Scott bent over to pick up a handful of leaves. He flinched. Something hard and cold was under his fingers. He withdrew his hand and straightened up, kicking the leaves apart to see what they were hiding. He was astonished. At the tip of his open-­toed sandal there was the last thing he might have expected—a pistol.

The man bent down again to lift the gun, taking care not to mark it with too many of his own fingerprints. It seemed that something very much out of the ordinary was happening in these woods this night. He recognized the gun at once. All of Hildie Cannon’s friends knew she owned it, and her initials were plain on the handle. As a selectman, he himself had been one of those approving her permit. No question, no question at all.

But what the tarnation hell was Hildie’s gun doing here?

The disturbed man stood in the deep leaves staring at the weapon. His attention did not take in the hissing that was suddenly louder behind him. He was unaware that the “sharks” of his imagination were deadly real and close to his bare ankles, though in a form he could never conceive.

From the house, the Tinton phone jangled in the night. Scott was galvanized at the sharp, demanding ringing. He hurried to the summons without thought, and did not hear the hissing that rose in the trees like a cry of frustration. An especially inviting feast had gotten away.

The phone call was from the Laidlaws, wanting to arrange with the Tintons about picking up their jeep. Scott put them off, saying Blanche had gone to bed and Harvey was fixing a nightcap. He would deliver their message.

Going thoughtfully back to his car, Scott knew his decision. It was right not to start a gossip prairie fire by telling the Laidlaws that the Tintons and Hildie Cannon seemed to be missing. And if that was right, so was his conclusion not to call in Amos Tarbell until later. Everything might be completely innocent and harmless. The gun in his pocket was a disturbing element, but that might have a simple explanation, too.

Getting behind the wheel, Scott felt the leaves in his pocket. He tossed them out the car window with distaste. They were stinking up his clothes.

He started his engine, only to shut it again. He stared dubiously at the Tinton house and at the Cannon wagon. Anyone driving by now would wonder about it, as he had wondered. No sense having people snooping about, tongues wagging. The man eased himself out of his car again, went into the house to shut the lights, and decided he would drive the Cannon station wagon to the Cannon house where it belonged. If Hildie was out somewhere with the Tintons—he laughed silently at the thought that the three might have gone skinny-­dipping—Blanche Tinton could drive her home.