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They had found her husband’s body two days before, buried in the remains of a network of tu
Throughout the days that followed, Sharon Macy had been her ally, her protector, the two women united by their experiences. The investigators had taken away the money, but she had been told quietly that no charges would be filed against her. The states of Maine and Virginia proved remarkably sympathetic to her plight, perhaps recognizing that a battered wife, fleeing her husband to save herself and her child, would sway even the most hardhearted of jurors.
But Da
“I don’t want to leave,” Da
“But after all that has happened-”
“It doesn’t matter. The bad men are dead.”
“We may have to leave. People here may not want us to stay after what happened.”
“They won’t make us leave,” he said.
And now it was she who seemed to be the younger one, the child, and he the older one, the one offering reassurance.
“How do you know?”
“He told me.”
“Who told you?”
“Joe. He told me it would be okay.”
She let it rest then, not wishing to return either of them to the vision of the dying policeman on the floor, the ragged wound in his throat and his blood spilling across the tiles. It came to her at night, unbidden, just as she supposed that it came to Da
But then Larry Amerling came to her, and he and Jack sat with her in her living room. Amerling told her that nobody on the island blamed her for what had happened, at least nobody who mattered, and that she couldn’t be held responsible for the actions of her husband. The deaths of Bo
“Joe cared for you, and I know Bo
She cried and told them that she would think about it, but Jack, his right arm still in a sling, took her hand, and hushed her and told her that there was nothing to think about. Then Larry Amerling said something very strange.
“Maybe I’m just getting fatalistic in my old age, but I think that what happened was meant to happen,” he said. “Strange as it sounds, you and Da
Now, as she stood watching her son, she wondered at the change that had come over him in recent days. He was quieter, more subdued, and that was to be expected. But rather than his confidence being shaken, or his becoming fearful of the world beyond the island, he seemed to have grown in assurance as a consequence of the events that had occurred. The night sounds that scared her did not trouble him, and he no longer even required his night-light to be left on, the little rocket that she had bought for him at Abacus in the Old Port for his last birthday. In truth, he now appeared happier in the darkness.
As she watched him, a shadow passed over him.
It must be clouds, she thought, straining to look up at the winter sky. Maybe it’s just the play of light, but there’s nothing out there, nothing that I can see. The sky is empty of clouds and the yard is clear but for my son on his bench and the shadow that stretches across him like a sentinel.
Seated on his bench, the boy stared straight ahead. He did not look behind him, even as he saw the shadow grow and felt the presence at his shoulder.
“Listen,” said the giant’s voice. “My father told me these things, and now I will tell you. It is important that we remember, so that the nature of the island may be understood. The first one who came was named Thomas Lunt, and he brought with him his wife, Katie, and their children, Erik and Joha
And the boy listened, and he remembered all that he was told.
Acknowledgments
While Sanctuary is an entirely fictitious island, elements of its history and geography are based loosely on Peaks Island, which lies in Casco Bay, close to Portland, Maine. Without exception, the people I met on the island were wonderful. You should visit. You’d like it.
I am particularly grateful to Officers Christopher Hawley and Bob Morton of the Portland Police Department, who carry out their duties on Peaks Island and who were kind and patient enough to answer my endless questions about the island and their work. My thanks also to Captain Russell Gauvin of the Portland Police Department, who was once again generous enough to facilitate my research, and to Sarah Yeates, a font of knowledge. Peaks Island: An Affectionate History by John K. Moulton (1993); Islands of Maine by Bill Caldwell (Down East Books, 1981); The Maine Coast Guide by Curtis Rindlaub (Casco Bay, 2000); Maine: The Pine Tree State from Prehistory to the Present, edited by Richard W. Judd, Edwin A. Churchill, and Joel. W. Eastman (University of Maine Press, 1995); and The Handbook of Acromegaly, edited by John Wass (BioScientifica, 2001) were also useful to me. All mistakes are, as ever, my own.
On a personal note, my thanks go out, as always, to my wonderful editor at Atria Books, Emily Bestler; her associate editor Sarah Branham; and to Louise Burke, Judith Curr, and all at Pocket and Atria for their faith in me, and for their constant kindness and support; to my editor at Hodder & Stoughton, Sue Fletcher; to Megan Underwood and the folk at Goldberg McDuffie Communications; and to my agent and friend, Darley Anderson, and his staff, for all that they have done for me; and, finally, thanks to the many booksellers and critics who have been generous enough to support my work.