"We've got to call the sheriff." Roger went to the kitchen's wall phone and dialed in nervous desperation. He clicked the receiver twice.
"Nothing, right?" Glen asked.
"The line's dead."
Outside, shots popped in the distance. More shots burst out on the other side of the block. Glen took a dishrag from the sink and wiped off the bloodied shotgun he was carrying.
"I think it's up to us to help ourselves," he muttered.
3
Islanders in robes, pajamas, casual clothes crowded the wide walkway that paralleled the beach. Family groups and clusters of neighbors waited for official explanation of this emergency assembly. The sirens were wailing again. It was ten minutes since they had heard the voice over the loudspeakers.
Babies cried; children ran through the cold tide-soaked sand, parents calling after them. Friends talked and waved to each other and introduced neighbors. Islanders continued to stroll down from the residential areas. In twos and threes they joined the mass of people already on the beach. They too talked animatedly with their neighbors as they walked.
One man on the beach — stocky, his short hair sticking up in various directions — limped from group to group, always questioning. People shrugged, shook their heads.
Then he went in to one of the tourist hotels, The Pavilion Lodge.
"Hey, Max!" The desk clerk called out to the limping man as he crossed the lobby. "You talked to the sheriff yet?"
"Can't find him anywhere," Max said. "I been up and down the beach. Haven't talked to anyone who has seen him, either."
"Christ, just what we need," the clerk complained. "A weekend crowd in the hotel and we get an emergency I can't even explain."