Where are the children? [antikvár]

Prologue He could feel the chill coming in through the cracks around the windowpanes. Clumsily he got up and lumbered over to the window. Reaching for one of the thick towels he kept handy, he stuffed it around the rotting frame. The incoming draft made a soft, hissing sound in the towel, a sound that vaguely pleased him. He looked out at the mist-lilled sky and studied the whitecaps churning in the water. From this side of the house it was often possible to see Provincetown, on the opposite shore of Cape Cod Bay. He hated the Cape. He hated the bleakness of it on a November day like this; the stark gray-ness of the water; the stolid people who didn't say much but studied you with their eyes. He had hated it the one summer he'd been here— waves of tourists sprawling on the beaches; climbing up the steep embankment to this