Heart of Stone by James W. Ziskin Page B

that,” he said, tearing open the envelope and stuffing his bearish hand inside to get at the photos.
    â€œPlease, Chief Terwilliger,” I said. “Don’t pull those out here. They’re quite gruesome.”
    â€œAre those pictures of the divers?” asked Isaac. “I’d like to see them, if you don’t mind.”
    â€œI mind,” I said. “They’re terrible to look at. Why would you want to ruin this perfect evening by looking at two dead bodies?”
    Terwilliger looked on expectantly, hand still inside the envelope, waiting for a final verdict of thumbs-up or -down. Isaac apologized, and the chief withdrew his empty hand from the envelope.
    â€œI’ll look at them later,” he said, clamping the photographs under his right arm. (So much for the envelope ever being used again.) “They’re just for the state police, anyway. I’ll get you your money tomorrow.”
    I didn’t care either way and, in fact, doubted I’d ever see a penny from him. He turned back to the table and poured himself another glassful of beer.
    â€œReal nice party,” he repeated, gazing out across the room.
    â€œYou’re not on duty, are you?” asked Isaac.
    Terwilliger regarded him queerly. “Of course I am,” he said and took a gulp of beer. “Why else would I be here?”
    Isaac mumbled something about getting back to the others, and we excused ourselves. Terwilliger didn’t seem to mind, at least as long as the beer held out. We rejoined Aunt Lena and Cousin Max, who again nearly swooned when he saw no glass of port on my person. I rushed back over to the table to fulfill my promise and his glass. The chief was still there.
    â€œWas that your fellow I was talking with before?” he asked me to make conversation.
    I didn’t know how to answer that, so I asked him why he wanted to know.
    â€œNo reason. Just curious. A pretty girl like you must have lots of suitors.”
    A little creepy, especially after he’d ogled me the day before in my bathing suit. I poured Max’s port and excused myself.
    â€œAnd I’m curious because he’s got a shortwave radio,” said Terwilliger.
    â€œIs that prohibited here on Prospector Lake?” I asked. “Along with photography and nude bathing.”
    He chuckled. “You’re a funny one, do you know that?”
    â€œI wasn’t joking,” I said. “What’s wrong with having a shortwave radio?”
    â€œThere’s nothing necessarily wrong with it. But some people use them to listen for instructions from their handlers.”
    â€œI beg your pardon? What handlers?”
    â€œYou know, back in the mother country.”
    I gaped at him.
    Terwilliger leaned in and whispered, “KGB.”
    I put Max’s drink down on the table and stepped back to look him up and down. “Now you’re the one who’s funny,” I said. “Do you really think these people are Soviet agents?”
    He shrugged and sipped his beer. “Probably not, but . . .”
    I excused myself a second time and returned to Isaac, who was entertaining my aunt and cousin. Damn. Max’s port. I turned on my heel and made my way back to the drinks table. This time Terwilliger was nowhere in sight. I snatched Max’s drink off the table and noticed the brown envelope with the photographs inside. The chief’s empty glass of beer sat on top of it, leaving a ring. I didn’t want an unsuspecting reveler to discover the horrible photographs by accident, so I picked up the envelope and carried it back to my seat. Max reached out for the glass of port with both hands, trembling with exaggerated avidity. He took a large gulp. Then a smaller one. He expelled a great sigh.
    â€œIf ever I fall overboard into the lake, my dear, remind me not to ask you for a life preserver.”
    â€œYou won’t need one,” I said. “Not with all that