A shriek much like the distress cry of a black-crowned night heron pierced the morning quiet.
    Atop one of the tall sand dunes at Springer's Point, Betsy Michaels turned from studying the ocean below and peered behind her at the gnarled oaks of the maritime forest, the last one on Ocracoke Island. A shout from somewhere beyond the forest's edge echoed on the cold wind, and she squinted a the sandy trail leading back through the trees.
  She listened for a few seconds and then relaxed. It was only the wind blowing through the trees. She turned back toward the ocean but whirled around again when the crack of two rapid gunshots split the early morning air.