He paused a minute, let himself feel the wind, taste the salt in it. The water was a hard blue today, a hue that made him wonder why the sea didn’t slice itself open with its own waves. When he turned a circle, he studied the other houses. More rentals, he deduced. There was no sound, no movement except the sea and the air, and the gulls that swooped over this quiet stretch to cry. Mia’s cliffs—and wasn’t it odd that they were at nearly the precise opposite end of the island—were more picturesque, he thought. More dramatic. More everything. Yet this spot seemed . . . right somehow. Right for him.

“It’s three stories,” he continued with recording his observations. “It looks as though several additions have been made to the original structure. It’s wood—cedar at a guess, faded to silver. Someone must maintain it, as the paint, a grayish blue, is fresh on the shutters and trim. The porches, front and back, are deep and wide, with a section of the back area screened off. It has narrower balconies off many of the second-and third-story windows, with curling . . . maybe they’re called valances—I’ll look it up—along the overhangs. It’s a lonely spot, but it doesn’t feel lonely. More like it’s waiting. It’s odd that it feels as if it’s waiting for me.”

He walked across the sandy patch of lawn, around the side of the house, to the back, where he could stand just above the beach and study the quiet cove. There was a dock, again well maintained, but no boat tied to it.

He would want a sailboat, he decided. Maybe a motor launch as well. And the masculinity of the house needed to be softened a bit with some flora. He would have to research what grew best in this type of soil. He wondered if both the chimneys were in working order, and what it would be like to sit in the winter with a fire roaring while he watched the sea. Shaking off the daydreams, he went back to his Land Rover and unloaded his equipment. It was only a short hike to the cave. He noted that the shadowed mouth of it was hidden from the house by the slight curve of the land. Making it more private, more mysterious. A perfect spot for kids’ adventures and young lovers, he decided.

But if it was still used for such purposes, there was no sign. He could see no litter, no footprints, no markings as he walked across the shale.

He had to make two trips, and though the air in the cave was cool and slightly damp, he shed his jacket. He set up his equipment to the pretty music of lapping water and the echoes of the underground chamber.

The cave wasn’t large. He measured it at just over eleven feet long and just under eight wide. He was grateful that the heart of it was more than seven feet high. He’d spent time in others that had forced him to squat or hunch or even explore on his belly.

Armed with a halogen flashlight—something he hadn’t had along with him on his first trip—he studied every inch of the cave while his equipment ran.

“Something here,” he mumbled. “I don’t need the machines to tell me, there’s something here. Like layers of energy. New over old. Nothing scientific about that, but there you go. It’s a strong sense, gut sense. If this is the cave mentioned in my research, it means—What’s this?”

He paused, shining his light on the wall of the cave. He had to squat after all to see it clearly.

“Looks like Gaelic,” he said, reading the words carved into the stone. “I’ll have to translate it when I get back.”

For now he copied down the words in his notebook, and the symbol beneath them.

“Celtic knot, Trinity pattern. This carving isn’t that old. Ten years, twenty maximum. Another guess. I’ll test and verify.”

Then he ran his fingers along the carvings. The indentations filled with lights that lanced out in narrow beams. His fingertips warmed with the heat of them.

“Holy shit! Is that cool or what?”

He sprang up to get his gauge and his video camera, forgetting the curve of the cave ceiling. And he rapped his head hard enough to see stars.

“Idiot! Son of a bitch! Damn it! God!” With one hand clamped on his head, he paced and cursed until the sharpest edge of the pain dulled to a vicious throb.

Pain was replaced by disgust when he noted the wet smear of blood on his palm. Resigned, he dug out a handkerchief, dabbed gingerly at the knot that was forming. He held the cloth in place while he gathered his camera and gauge.

This time he sat on the ground.

He took measurements, logged them, then, prepared to document the changes, ran his fingers over the carving again. And nothing happened.

“Come on, now, I saw what I saw, and I have the minor concussion to prove it.”

He tried again, but the carving stayed dark, and the stone cool and damp. Undeterred, he stayed where he was, cleared his mind. He ignored the nasty headache already full blown. As he lifted his hand again, his monitors began to beep.

“What the hell are you doing? Holding a séance?”

Ripley stood at the mouth of the cave, the sun throwing a nimbus around her body. Too many thoughts jumbled in his mind, and all of them involved her. He gave up, for now, on the carving and just looked at her.

“Are you on cave patrol today?”

“I saw your car.” She scanned his equipment as she stepped into the cave. It was still madly beeping.

“What are you doing sitting on the ground back there?”

“Working.” He scooted around to face her, then sat back on his heels. “Got any aspirin on you?”

“No.” She played her flashlight over him, then rushed forward. “You’re bleeding. For God’s sake, Mac!”

“Just a little. I hit my head.”

“Shut up. Let me see.” She yanked his head forward, ignoring his yelp of protest, pawed through his hair to get to the scrape.

“Jeez, Nurse Ratched, have a heart.”

“It’s not too bad. You won’t need stitches. If you didn’t have all this hair to cushion your lame brain, it’d be a different story.”

“Are we on speaking terms again?”

She sighed a little, then lowered herself to the cave floor, sitting as he was, back on her heels. “I did some thinking. I don’t have any right to interfere with your work. I don’t have any business resenting it, either. You were up front about it, right from the start, and what you said last night was true. You haven’t pushed me.”

She was wearing earrings. She didn’t always. These were tiny dangles of silver and gold. He wanted to play with them, and the pretty curve of her ear. “That sounds like a lot of thinking.”