Children of the Storm

you?”
        “Why do you ask?”
        Bill said, “I think tonight might get pretty rough up at Seawatch. Our man's obviously on the island, and he clearly intends to make his move, his big move, soon. All this other stuff is mickey mouse, just setting the scene for what he really wants to do. I'd feel a lot better if I had a gun. If anything happened to those kids, to Alex and Tina, I'd feel just awful…”
        “Doesn't Rudolph have a gun?” Blenwell asked.
        “Yes, he does. But it's the only gun in the whole house, hardly enough in the circumstances. We could do with a bit more protection.” He hoped Blenwell didn't see his real reasons behind these questions.
        But the other man looked at Peterson for a long, uncomfortable time, again as if he were probing Peterson's thoughts, were trying to find out exactly how much Peterson knew-about what?-or suspected-about whom?-and as if he had some personal stake in the outcome of this extrasensory investigation.
        At last, he said, “No, I have no gun.”
        “You're sure?”
        “Naturally.”
        “It wouldn't even have to be a handgun, a pistol or revolver. If you have a rifle-”
        “No guns at all. I don't believe in guns,” Blenwell said.
        “Your grandfather?”
        “There isn't a gun in Hawk House,” Blenwell had insisted.
        Peterson felt that it was time to drop that line of inquiry before Blenwell realized what he suspected. As pleasantly as he could, he said, “Well, thanks for your help.”
        “Good luck,” Blenwell had said.
        Peterson had come home, empty-handed.
        
        His story finished, Bill let go of the arms of the library chair and folded his long-fingered hands together, as if the telling of the tale had somehow relieved him of an inner agony and given him a semblance of peace. To Sonya, he said, “At least, now, I feel fairly certain that Blenwell doesn't have a gun. That would make him twice as dangerous as he is.” It was clear to Sonya that Bill no longer had the slightest doubt about who their man was.
        “Of course,” she pointed out, “he never has threatened, whoever he is, to kill anyone with a gun.”
        “Still, I feel better.”
        “Why are you so sure it's Kenneth Blenwell,” she asked.
        His arms returned to the arms of the chair, his fingers gripping the leather like talons.
        He said, “His entire attitude was suspicious. He wasn't in the least surprised about the ruined radio or boats. And there was the condition of his clothes, the wet trousers, as if he had been standing in water-as if he had been out sinking a couple of boats.”
        “He said he was surf fishing,” Sonya said.
        “No,” Bill said. “I asked him if he had been surf fishing, and he said that he had been-after a confused hesitation. You see, Sonya, I supplied him with his alibi for the wet trousers, and all he had to do was agree with me. And he did.”
        “Then he was lying?”
        “Definitely.”
        “How do you know?”
        “You don't go surf fishing in trousers,” Bill said. “You either wear a bathing suit or shorts. Or, if you do wear trousers, for some odd reason, you roll them up above your knees.”
        “That's pretty flimsy evidence-”
        But he was not finished, and he interrupted her before she could say more. “And even if you've got some weird reason for surf fishing in your streetclothes, you don't go home, when you're done, and walk around in the house wearing dripping pants and wet, muddy sneakers.”
        Sonya nodded, but she did not have anything to say this time.
        “And when I asked if he'd caught anything, he said he hadn't-a very convenient situation. If he'd caught a couple of snappers or almost anything of interest, I would have asked to see it-out of simple sportsmanlike curiosity. He realized that; I know he did.”
        “You've told Rudolph about this?”
        “First thing, when I came back from Hawk House Sunday night.”
        “And?”
        “He said it didn't mean anything.”
        “He's got a great deal of faith in Kenneth Blenwell,” Sonya agreed. “That's about the only person he seems to trust.”
        “That's just the problem,” Peterson said, “that illogical trust.” He got out of his chair and began to pace, swiftly, agitatedly, his hands clasped behind his back. “Saine goes blind, deaf and dumb every time that someone points a