Paula climbed up into the Expedition and steered the big vehicle out to the street. She stopped and lowered all of the windows. Fresh air swept the offensive smell of ripe wetsuits and, more repulsive, coconut. That scent placed her right back in the fragmented nightmare and strange details that led to a blackness and then her coming to in a brightly lit ER.

LEONARDO KNEW THAT WHAT he was doing was eating the clock, was against his plans, but was unable to stop himself. Karen lay face down on his table. He adjusted her blanket and added a comforter. Covering the canvas helped him find his restraint. He climbed out of the boat and got back in the car.

Sniffing from one of the white bars on the dash, he rubbed the paste into his hands. He smeared the steering wheel, releasing more coconut fragrance, and rubbed his sticky hands inside his shirt and up and down on his chest. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes.

PAULA WAS STRUGGLING. THE address numbers were difficult to read in the rain with trees and hedges often in the way. It was a maze of low-connected buildings, a business park with narrow streets and unlit doorways. She locked up the brakes and squinted. The street numbers weren’t changing; instead, letters had been added. She drove on up another narrow long street.

Turning down a side street, her headlights rinsed and filled an occupied car—some guy sitting alone in the darkness. The dimwit was sitting there in the dark eating a candy bar—no, more like sniffing a bar of soap. Paula braked the Expedition in mid-turn.

The guy started his car, and Paula saw that he was parked in front of a boat now red in taillight glow. The car pulled away from the curve, and Paula gawked as the boat followed.

She completed the turn and drove up the narrow lane all the way to the next intersection. She turned into a barren parking lot and stopped. The sailboat disturbed her, causing a clammy, sickening fear. She didn’t know why, didn’t see a link. She stared at the water swept by the wipers.

“Scented surf wax?” she asked through tight lips. She made a quick turn and with the car back on the street, rammed her foot down on the accelerator.

At the next intersection, she looked left and right, her hair sweeping the sides of her face and her narrowed eyes. The streets in both directions were empty.

“Crap shoot.” Paula chose left, spinning the wheel, and punching her boot on the gas pedal. The big car roared up the street right through two stop signs, slowing only so she could scan for taillights. A mile up the road she made a screeching U-turn in the middle of the intersection.

“No clue,” she spat, the Expedition picking up speed. There was an intersection with an actual traffic light a few blocks away. She slowed slightly at the next stop sign, looking out her window and the passenger side. The streets were asleep in both directions. A speed bump just past the stop sign bucked the Expedition and sent Paula harshly up off the seat. She cursed as she landed back and saw a blue tourist sign on the side of the road. It had an arrow, a profile of a boat, and white letters that read “Marina”.

Reaching the intersection with the traffic light, she ignored the red and didn’t slow—she power slid the Expedition right, crossing into the opposite lane before she could straighten out the skid. Beach cottages and bungalows lined the street. She ignored them as well as the side streets, searching for another marina sign.

“Fuckin’ aye,” Paula yelped. There was another blue sign.

She followed the signs for another two miles before swinging onto the ramp down to the marina.

The parking lot was filled with trucks, cars, and boat trailers. Beyond were white lit docks and fishing boats. To her right, there were rows of pleasure craft under golden arc lamps. She saw some people among the fishing craft, the gift shop, and bait store.

She parked in the first open spot and climbed out. The rain had slowed and there was cold and fog. The front of the building was a darkened restaurant and gift shop. She heard loud voices from the fishing boats and jogged that way.

Standing at a white crusty railing overlooking the boats, she heard a woman call out to someone, “Some idiot’s left his trailer and car on the ramp.”

Paula turned to her right and looked past the ice and supplies side of the building to the gold lamps over the day boats. She heard the woman grumble loudly:

“Excuse me, but fucking tourists.”

Paula ran past a guy pushing a dolly of plastic crates.

She wasn’t sure if it was his car and boat trailer low on the ramp and the water. She put her hand on the hood of the car and felt warmth. The interior of the car was lit from the dome light. The inside was immaculate. Except for a greasy crust of white on the steering wheel. She turned to the black water of the harbor.

In the distance to her left, the harbor emptied into the sea, just past the seawall of concrete boulders. She ran in that direction.

Hurrying along the walkway to the docks, she saw a brightly lit and active fishing boat trolling out to sea. She heard its horn call shrill and loud. She watched a spotlight from high up sweep the water as the boat turned aggressively.

“Running lights, you moron!” The sound carried from a loud speaker.

As if in response, a small green running light appeared on the water. The light faintly revealed the shape of a sailboat resting still on the water. Paula ran to the end of the dock. Halfway to the water’s edge she stopped long enough to remove her boots.