The God Machine by J. G. SANDOM Read Free Book Online

pulled the plug altogether; they had simply requested new oversight. Koster leaned over the rail and looked down at the water, the way that it tore at the bow. “Take a vacation,” the senior partner had told him. “It's been far too long, Joseph.” And then that final warning: “Use it or lose it.”
    If he fell from here, Koster wondered, would he be sucked down by the currents and drowned? Or would his body be tossed into the ferry's propeller, torn apart? He performed a few mental calculations, mapping current speed to direction, when the horn blew and he was forced from his reverie. There. The Fire Island dock was finally coming into view.
    Founded in 1894, the community where the Robin sons summered still maintained a level of exclusivity unusual even by Long Island standards. The oldest beach enclave on Fire Island and, some would argue, the most beautiful, Point O'Woods had been launched originally by the Chautauqua Assembly as a religious retreat, offering discussions on cultural and political topics, lectures on languages, cooking and photography, seminars on physical and spiritual development. Foremost amongst the community's guiding principles was the importance of family. While other communities were regarded as “family-oriented,” P.O.W. made it a rule. No one without children could live there. Prospective buyers had to be recommended by at least two existing members. Each suffered through an agonizing battery of interviews before being introduced as “guests” to the community. Only after renting for a minimum of a year did one become eligible to buy. This careful screening process, plus the emphasis on children, helped explain why there were somany third-, fourth-and even fifth-generation families in residence. Nick Robinson was a fifth-generation Point O'Woodser.
    The ferry finally docked and the passengers gathered up their dark blue bags with the Compass Press logo and disembarked. Soon, a line of guests made their way up the trail by the community's tiny commercial center: a grocery store, a candy shop, a post office. But no liquor store, Koster noticed. Even in the face of ongoing onslaughts by Manhattan's A-list, Point O'Woods still managed to retain the old-world charm of a private beach community.
    The passengers filed up the path, across several raised walkways that straddled the dunes. Most of the guests were staying at the Club House, a sprawling clapboard structure, complete with tennis courts and a health spa housed in an unfortunate extension. Only a few, like Koster, were bunking at the Robinsons'. Well, strictly speaking, Koster thought, Robinson didn't actually own the property. Families were sold ninety-nine-year leases. Koster struggled up the hill, circled a stand of pines and the house finally came into view.
    Robinson's “cottage” was a huge gray-shingled three-story cape, with eight bedrooms, a solarium and a large widow's walk on the roof. The structure sat on a promontory overlooking the ocean, at the far end of P.O.W., only a few hundred yards from the Sunken Forest. A path ran down to the beach by a boathouse, to a long wooden jetty that jutted out into the bay.
    Koster mounted the steps. Like the widow's walk on the roof, the porch wrapped around the entire circumference of the house. Bloodred geraniums and lavender hyacinths dangled from planters that hung down from hand-carved details in the arches. The sound of children's laughter blew in off the beach. Someone was barbecuingsomewhere, he noticed. Koster dropped his overnight bag on the porch, and sighed. Despite the pastoral scene, the decompressing boat ride, the mind-numbing perfumes of summer, he felt an unshakeable weight at the heart of his being. He could barely stretch out his fingers to reach for the knocker—a kind of mermaid—when the front door swung open. It was Theresa, Robinson's wife.
    Theresa smiled and opened the screen door. “I saw you coming up the walk. I'm glad you could make it, Joseph.