In abundance San Juan featured pastures, forests, lakes, swamps, rolling hills, small farms, seals, sea birds, eagles, hawks, rabbits, deer, and peaceful places, all requiring little tending. It felt warmish two or three months a year and a bit chilly the rest but not so damp or cloudy as Seattle. The places built by people felt quaint, home-made, hand-made, and the places made by nature teeming with all but intelligent life forms otherwise known as people.

In the old days you could smell the fish guts mingled with the beach but these days there were far fewer fish and far fewer fisherman so you mainly caught the natural sulphur smell of the beach at low tide.

The chill today would drive most inside, but in a wool shirt and medium parka Sam felt comfortable for hours at a time, his big hands able to hold things even in a stiffening breeze without the usual ache from the cold. His body was accustomed to the out of doors and he spent most of his time there. He preferred to read in the light of the day even when it was cloaked in its mist-laden winter finery. If the cold did manage to work its way through the muscled layers of his torso or set his legs to being a bit numb he would rise and walk as best he could with the injuries, and these days he did quite well. At the local San Juan physical therapy he had even begun running on a treadmill.

There was a breeze over the harbor that kept Sam’s long dark hair slightly mussed. His carefully trimmed beard was black with premature salt and pepper for a man of 42.

He sat and watched the harbor, as usual enjoying its unique harmony between man and nature. It was better here than most places. The people of San Juan Island were a similar breed, by and large, for they chose to live here, surrounded by water, separated from most of the twentieth century.

Sam came from a different world. A world of adrenalin and death, of great deeds, great fights, dark shadows, and deep secrets. He had run a form of private espionage business created by a newly dangerous world. Despite any number of close calls, that world had not killed him, but it had bitten him and bitten him hard. Now he’d left it behind him, but he still felt the fangs, both in his body and in his mind. He hadn’t decided what to do next in his life. He had enough money and plenty of time to figure it out. One thing he had decided on was putting an end to the killing business. A bit sore from a hard workout, he rose and let his six-foot-two-inch body slowly uncoil. The intensive physical therapy had bulked his long and elegant musculature more than usual, making it all the more important for him to remain limber. His chest was big and well formed, built from bench-pressing three hundred and fifty pounds.

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