Children of the Storm

brought up the subject of Kenneth Blenwell in conversation with Rudolph Saine. All three times, his reaction to her suggestions was as it had always been before, and she got absolutely nowhere with him, as if she were trying to roll a boulder uphill.
        Once or twice, when her failure to convince Saine was terribly evident, she saw Bill Peterson throw her an agonized look, and she knew exactly how he felt. Each time, she shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “What can I do more than I have already done? Isn't this a hopeless game I'm playing?”
        By nine o'clock, the weather report said that Hurricane Greta had slowed its advance on the Guadeloupe area and was nearly stationary now, whirling around and around on itself, kicking up tremendous waves and forming an outward moving whirlpool of winds that were more terrible than anything that had been recorded since 1945. These winds and waves were being felt throughout the Caribbean, especially in the Guadeloupe area, but at least Greta had stalled for the time being.
        “Maybe there'll be no need for the storm cellar after all,” Bess said, relieved.
        “Awww,” Alex said.
        “No pouting,” Bess warned.
        The boy said, “But that's not fair! We're hardly ever here during the worst of the hurricane season, and we hardly ever get to see a really good one. We been in the storm cellar only two times before -and one time, we was only there for an hour or two. What kind of danger is an hour or two? That's no fun.”
        “Can't we go in the cellar anyway?” Tina asked.
        “Where the two of you are going to go,” Bess said, “is straightaway to bed, under warm covers.”
        “Good idea,” Saine said.
        “What if the storm gets really bad tonight, with really monstro waves?” Alex asked.
        “Then,” Bess said, “we'll take you out of bed and cart you down here to the storm cellar.”
        “Promise?” Alex asked.
        “Promise.”
        “Will you wake us?”
        “We'll wake you,” Bess said. “Cause if we didn't, we'd never hear the end of it.”
        Rudolph scooped up the two children, one in each thick arm, and he held them at chest height, as if they weighed less than nothing. They giggled and pretended to struggle against him. He took it in good humor and escorted them upstairs to their room.
        Sonya went across the room and sat next to Peterson where he was peeling an apple. She said, “I didn't have any luck with him.”
        “I saw.”
        “Now what?”
        “Now,” he said, carving away the last of the peel and putting down the knife, his hands moving expertly, as if he'd spent a life peeling apples, “we pray a lot, and we keep our eyes and ears open for the least indication of something unusual.”
        “You think tonight's the night?”
        He took a bite of the apple, chewed it carefully and said, “Not unless the storm arrives tonight. Whenever Greta hits us, full force, that's when he'll strike.”
        “How do you know?”
        “He's a madman,” Bill said. “And lunatics are affected by great displays of nature. Their frenzy is magnified.”
        “Sounds like you've been reading some psychology textbooks.”
        “Browsing,” he admitted. “I wanted to know just what we might be up against.”
        The next weather report said that Greta was moving again, on her original course, though her rate of advance had slowed. Her internal winds, however, had risen. Weather Bureau planes were finding it almost impossible to do any further detailed surveillance.
        With that bad news like a lead weight on her mind, Sonya went to bed shortly past nine-thirty.
        
        Rudolph Saine answered the door of the children's room, his revolver in his hand and his body slightly tensed for quick movement. When he saw who was there, he holstered the gun and said, “Can I help you, Sonya?”
        “I don't know,” she said. She looked past him and saw the kids were at least in bed, if not asleep. “All evening, I've been hinting to you about something, and you've been studiously ignoring my hints. Now, I've decided to use the blunt approach.”
        “About Ken Blenwell,” he said.
        “Yes.”
        “You want to know why I refuse to consider him a suspect?” He was watching her closely, as he had watched her, once, when he had considered her a potential suspect.
        “I would like to know, yes,” she said, a bit