I went downstairs to the seaward deck where I keep my skiff. It’s a twenty-one-foot Maverick, a beautiful little boat, with the new Mercury 225-horsepower Opti-Max I’d just had mounted, the combination of which suggested roadster and dragster qualities—for good reason.

I got a couple more peripheral glances as I started the boat and pulled away: The man was still there, still watching.

I idled the short distance to the marina, and tied off at my usual place just inside the T-dock where the fishing guides keep their skiffs. Because of the rain, a little crowd of locals had taken cover under the tin awning by the bait tanks.

But not everyone. Friday is the traditional weekend party night at Dinkin’s Bay Marina, so there was a slightly larger group braving the downpour, eager to get things moving because it was already late.

Three of the fishing guides—Jeth, Neville and Felix—were setting up picnic tables, while others, wearing foul-weather jackets, milled around the docks, carrying coolers and platters of food, or strolled and chatted with fresh drinks in hand.

One of the liveaboards had turned the music up loud, so, through her big fly bridge speakers, I could hear Jimmy Buf fett singing about one particular harbor, and the day that John Wayne died.

I said a few quick hellos, promised everyone who tried to engage me in conversation that I’d be right back, then walked across the shell parking lot toward the gate that Mack, the marina owner, closes and locks each Friday before sunset.

Behind it was a black Lincoln Town Car with gold trim, gold-spoked wheels and Florida plates. I found a stick, and noted the license number in sand beside the gate, before shielding my eyes and pressing my nose against the tinted windows.

On the passenger seat was a Florida road map, cans of Copenhagen snuff in a cellophane tube (one can missing) and the sort of rubber gizmo that nervous people squeeze to improve their grip. I also noted that the glove compartment was open.

So what do stalkers or private investigators stash in a glove box? Binoculars? Or maybe a handgun.

I used my T-shirt to rub prints off the window, then I stepped into the mangroves, moving quietly over the monkey-bar roots, feet sinking into the detritus bog, mosquitoes whining in my ears.

The path to my wooden walkway channels through limbs and roots, a dark, green tunnel that is a shady conduit walled by swamp.

I was close enough to the boardwalk path so as not to be seen without some effort, but close enough to be aware of anyone approaching or leaving the boardwalk.

If the stalker attempted to leave, I would see and intercept him.

Which meant he was still there, down there in the mangroves, watching my house from the water. Had to be.

Mangrove roots are like fibrous, shin-high hoops, half planted in the muck. I stepped over one after another, holding on to limbs for balance, moving steadily toward the approximate area where I’d last seen the man.

I used all the little tricks. Made sure I placed each careful boot-step on a shell or piece of broken branch so I wouldn’t sink into the bog. Waited for small gusts of wind to cover what little sound I did make. Paused every few seconds to listen for noise of movement ahead of me, or behind.

Big golden orb spiders thrive in the shade of mangroves, and there wasn’t enough light to see or avoid their webs, so I bulled through several insect traps, spider-silk sticking to my face like threads of cotton candy. When I felt a spider crawling on me, I stopped, carefully removed it and released it on a limb.

The whole while, I kept my eyes fixed in the direction where mangroves ended and water began.

Soon, I could see patches of silver and blue through the gloom of leaves. Then I could see the sandy area next to the buttonwood trees where the man had been standing.

He wasn’t there now.

Odd. Where’d he gone?

I stopped, waited, ears straining to hear, eyes straining to see.

Nothing.

There was no way he could have left via the trail without my seeing him. The only possibilities were that he had waded down the shoreline, or that he was now better hidden in the mangroves, off to my left or right.

Moving even more slowly, I worked my way to the big buttonwood at the water’s edge. The rain had quit now, though leaves still dripped.

From where I stood, I had an uninterrupted view of my house and the seascape beyond. Could see the top edge of a pumpkin moon, one day before full, a gaseous bubble rising out of the mangrove horizon. Could see Sally through the windows, very busy doing something in the kitchen.

It was the sort of scene that, if I had the talent, I’d want to capture on canvas. I stood in the shadows for another few moments before stepping out onto the sand.

That’s where the man had been standing, no doubt about that. The area was stamped with big shoe prints, pointy-toed, flat-bottomed shoes, Vibram heels sunk deep. He was a big guy. Size fourteen or fifteen shoes that carried a lot of weight.

There was an open Copenhagen can there, too. It was tossed down among the roots, silver lid missing, still nearly full.

A guy that big and sloppy should have been easy to track. Coming from the direction of the path, his bootprints were easy to read. But they ended by the tree where I now stood.

Each and every morning, I check the tide tables, which also give solar and lunar information. It has been a lifelong habit, and I do it automatically. So I knew that, on this day, the eleventh of April, low tide was at 7:47 P.M.—balanced, astronomically, between moonrise at 7:45 P.M. and sunset at 7:51. So the bay had nearly emptied, and would soon be refilling.

I stepped out into the shallow water, looking carefully.

Nope. No tracks out there, either. Which meant he hadn’t waded down the shoreline. Where the hell had he gone? It was as if he’d vaporized, disappeared into the darkening sky.

Then it came to me. Where he’d gone. Where he had to be.

Only one possibility remained, and that probability now entered my all-too-often slow, slow brain.

Sally’s stalker was above me, in the buttonwood tree.

He’d been there the whole time, watching, waiting.

I stood frozen for a moment, considering how I should react.

The situation reminded me of something. Years ago, in Indonesia, on a tiny uninhabited island near Komodo and Rintja, a military SAS pal and I decided we wanted to find and photograph one of the rarest reptiles on earth—a giant monitor lizard.

The island was uninhabited, for the very simple reason that the lizards are predators by day and night, very efficient hunters and their flesh of preference is mammalian.

To render a man suitably immobile for easy consumption, the lizards lie in wait, use their dinosaur tail to cut his legs out from under him, then bite his belly open with one slashing swing of the head.

That technique has been well documented, and seldom varies.

Real estate on the island was very, very cheap.

My Australian friend and I found the claw and tail prints of a big animal on a beach beneath coconut palms near a waterfall.

We spent the afternoon tracking it through heavy, Indonesian jungle. A couple of hours before sunset, we were both exhausted and frustrated—outsmarted by a reptile?—and so returned to the beach, and our little ridged hull inflatable boat.

The monitor lizard was there waiting for us. One of the big females, eleven feet long, probably four hundred pounds, tongue probing the air experimentally, like a snake, getting the flavor of us in advance of attacking. Her eyes were black, yet seemed to glow.

She’d been shadowing us the whole time, anticipating our moves.

That’s the way I felt now. Like the hunter who recognizes that he is being hunted.

Realizing that the man had to be in the tree above me caused the same sensation of adrenaline rush to move up my spine.

I turned slowly away from the big buttonwood. I wanted to give myself some space before confronting him. In military parlance, he owned the high ground. I pretended to re-examine his tracks, puzzled. Then I began to take slow, small steps toward the path to my home.

Above me, I heard limbs rustle, then a primal grunting sound. I looked up reflexively to see a dark, refrigerator-sized shape falling through the limbs, dropping toward me.