Where exactly did he decide to take me? Only the queer gods of the lake and the wild animals of Sontimore Island knew, I supposed. We walked for a quarter mile around the island. Sand gathered between my bare toes. The wind was petulant and licked at my bronze torso. The silver-gray-white sliver of July moon was hidden behind New York clouds. There was a heavy silence between us. The only sounds I could distinctly make out were the tide and a nocturnal owl in search of food or lust.
Eventually I said, “Where are you taking me?” I wasn’t afraid, although maybe I should have been. The beach was long and narrow; a superb place to bury a body, particularly a certain biologist’s who just happened to reside on the island. Truth was I felt more excited about his leading and my following than abo
