The American (43 page)

In this particular storm, however, the ocean merged seamlessly with the land, as though the 15-foot barrier had never existed to begin with.

 

The Cregans were not disturbed by the wind and rain that pummeled their home, or by the sudden drop in temperature that had accompanied the elements; after more than four years on the coast, they had already seen more nor'easters than they could remember. They knew, with the same hard hearts of the natives, that there was little they could do, other than to wait it out and assess the damage in the morning. They also reminded themselves that they were not in any danger from the trees surrounding the house, as most of the towering pines within several hundred feet had been cleared the previous year.

Reassured that the sturdy walls of their home represented safe refuge, they were not concerned when the phone lines went dead and they lost power. It was a commonplace occurrence in such weather, and though they had access to a powerful generator, they chose instead to make an early night of it, and headed off for bed.

They slept lightly, but they did sleep. Their house was surprisingly well insulated from the crashing sound of the storm by heavy brick and mortar, and expensive windows whose stout wooden frames had been well installed by local contractors.

As midnight approached, the trees farthest from their home seemed to grow out of the ocean. The writhing limbs bowed and swayed with the force of the wind and the water pounding against and swirling about their trunks.

The trails also emerged from the gray depths. As they moved farther inland, they began to take on more distinct shapes. Some of them were lined by fence posts, but all were marked to some extent by their previous travelers.

Smaller prints, such as those left by deer and some of the forest's smaller occupants, were soon washed away by the pounding rain.

Others lasted longer, such as the deep tracks left by the considerable weight of Richard Cregan, and the lighter, distinctive tread of Brenda Cregan's Timberland hiking boots.

There was a third trail that would have confused them had they seen it. It was a trail marked by uneven footprints of varying depths. Strange dragging marks followed each solid mark in the mud.

They were spaced in unusual increments, and each varied widely in depth and integrity. The differences were obvious, but the combined marks in the earth left no doubt as to the injured man's destination.

The footprints cut a straight path, leading directly from the tortured swells of the Atlantic to the calm, darkened exterior of the house that Richard and Brenda Cregan shared.

They were unaware as the storm raged on.

They slept lightly, and they did not dream.