Children of the Storm

who attacked Sonya.”
        “And you forget,” Peterson said, “that whoever this man is, he's most likely an outsider, a stranger, perhaps someone we've never seen. In which case, your guess at his height is even more worthless.”
        Saine gave Peterson one last, close scrutiny, then turned back to Sonya to resume the questioning. “Did this man in the garden say anything to you?”
        “Nothing.”
        “Not a single word in all that time?”
        She hesitated.
        He saw the hesitation, leaned across the table and said, “Well?”
        Sonya said, “I believe he shouted at me, when I first stamped on his foot and broke away from him.”
        “What did he shout?”
        “A single word-something like 'Stop' or 'Hey.'”
        “You didn't recognize his voice?”
        “I wasn't thinking about that, just then. He might have been someone I know, and he might not have been. It's hard to say-from a single word.”
        “His clothes?”
        “I didn't see them.”
        “You said he was wearing tennis shoes.”
        “I think he was, canvas tops of some kind.”
        “Not much help,” Peterson said. “Nearly everyone in the tropics owns at least one pair of sneakers.” He looked at Rudolph Saine and said, “I'm wearing socks and loafers right now, if you want to check.”
        “I know you are,” Saine said. “I already checked.”
        “You're a tough case,” Peterson told him.
        “I have to be.”
        “If you suspect everyone in Seawatch, Bill said, “why don't you line us all up against the wall, like they do in the movies-then make us take our shoes off? If one of us has a bloody set of toes, then…” He snapped his fingers. “Voila! The case is solved!”
        Saine shrugged his massive shoulders, unmoved by the suggestion, which Peterson had made half in sarcasm. “If the man was wearing socks and sneakers,” Saine said, “it is unlikely that Miss Carter drew blood. His toes may be bruised-and they may be unscarred. Even if I were to find evidence of such an injury on one of you, what good would that evidence do me? You may have hurt yourself in some other manner… Such flimsy 'evidence' would never be admissable in court.”
        “Still,” Peterson said, “at least you'd have some idea who-”
        “Yes,” Saine agreed. “And the man I suspected would know he was suspected. He would lay low. He would become even more careful than he has been to date. If he finally did kill the children, he would have himself protected with a cast iron alibi, because he would know that nothing else but cast iron would stop me from moving against him.”
        “In other words, you want to give him enough rope to hang himself,” Peterson said.
        Saine said nothing.
        “Isn't that-sort of playing with the children's lives?”
        Saine said, “Mr. Dougherty trusts my judgment. This is my job, not yours. You must rest easy and not let it worry you so.” He smiled a non-smile.
        Sonya squeezed Bill's hand all the harder, to let him know that, if he were arguing with Saine for her sake or because he was angry with the bodyguard's treatment of her, none of this was necessary. She was tired of anger, raised voices, so much suspicion. She would just as soon get the questions and answers done with, no matter how pointless they might seem, so that she could go upstairs and get into bed-perhaps with an icebag at her throat.
        Bill seemed to take the hint, for he did not respond to Saine this time. He just sat there at the table, beside her, staring across at the big man, looking angry but powerless.
        Saine said, “Was this man wearing a watch, Sonya?”
        “No.”
        “Any rings?”
        “I don't know.”
        “His hands were around your throat for a long time, as you tell the story. Now, surely, you'd know whether or not he was wearing any rings. A ring would gouge at your skin, more than likely. At the very least, it would make an especially painful point.”
        “It all hurt so much, I didn't notice if one place hurt more than another,” she said. She rubbed her throat lightly. The swelling had gone down a bit, but the bruises had begun to appear, brown-purple and ugly. She hated for everyone to see her like this. She caught a glance from Leroy Mills who was sitting on a chair by the refrigerator; he blushed, looked down at his hands. He seemed as embarrassed by her bruises as she