Free Trespasser by Paul Doiron

dark, making me feel as if I were wearing blinders. We passed the accident site after we turned onto the Parker Point Road. I indicated the ill-omened stain in the road. Charley gave a solemn nod.
    The sign for Schooner Lane was brand-new and marked PVT for private. The road had been plowed and sanded over the winter. I figured that Professor Westergaard employed one of the local caretaking companies that watched over the seasonal homes in Seal Cove. The snow had thawed and refrozen a few times since the plow last went through; the lane was as slick as a bobsled run.
    There were no other homes on Schooner Lane, just a dense, bristling mass of spruces. At the bottom of a slight hill, the road curved and came to rest in the driveway of a large cottage. The remaining snowbanks along the edges of the drive showed that the caretaker had made a visit after the last big storm. No vehicles were visible, but a car might very well have been tucked away inside the three-bay garage.
    As we rolled to a stop, a motion-sensor light sprang on, illuminating the impressive building from the fieldstone foundation to the fieldstone chimneys. The mansion was obviously new. The building frame and casements had recently been painted a deep kelly green, and the cedar shingles still retained a pinkish hue. The architect’s design might have been an attempt at a postmodern Maine cottage, but something about the place brought to mind the House of Usher.
    “There’s a light on upstairs.” Charley pointed to the second story where the faintest hint of illumination brightened one window.
    The rest of the house seemed utterly dark.
    I reached into the backseat and found the Maglite. It was as long as my forearm and as heavy as a steel club.
    When we slammed the truck doors, the sound echoed like gunshots in the night. I followed Charley up the frozen drive—someone had recently sanded it—to the front door. We paused a moment on the granite step and exchanged quizzical expressions. Then Charley pushed the bell, saying, “Let’s see who’s home.”
    We could hear the muffled, electronic chime of the bell through the glass transom above the door.
    In the quiet, I became aware of the crashing of waves in the dark beyond the house. The ocean was an unseen but uneasy presence that made me think of a dragon sleeping in a dark cave.
    After a minute of silence, Charley tried again.
    I dug my bare hands into my pockets. The air was sharp and cold and stung my cheeks.
    After another long minute, Charley hit the bell three times in quick succession. Impatient, I pounded my fist against the door as hard as I could.
    Still, there was no response.
    “It doesn’t look like anyone’s around,” said Charley.
    I glared up at the lighted window on the second floor. If nothing else, it told me that the house hadn’t been abandoned for the winter.
    The old pilot stamped his feet to warm them. “The women won’t be too happy we flew out here on a wild-goose chase.”
    “This house has got to be where Ashley Kim was headed,” I insisted.
    “Maybe she and the professor drove up to Camden for a romantic dinner,” Charley said. “I suppose we could wait, but who’s to say when they’ll be back?”
    “I’m going to look in the windows.” I stepped into the brittle snow and began making a circuit of the building, pressing my forehead against every pane of icy glass and squinting to see what I could. Most of the windows had curtains to prevent a burglar from doing exactly what I was doing, but there were slits between some of the drapes that afforded a glimpse inside. The interior of the house hid itself in shadows. I could make out the bulked silhouettes of furniture and floating gray rectangles demarcating windows on the far side of the home.
    “We should probably get back to the ladies,” called Charley.
    The night before, I’d left the scene of an accident without quieting my doubts. I wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
    A long porch stretched