Fog has descended over the docks. In the fog Samantha can only see Miss Brigham's hair, guiding her along like Rudolph's nose in the old Christmas song. "We're almost there," Miss Brigham whispers.
Samantha isn't sure about this plan. She should call for backup. Let the local authorities handle this. They'll never believe this, she thinks. I don't believe it. She could make up a story to get them over there. Tell them drug smugglers or terrorists are using the island as a base. Flash her FBI badge around, assert her authority.
"It's over here," Miss Brigham says. Samantha can't see where she's pointing, but she follows the splotch of red ahead of her to a slip. A wooden boat, not much bigger than a rowboat, is tied to the dock. "This is it."
"This? Did you row over here?" Samantha says.
"There's a sail," Miss Brigham says.
"Oh goody." Samantha puts a hand to her stomach. Having spent most of her life in New Mexico and Texas she's never had much exposure to boats. Especially not one so small. Beyond the fog she imagines a vast ocean with waves capable of swallowing their dinghy. "I should let you know I'm not much of a swimmer."
"We should be fine," Miss Brigham says.
Samantha hears a rustling from behind a stack of crates. She turns around in time to see a man in a black overcoat coming at her with a knife. She sidesteps her attacker's lunge, grabbing hold of his wrist as he goes by. She twists the knife out of his hand. He snarls and tries to hit her with his other arm, but she grabs this arm too and kicks him in the side.
"Look out!" Miss Brigham screams. It's too late. A vial of glowing liquid shatters in her face. She drops to her knees on the dock, trying to wipe the liquid from her eyes.
When her vision clears, she looks down at the sleeves of her jacket that have now outgrown her arms. Her T-shirt is now as loose as a nightshirt over her flat chest. Her boots feel like clown shoes as she gets up.
The man in the black overcoat is standing over her; she now must look up several inches to meet his eyes. "What did you do to me?" she says, her voice high and thin. The man in the overcoat smiles a hideous yellow grin and seizes her by the hair now streaming to the middle of her back.
"You'll make a nice addition to my collection," he growls.
"No, you can't!" Miss Brigham says. "She hasn't done anything. She doesn't know anything. Let her go, please."