Wexalia, an island in the Wadden Sea, Netherlands

THE ROTTEN-EGG SMELL of the mudflats was stronger at night. Or maybe it just seemed that way because his senses were on red alert.

He didn’t dare turn on the car’s headlights. Hunched over the steering wheel, he concentrated on the feel of the old dike road beneath his tires. When the car veered too far to the left, the tires sank into soft, spongy weeds. Too far the other way, and the wheels scraped the basalt boulders lining the dike down to the mudflats.

Once past the gate to Doeksen’s dairy farm, he slowed the car and parked alongside the barbed wire fence. He groped for the trunk release switch below the radio, pressed it, and heard a muted thud. Then he stepped into the weeds and for a moment let the damp wind whip across his face. He tasted salt on his lips.

His eyes shifted around warily.

The nearest village was miles away, on the other side of the polder. Behind the fence was a pasture, dotted with dark mounds that he took to be sleeping cows. The windows in the farmhouse were dark. The barn was dark except for a security light over the door. In the other direction, beyond the dike, a motley collection of fishing boats was moored to the pier.

He started around to the back of the car. His insides turned suddenly wobbly, and his legs gave way. He grabbed the fender to keep from collapsing into a quivering heap, a moan swelling up inside him. He squeezed his eyes shut. Gave himself a moment. He was all right; he could do this—he could do whatever it took.

He opened his eyes, heaved a deep sigh, steadied himself. He raised the trunk lid, stupidly hoping that the body had magically vanished, that he would wake up and find today hadn’t happened yet. But she was still there. Wrapped in a tarp and bound with rope. He lifted the head end of the bundle and pulled, his back straining. The feet flopped to the ground, and he lugged her by the shoulders, picking his way backward over the dike.

Doeksen’s dinghy was tied up halfway along the pier. He nearly lost the bundle overboard before finally wrestling it into the boat, sweat running down his back. He returned to the car for the flashlight and shovel, tossed them into the dinghy, and sat down on the rear seat. His hands shook violently, and he lost precious minutes untying the dock lines.

He had to get the job done before the first gray light of morning, before the early risers—fishermen, farmers, runners. All potential witnesses. He didn’t turn on the motor, afraid of attracting attention and being remembered. The tide was coming in. Perfect. Safer to row against the current than to risk being caught in the outgoing tide, which might sweep the dinghy through the channel and into the raw North Sea. He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers and gripped the oars.

As he rowed, the dinghy bounced on the swells, and the dark sandbank grew larger. Clouds masked the stars, but the moon was huge and low on the horizon, casting a ghostly path on the sea.

Twenty minutes later, the bow scraped sand. He laid down the oars and stepped into the muck, which rose to the top of his boots. Cold water sloshed inside, soaking his socks. Glancing back at Wexalia, he made out the black silhouette of the island, shaped like the whale carcass he had once seen floating in the sea. A once magnificent animal, rendered grotesque by death.

Shoving the dinghy up the slope was like budging a piano up a ramp. He heaved and got it out of the water, but no further, so he tipped it on its side and dumped the bundle onto the sand. The little craft was still heavy, but light enough to push past the tidemark. He went back, seized the rope that bound the tarp, and tugged, burning his palms. He should have worn gloves. What else had he forgotten?

He dropped the bundle next to the dinghy, picked up the shovel, and trudged across the sandbank. He leaned into the wind, the roar all but drowning out the hiss and gurgle of the tide. The flashlight illuminated ghostly clumps of marram grass and flowering searockets, colorless in the night. His foot struck something solid: a small sign warning that trespassers would be prosecuted. Trespassing! He gave a short, hysterical snort.

Halfway across, he stopped. It was the highest point and escaped flooding at high tide or even during a severe storm—the reason the sandbank was a resting place for birds and seals.

He had worried the sand would be packed too hard to shovel, but the top layer was loose, mixed with broken seashells. He set about digging a trench six feet long and two feet wide. The deeper he dug, the firmer the sand, until it was impossible to dig further. Three feet down would have to do.

He followed his footprints back to the dinghy and pulled the bundle up the rise. The tarp kept catching on clumps of grass, and he had to yank it along. He stopped at the edge of the trench.

As he stooped to untie the rope, an urge came over him to see her face one more time. He peeled back the tarp and, with shaking hands, aimed the beam.

The pale blue eyes staring back at him blinked.