He sat on one bed and stared at the bundle of clothes on the other. He was certain the woman wasn’t in the house. There had been no other guests for dinner, so unless she had met someone on the beach while he slept, she couldn’t have gone off with anyone. And even if she had, he thought, she probably would have taken at least some of her clothes.

Only then did he permit his mind to consider the possibility of an accident. Very quickly the possibility became a certainty. He returned to the host’s bedroom, hesitated for a moment beside the bed, and then softly placed his hand on a shoulder.

“Jack,” he said, patting the shoulder. “Hey, Jack.”

The man sighed and opened his eyes. “What?”

“It’s me. Tom. I hate like hell to wake you up, but I think we may have a problem.”

“What problem?”

“Have you seen Chrissie?”

“What do you mean, have I seen Chrissie? She’s with you.”

“No, she isn’t. I mean, I can’t find her.”

Jack sat up and turned on a light. His wife stirred and covered her head with a sheet. Jack looked at his watch. “Jesus Christ. It’s five in the morning. And you can’t find your date.”

“I know,” said Tom. “I’m sorry. Do you remember when you saw her last?”

“Sure I remember. She said you were going for a swim, and you both went out on the porch. When did you see her last?”

“On the beach. Then I fell asleep. You mean she didn’t come back?”

“Not that I saw. At least not before we went to bed, and that was around one.”

“I found her clothes.”

“Where? On the beach?”

“Yes.”

“You looked in the living room?”

Tom nodded. “And in the Henkels’ room.”

“The Henkels’ room!”

Tom blushed. “I haven’t known her that long. For all I know she could be a little weird. So could the Henkels. I mean, I’m not suggesting anything. I just wanted to check the whole house before I woke you up.”

“So what do you think?”

“What I’m beginning to think,” said Tom, “is that maybe she had an accident. Maybe she drowned.”

Jack looked at him for a moment, then glanced again at his watch. “I don’t know what time the police in this town go to work,” he said, “but I guess this is as good a time as any to find out.”

2

Patrolman Len Hendricks sat at his desk in the Amity police station, reading a detective novel called Deadly, I’m Yours. At the moment the phone rang the heroine, a girl named Whistling Dixie, was about to be raped by a motorcycle club. Hendricks let the phone ring until Miss Dixie castrated the first of her attackers with a linoleum knife she had secreted in her hair.

He picked up the phone. “Amity Police, Patrolman Hendricks,” he said. “Can I help you?”

“This is Jack Foote, over on Old Mill Road. I want to report a missing person. Or at least I think she’s missing.”