Cassidy was terrified. His eyes shifted between the exhausted Hendricks and the mass of weed. “That?” he said, pointing at the weed. Reflexively, he stepped backward. “That thing? What do you mean it’s her?”

Brody was still fighting to control his stomach. “I think,” he said, “that it may be part of her.”

Reluctantly, Cassidy shuffled forward. Brody held back a piece of weed so Cassidy could get a clear look at the gray and gaping face. “Oh, my God!” said Cassidy, and he put a hand to his mouth.

“Is it her?”

Cassidy nodded, still staring at the face. Then he turned away and said, “What happened to her?”

“I can’t be sure,” said Brody. “Offhand, I’d say she was attacked by a shark.”

Cassidy’s knees buckled, and as he sank to the sand, he said, “I think I’m going to be sick.” He put his head down and retched.

The stink of vomit reached Brody almost instantly, and he knew he had lost his struggle. “Join the crowd,” he said, and he vomited too.

3

Several minutes passed before Brody felt well enough to stand, walk back to his car, and call for an ambulance from the Southampton Hospital, and it was almost an hour before the ambulance arrived and the truncated corpse was stuffed into a rubber bag and hauled away.

By eleven o’clock, Brody was back in his office, filling out forms about the accident. He had completed everything but “cause of death” when the phone rang.

“Carl Santos, Martin,” said the voice of the coroner.

“Yeah, Carl. What have you got for me?”

“Unless you have any reason to suspect a murder, I’d have to say shark.”

“Murder?” said Brody.

“I’m not suggesting anything. All I mean is that it’s conceivable—just barely—that some nut could have done this job on the girl with an ax and a saw.”

“I don’t think it’s a murder, Carl. I’ve got no motive, no murder weapons, and—unless I want to go off into left field—no suspect.”

“Then it’s a shark. And a big bastard, too. Even the screw on an ocean liner wouldn’t have done this. It might have cut her in two, but …”

“Okay, Carl,” said Brody. “Spare me the gore. My stomach’s none too hot already.”

“Sorry, Martin. Anyway, I’m going to put down shark attack. I’d say that makes the most sense for you, too, unless there are … you know … other considerations.”

“No,” said Brody. “Not this time. Thanks for calling, Carl.” He hung up, typed “shark attack” in the “cause of death” space on the forms, and leaned back in his chair.

The possibility that “other considerations” might be involved in this case hadn’t occurred to Brody. Those considerations were the touchiest part of Brody’s job, forcing him constantly to assess the best means of protecting the commonweal without compromising either himself or the law.

It was the beginning of the summer season, and Brody knew that on the success or failure of those twelve brief weeks rested the fortunes of Amity for a whole year. A rich season meant prosperity enough to carry the town through the lean winter. The winter population of Amity was about 1,000; in a good summer the population jumped to nearly 10,000. And those 9,000 summer visitors kept the 1,000 permanent residents alive for the whole year.