The Invisible Husband of Frick Island by Colleen Oakley (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📗

Piper half grinned and then abruptly stood, brushing off the back of her shorts. “I’ve gotta go. Tom should be getting in anytime now.”

“Wait! I have more questions.”

“I assume you’ll be back next weekend, yes? You know where to find me.” And with that, she turned on her heel and walked off. Anders searched his brain to find another reason to call her back, but came up empty. So he just watched her go, until she disappeared behind the dunes.

He turned his face up to the sun and closed his eyes, waiting for the pleasant feeling to overcome him once again; the loosening of limbs, the tranquility pooling in his belly. It was confounding because the same sun baked his skin, the same slurping of the waves filled his ears, the same hard granite pressed against the bones of his backside.

But the feeling never came.

Chapter 16

A cool breeze blew through the open window in Anders’s room on the second floor of the bed-and-breakfast. The temperature, for once, was perfect. The bed, comfortable. Anders had even gotten used to the dead quiet of the nights, but he still couldn’t sleep. He should have been on cloud nine for finally getting to interview Piper. It was nothing mind-blowing, of course, but it was a step in the right direction to make the next episode better. Problem was, Anders wasn’t entirely sure he should make another episode. When he started, Piper had been a subject; an interesting character in an improbable story. But something changed on the beach, and instead of a character, a subject, he started seeing her for what she was—a person. An insect-loving person who was suffering from a bizarre delusional disorder and had terrible taste in Girl Scout cookies (everyone knew Do-si-dos were superior), but a person nonetheless. And being less than honest with her about the main focus of his reporting had grown from a pit in his stomach to a bowling ball. People were starting to lose interest anyway, he reasoned, and it wasn’t as if he had some new bombshell to add to the story. Perhaps it was time to move on.

Except, Anders didn’t want to move on. And therein lay the rub.

When the long hand of the clock ticked to 12:42, tired of tossing and turning, Anders slipped out of bed and stood at the dark window. The moon bathed the calm bay waters in a stroke of broken white light. And Anders had the sudden urge to be closer to it. To see it without the barrier of the window. He shoved his bare feet in his canvas slip-ons and opened the door to his room, stopping abruptly when the hinges let out a loud squeaky groan. He strained to hear any movement, and after deciding it was safe, he pulled on the door again, but this time moved at a glacial pace. When he finally eked open a large enough crack to pass through, he crept out into the carpeted hallway, then down the stairs.

It wasn’t only that he didn’t want to wake anyone. It felt clandestine—to be out and about this late. As if there were a curfew on the island and he was breaking it.

Once outside, he crossed the dark one-lane road that ran in front of the bed-and-breakfast and stepped onto the grass on the other side of it, walking up to the edge where the water kissed the land. As he stood there, in his plaid pajama pants and a worn T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of his college newspaper, staring at the glittering water and inhaling the briny air tempered with the scent of earthy grass, he tried to clear his mind but found it impossible.

A breeze came off the water, tugging at him, and Anders tore himself away from the view and followed it, thinking a walk might be just what he needed to help him sleep.

The bright moon and stars the only things lighting his path, Anders meandered up the one-lane road to the main street of town. If he thought Frick Island was desolate during the day, it was nothing compared to the dead of night. It was a strange feeling, to be so fully alone, every storefront, every house he passed dark and locked up tight.

Or was he? A movement up ahead in the dark caught his eye. He stilled, trying to focus. It was a figure, a person wearing dark clothing, but Anders couldn’t make out much more than that. Out of curiosity—and without making a conscious decision to do so—Anders began walking in the same direction the person went, toward the marina. As he closed the gap, he squinted, trying to make out a face, but it was too dark, and the person’s head was obscured beneath a ball cap. Anders paused when he reached the broken-down Chevy in front of the One-Eyed Crab, and thought about calling out, making his presence known, so if the person turned around, Anders wouldn’t appear creepy in his lurking. But something about the way the man—at least he thought it was a man—was walking, furtively, with nervous glances to his right and left, kept Anders silent. And made the hair on his arms stand on end.

Anders stood still, watching as the figure quietly approached the boat on planks. Tom’s boat. The man swiveled his head, looking around once more, causing Anders to quickly duck farther into the shadows of the restaurant.

What is he doing? Anders wondered, as the man stood at the boat, studying it. He walked slowly down its length, running his hand along the side, over the wormholes Piper had pointed out, as if he were assessing the damage. And that was when Anders noticed the object in the figure’s hand. He squinted, the moonlight just enough to make out the shape of a hammer.

Oh. Maybe he