It took me twenty minutes to make the drive to Skidaway Island. Three blocks on the far side of the
bridge I found Bayview, a deserted gravel lane, hardly two cars wide, that twisted through a living
arch of oak trees with Spanish m4ss. Here and there, ruts led to cabins hidden away among trees,
palmettos, and underbrush. I passed a roadhouse called Bennys Barbecue, which looked closed except
for a gray Olds parked at the side of the place that looked suspiciously like the car Harry Nesbitt was
driving when he followed me the night before. After that there was nothing but foliage for almost a
mile before I came to O?Brian?s shack.
It wasn?t much more than that, although it seemed a sturdy enough place. It was built on stilts about
twenty yards off shore and was connected to land by a wooden bridge no more than three feet wide.
The tide was in and the cabin, which looked about two rooms large with deck surrounding it and
screened porch at one end, was perched barely three feet above the water. A small boat, tied to one
end of the platform, rocked gently on the calm surface of the bay.
Nesbitt was right—there wasn?t a blade of grass within twenty yards of the cabin.
The place was as still as a church at dawn.
A slate-gray Continental was parked under the trees near the water?s edge. It had been there awhile;
the hood was as cool as the rest of the car. I walked out to the edge of the clearing and held my hands
out, prayer style, palms up.
“O?Brian? It?s me, Kilmer.”
A mockingbird cried back at me arid darted off through the palmettos. Somewhere out near the shack
a fish jumped in the water. Then, not a sound.
I waited a moment or two.
“It?s Jake Kilmer,” I yelled. “I?m coming on out.”
Still nothing.
I tucked both sides of my jacket in the back of my belt to show him 1 wasn?t wearing a gun and
started walking out onto the platform, holding on to both railings so he could see my hands.
“O?Brian!”
A fish jumped underfoot and startled me. I could see why O?Brian had built his shack on this spot. He
could drop a line out the window and fish without getting out of bed.
“O?Brian, it?s Kilmer. You around?”
Still no answer.
I reached the cabin. The front door was locked, so I went around to the porch, held my face up against
the screen, cupped my eyes, and peered inside. The place was as empty as a dead man?s dream.
“O?Brian?”
