Charon's Crossing

"Efram..."

"Here we are," the boy said. The VW lurched violently as he swung it to the side of the road. Beyond it, a series of small cinderblock houses marched towards the harbor. Efram opened the car door and all but leaped out. "Good-bye, miss."

"Efram." Kathryn threw open the door and jumped out. "Hey, wait a minute..."

The boy waved his hand and took off.

Kathryn sighed. After a moment, she slammed the door, went around to the driver's side, and climbed into the car. She put one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gearshift lever.

No matter what was going on at Charon's Crossing, there was a perfectly rational explanation for it. It was just infuriating to be the last to know what it was.

It would be even worse if it turned out she couldn't unload the damned place because of local stuff and nonsense.

Frowning, she put the car in gear. It was years since she'd driven a stick shift and the sound the VW made proved it. But the car finally shot backwards into the road and, after more horrible grinding noises, she coaxed it into first.

The Volkswagen bucked, then lurched forward.

"You'd better watch your backside, Amos," Kathryn muttered, "because ready or not, here I come."

* * *

Any other time, Hawkins Bay would have charmed her right out of her shoes.

Her father must have loved it on sight for it surely had to be an artist's idea of nirvana. Every street corner was worth sketching.

Even Kathryn, who was hardly in the mood for sightseeing, was impressed.

A sheltered, aquamarine harbor gave onto a wide pink sand beach bordered by a grove of palm trees. Beyond the palms were stuccoed, cinderblock houses which faced a narrow, cobblestone street.

Front Street, an old-fashioned street sign said, which made perfect sense considering that the only street that paralleled it was Back Street. The two thoroughfares were lined with modest buildings, each painted in one of the soft pastel colors of the Caribbean. Both streets were bisected by narrow alleys.

It was a charming scene. And a familiar one. Matthew's journal entry had described the town with accuracy and little seemed to have changed in the years since.

Well, Kathryn thought as a minivan shouldered past her, some things had changed. There'd been no cars or trucks lurching through these streets in his time. And no reggae music blaring from their radios. The music was loud, very different from the stately Bach fugues she preferred, but she found her shoulders swaying to the rhythmic beat.

A woman carrying a net shopping bag over one arm stepped down from the curb. Kathryn slowed the VW to a crawl. Nobody seemed to care very much if they walked on the sidewalk or in the road. People strolled as they liked; the cars, trucks and minivans drove the same way. If everybody did that in New York, there'd be bodies all over the place.

Kathryn smiled to herself. Maybe you caught on, if you lived here long enough.

She was more than

happy to drive slowly. It gave her time to search for Amos's law office. She knew it was here, someplace on Front Street, but she couldn't remember the number. Not that it mattered. There didn't seem to be numbers on most of the buildings.

Eventually, she saw a discreetly lettered sign.

Amos Carter, Attorney at Law.

She pulled the car to the curb, edged it between a pink Studebaker that was older than she was and a spanking new Dodge minivan, and got out.

The door to Amos's office was locked. Kathryn jiggled the knob, then peered in through the dust-smeared plate glass window. It seemed awfully early for him to be out to lunch.

"You lookin' for Mr. Carter?"

She turned around. A heavyset woman wearing a grey and white striped smock that stretched from her enormous bosom to her ankles had popped her head out of the shop next door and was examining her with friendly interest.

"Yes. Yes, I am. Do you know when he'll be back?"

"I'm Ada." The woman smiled and jerked her head towards the sign over the shop door. " 'Ada's Ladies and Gents Fine Apparel,' that's me."