Stuart Woods_Stone Barrington 12 by Dark Harbor

the insurance agent and make the claim, and I’ll have the insurance company send you both checks. You’re well equipped to handle the estate and tax consequences.”
    â€œYes, I can do that.” Caleb stood up. “Thank you, Stone, for telling me about this.”
    â€œI would have told you sooner, but I found the policies only a few minutes ago.” Stone walked him to the front door. “One more thing: As you’re aware, Dick specified that his ashes be scattered in the harbor here; do you want me to take care of that?”
    â€œI’d like to do it myself,” Caleb said. “It’s the last thing I can do for him.”
    â€œI’ve made arrangements with a funeral parlor in Belfast. I’ll call you when I receive the ashes.”
    â€œThank you.” Caleb dug into a pocket. “Oh, I expect you’ll want my key to this house. Dick gave it to me when he built it, in case of an emergency, but you’ve got Seth and Mabel Hotchkiss here to deal with any problems.”
    Stone took the key. “Thank you, Caleb.” They shook hands, and Stone went back into the house. He looked at the key. There was a tag attached to it, and written on the tag was “Dick’s House, all doors.”

9
    S TONE HAD DINNER alone that evening, watched a movie on satellite television and got to bed late. It was after nine when he woke up the following morning.
    He was having breakfast when Seth came into the kitchen. “I thought I might take a drive around the island this morning,” Stone said. “You need the station wagon?”
    â€œI’ve got to go over to Camden to pick up some parts for the washing machine,” Seth said, “but Dick’s other car is in the garage, ready to go. The key is in the bunch I gave you.”
    â€œThanks,” Stone said, pushing back from the table. He got his sunglasses, walked out of the house and opened the garage door. “Wow,” he said, walking up to the little car. A moment’s inspection revealed it to be an MG TF 1500, the last of the classic series, built in 1954. It was silver, with a red leather interior, beautifully restored. Apparently, Dick Stone had not liked newer cars.
    Stone got into the car, switched on the ignition, pressed the starter button, and the engine caught. He let it warm up for a moment, then found reverse and backed out of the garage. A moment later he was wending his way down the road toward Dark Harbor, the wind in his hair and a song in his heart.
    He stopped in front of the Dark Harbor Shop, went inside and bought a New York Times. The owner, who also was a real estate agent, was working at his desk in the back of the shop and gave him a wave. The young girl working behind the old-fashioned soda fountain smiled at him as he left.
    Stone took the little car north until he ran out of road, then turned around and went back by a different route, passing the ferry terminal and the golf course. Soon he was back in the village and on the way home. You could see all of Islesboro in under an hour.
    As he approached the house he saw another dirt road forking to the left and, just for the hell of it, turned down it. It immediately began to narrow, but there was no place to turn around, so he continued. After a hundred yards he drove through an open gate, then another fifty yards down the road came to an abrupt halt. A large tree trunk, trimmed of its branches, was stretched across the road.
    Stone looked around. He was going to have to reverse for a hundred and fifty yards. He had begun to do so, when the gate behind him swung shut. Now he was trapped on the narrow road between the gate and the fallen tree trunk.
    He got out of the car and looked around. He was surrounded by thick woods and underbrush, with nobody and no house in sight. He was about to walk to the gate and try to open it when he saw a tiny red flash, and then he looked down at his chest to find a pinpoint of red light