The Mark of the Assassin

against the cold
    windblown rain. A ferry plowed toward him, two cars on the deck, beating
    against the heavy current rushing through Shelter Island Sound toward
    the open water of Gar diners Bay. Outside the small ferry office was a
    tan four-wheel-drive vehicle with police markings. It was possible the
    officer was just making rounds or had stopped for a cup of coffee.
    De-laroche doubted that was the case, though. He suspected the police
    were watching the ferry because Michael and Elizabeth Osbourne were on
    the island. He walked back to the Range Rover, climbed inside, and drove
    away from the ferry landing. Twice he had to swerve to avoid small herds
    of white-tailed deer. He turned onto a small dirt and gravel road that
    ran into a stand of trees. There, hidden from view, he slipped on his
    reading glasses and unfolded a large-scale Long Island road map that he
    purchased at a gas station along the way. Astrid peered over his
    shoulder. North Haven was a small thumb of land jutting into Shelter
    Island Sound. To the southeast lay the historic whaling port of Sag
    Harbor. "The police are watching the ferry landings," Delaroche said.
    "That means the Osbournes are probably on the island. The South Ferry
    shuts down at one A.M. The police will go home because they'll conclude
    we haven't tried to make the crossing."
    "If the ferries are shut down, how do we get onto the island?"
    Delaroche tapped the map at Sag Harbor. "There will be boats in the
    harbor and on the docks. We can steal one and make the crossing after
    the ferries stop running."
    Astrid said, "The weather is terrible! It's not safe to go out in a boat
    on a night like this."
    "This isn't so bad," Delaroche said, removing his eyeglasses and
    slipping them back into his pocket. "In Breles they would consider this
    a fine night for fishing."
    DELAROCHE ENTERED SAG HARBOR and parked along the marina. He climbed out
    of the Range Rover, leaving Astrid behind. The town was quiet, the shops
    and restaurants along the waterfront closed. After five minutes,
    Delaroche found what he was looking for, a twenty-six-foot Boston Whaler
    with a large Johnson outboard motor. He walked quickly back to the Range
    Rover and collected the things he needed: the cellular phones, the
    Berettas, the waterproof clothing. He locked the doors and pocketed the
    keys. They walked along the marina and along a wooden dock, slick with
    rain. Delaroche climbed into the Whaler and helped Astrid onto the deck.
    There was a standing bridge and seating compartments forward and aft.
    Delaroche worked a lock pick inside the ignition and started the engine.
    He leaped onto the dock and untied the lines, then jumped in the boat
    again and backed out of the slip. He cruised slowly through the harbor,
    boat throbbing beneath his feet. Twenty minutes later they entered the
    waters of Gardiners Bay.
    FIVE MINUTES INTO THE JOURNEY Delaroche feared Astrid had been right. On
    the bay the wind was ferocious, beating down from the northwest at forty
    miles per hour with stronger gusts. The temperature was forty degrees,
    but the rain and wind made it feel much colder. The cockpit of the
    Whaler was open, and within minutes Delaroche and Astrid were soaked.
    Delaroche's hands were frozen to the wheel, despite his gloves. Astrid
    clung to his arm and buried her face in his shoulder against the rain.
    The night was pitch-black, no moon, no starlight, nothing by which to
    navigate. Delaroche kept his own running lights doused to avoid being
    spotted from shore. Swells of four to five feet beat against the port
    side of the Whaler, tossing the shallow-draft little boat about.
    Delaroche moved to within two hundred yards of the shoreline and headed
    due north. The seas calmed slightly. Off the port side he could see the
    very faint outline of trees and land. Delaroche knew from his maps that
    it was Mashomack Preserve, a giant nature conservancy. He continued
    north, past Sachem's Neck and Gibson's Beach. He nearly ran aground at
    Nichols Point, so he turned a few degrees to stern and moved farther
    offshore. After a few minutes he spotted Reel Point, a thin finger of
    land at the mouth of Coecles Harbor. He knew he was getting closer. They
    rounded Ram Head and set the Whaler on a northwest heading toward
    Cornelius Point. The course change placed them directly into the path of
    the wind. Their speed slowed to a walking pace as the rollers grew
    larger. The little boat rose skyward as each wave passed