Children of the Storm

was.
        “Was he left- or right-handed, Sonya?” Rudolph Saine asked.
        She blinked in surprise and, for a moment, thought that he was kidding her. When she saw that he was not being funny, that he was perfectly serious, she said, “How on earth should I know?”
        “When he grabbed hold of you-you'll remember that you said he grabbed you several times during your tussel under the arbor-did he always use the same hand?”
        “I'm not sure.”
        “Can you remember a single incident? The first time he grabbed you, was it with his left or right hand? Which shoulder did he take hold of, Sonya?”
        She shook her head. “I can't say.”
        “Try.”
        “It was so dark, and the whole thing was such a nightmare of grabbing, hitting and clutching that I can't remember anything about it-except the chaos and terror.”
        Saine nodded and looked away from her. He faced Peterson, seemed to gather his thoughts for a moment, folded his big hands together on top of the table, and said, “Bill, where were you between eight-thirty this evening and-say, ten o'clock?”
        “On the Lady Jane” Peterson said, without hesitation.
        “What were you doing there?”
        “Bedding down for the night.”
        “You have a room in Seawatch,” Saine said.
        “And, as you know perfectly well, I almost never use it, except to store my things. If the weather isn't bad, I always sleep in the forward stateroom on the Lady Jane.”
        “Why?” Saine asked.
        “I like it there.”
        “Why, though, when you have such excellent quarters here in the main house, do you choose to sleep in the cramped stateroom of a small boat?”
        “It's not so cramped,” Peterson said. “And it's air-conditioned. Besides, I'm a man of the sea, not of the land. I was raised on boats by parents who were sea lovers, and I've worked most of my adult life on one kind of vessel or another. On the other hand, you're a man of the land; you're perfectly comfortable in a big house, in your own room. We are different types, you see. Rather than four plaster walls, I prefer the slap of waves against a hull and the smell of open water.”
        “You make it sound quite attractive.”
        “It is,” Peterson said.
        Saine said, “Eight-thirty is an early hour to turn in. Do you always go to sleep so early?”
        “I didn't say I was asleep.”
        “To bed, then.”
        “Often, yes.” Peterson leaned back, as if he were no longer angry with Saine, as if he were only bored. “I turn on the radio to a good FM channel, usually something from Puerto Rico, maybe Jamaica. I like to read. Music, a book, a few drinks.”
        “This was your routine tonight?”
        Peterson nodded. “It was.”
        Saine unlocked his fingers and looked directly at the younger man. “What book were you reading?”
        Peterson told him, title and author. “You want me to recount the plot for you?”
        “That won't be necessary,” Saine said. “What abour your drinks? What were you having?”
        “Gin and tonic.”
        “How many?”
        “Two.”
        Saine got up and began to pace, his big body like a caged animal in the confines of the bright, sanitary kitchen. He said, “Could anyone vouch for you?”
        “Not that I know of. I was there alone, and I didn't see anyone after supper.”
        Saine nodded and turned away from Peterson, as if the man were no longer important. He looked, instead, at Leroy Mills, pursed his lips and said, “What about you?”
        “I was in my room,” Mills said.
        He did not look up from his hands, which held each other nervously, and his voice was subdued. Sonya thought his manner might spring from some underlying guilt or merely from a shy nature. It was impossible to tell which.
        “Were you in bed early, too?” Saine asked, an undeniable note of sarcasm in his voice.
        Mills looked up quickly, shook his head quite vigorously, as if not only to deny the alibi Saine had just given him, but as if, also, to indicate that he wouldn't be satisfied with telling anything but the truth. “I was writing letters, Mr. Saine. I wrote two letters and was on the third-when Miss Carter came home and all the excitement began. Then I had to come down here, to talk with you.”
        “Letters? To whom?” Saine asked. He stopped pacing and stood before the small man, looking down on