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had feared. They had been right. "Better start digging," he said flatly. |
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The rescue crew began clearing away the area several feet around the body. They were joined by others, but there was now a sense of useless urgency about the effort. |
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In a matter of minutes the tortured and weathered face of an old woman glared stupidly up at the floodlights that now circled the site. Gleason shuddered. It was the face of agonized death, a face that knew death was inevitable. The eyes were hollow black sockets; sand crabs, glass worms and red ants had already performed their cannibalistic ritual, a probing autopsy that left little. For all practical purposes, they were looking down at a "thing," a thing drained of color, battered and shredded by the storm that had assaulted her. |
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Jeff Freeman muscled his way through the crowd of onlookers and bent over the body. "Skull's been crushed. Can't tell whether she got her legs tangled up in those stairs there and fell, or if something landed on her. Been dead a while, though; four, maybe five days." |
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Gleason's eyes darted around the rapidly darkening area. "Anybody recognize her?" |
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There was a collective kind of ominous silence, as though to know the woman was to admit to something dark and sinister. Finally, Merle Chesterton stooped and began probing the sand with his fingers. When he stood up, |
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