swung off the road and into the parking lot. He realized that it was nearly three o'clock and he had had exactly one cup of coffee and one piece of toast all day.

The bad weather had made the driving up from New York so slow he had been forced to skip lunch.

He rationalized that it was common sense to have a decent meal before he attempted the trip. And it was good business sense to try to strike up a conversation with the personnel of a large restaurant in a vicinity he was considering. He might be able to garner some useful information on the probable trade in the area.

Subconsciously approving of the rustic interior of the restaurant, he went directly to the bar. There were no customers at it, but that wasn't unusual before five o'clock in a town like this. He ordered a Chivas Regal on the rocks; then, when the bartender brought it, he asked if it would be possible to get something to eat.

'No problem.' The bartender was about forty, dark-haired, with exaggerated muttonchops. John liked both his obliging answer and the way he kept the bar immaculately neat. A menu was produced. 'If you feel like steak, the special sirloin is great,' he volunteered. 'Technically, the kitchen is closed between two-thirty and five, but if you don't mind eating right here

'Sounds perfect.' Quickly John ordered the steak rare and a green salad. The Chivas warmed his body, and some of his depression began to lift. 'You make a good drink,' he said.

The bartender smiled. 'It takes real talent to put together a Scotch on the rocks,' he said.

'I'm in the business. You know what I mean.' John decided to be candid. 'I'm thinking of buying the place they call The Lookout for a restaurant. What's your top-of-the-head opinion?'

The other man nodded emphatically. 'Could work. A real class restaurant, I mean. Here we do fine, but we get the middle-buck crowd. Families with kids. Old ladies on pensions. Tourists heading for the beach or antique shops. We're right on the main drag. But a place like The Lookout overlooking the bay… good atmosphere, good booze, a good menu… you could charge top dollar and keep it packed.'

'That's my feeling.'

'Of course if I was you, I'd get rid of that old creep on the top floor.'

'I was wondering about him. He seems to be somewhat odd.'

'Well, he's supposed to be up here every year around this time for the fishing. I know because Ray Eldredge happened to mention it. Nice guy, Ray Eldredge. He's the one whose kids are missing.'

'I heard about that.'

'Damn shame. Nice little kids. Ray and Mrs Eldredge bring them in here once in a while. Some looker, Ray's wife. But like I was saying, I'm not a native. I quit bartending in New York ten years ago after the third time I was mugged going home late. But I always been crazy for fishing. That's how I ended here. And one day just a few weeks ago, this big guy comes in and orders a drink. I know who he is, I seen him around. He's the tenant at The Lookout. Well, I try to make anybody relax, get his beefs of his chest, so just to make conversation, I ask him if he was here in September when the blues were running. You know what that stupe said?'

John waited.

'Nothing. Blank. Zero. He didn't have a clue.' The bartender stood with his hands on his hips. 'Do you believe anyone can come fishing to the Cape seven years and not know what I meant?'

The steak arrived. Gratefully John began to eat. It was delicious. As the taste of the prime meat combined with the warm glow of the drink, he relaxed perceptibly and began to think about The Lookout.

What the bartender had told him had confirmed his decision to make an offer on the place.

He had enjoyed going through the house. The sense of discomfort he'd experienced had begun only on the top floor. That was it. He had been uneasy in the apartment of the tenant, Mr Parrish.

John finished the steak thoughtfully and rather abstractedly paid his bill, remembering to tip the bartender generously. Turning up his collar, he left the restaurant and headed for his car. Now he should turn right and keep towards the mainland? But for minutes he sat irresolutely in the car. What was the matter with him? He was acting like a fool. What crazy impulse was forcing him to return to The Lookout?

Courtney Parrish had been nervous. John had been too many years in the business of sizing people up not to know nervous tension when he saw it. That man had been worried… desperately anxious for them to leave. Why? There had been a heavy, sour sweaty smell on him… the smell of fear… but fear of what? And that telescope. Parrish had rushed over to change the direction it was pointing in when John bent over it. John remembered that when he put it back to approximately where it had been, he'd been able to see the police cars around the Eldredge home. Such an incredibly powerful telescope. If it was directed into the windows of homes in the town, anyone looking into it could become a peeping Tom… a voyeur.

Was it possible that Courtney Parrish had been looking through the telescope when the children disappeared from behind their home… that he had seen something? But, if he had, of course he would have called the police.

The car was cold. John turned the ignition key and waited for the engine to warm up before switching on the heater. He reached for a cigar and lighted it with the small gold Dunhill lighter that had been his wife's anniversary present to him: an extravagant, deeply cherished gift. He puffed at the cigar until the top began to glow.