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scene throbbed with renewed activity. The police evidence unit and photographers moved back and forth between the cistern and their vehicles. Dr. Chase disappeared for a long time behind the house, then reappeared carrying something in his hand. He knelt down and bent over an object on the ground, then made a call on his cellular telephone.
    Meanwhile, the fire department had rolled out two lengths of hose, coupled them together with some other equipment, and dragged the whole awkward contraption up the driveway and behind the house. At a signal from a fireman stationed at the rear of the house, an engine sputtered to life and gallons of greenish brown water began cascading down the drive.
    “They’re pumping out the well.” The reedy, high-pitched voice came from behind me. It belonged to the same towheaded boy who, moments before, had tried to slip by Officer Braddock.
    “They are?”
    He met my gaze with a directness unusual for someone his age, which I guessed was about nine. “They’re looking for clues. There’ll be rings and clothes and things at the bottom. And body parts.” He grinned at me, ghoulishly.
    I tried not to give the boy the satisfaction of looking shocked. “Why aren’t you in school?” I asked instead. “Don’t they have school on Wednesdays anymore?”
    “I come with my cousin over there.” He pointed toward the fire truck, where a young man in a tattered yellow slicker leaned negligently against the bumper. “He’s running the pump.” The boy rolled a stone around on the blacktop with the toe of his tennis shoe. “I’m ’sposed to be home sick. But I’m better now.” With a swift kick, he sent the stone skittering across the pavement and into the ditch. “Bye!”
    “Bye.” I watched as he dashed across the road and joined his cousin, who was mopping his brow with the back of his hand.
    It was nearly two o’clock, and the temperature had climbed into the high eighties. Reporters from the local weekly appeared, trailed closely by the Washington Post and the Baltimore Sun . They stationed themselves along the fence line, camera bags slung carelessly over their shoulders, screwing on, switching and adjusting various telephoto lenses. I watched while one hapless reporter in shorts stepped with exaggerated care through the high grass of an adjoining field, pausing every few feet or so to massage his exposed legs. The day had turned into a carnival. I expected a concession truck would arrive any minute and start selling coffee, hot dogs, french fries, and Coca-Cola.
    An attractive man in a dark gray suit, his sandy hair receding slightly at the temples and combed straight back, strode down the drive, keeping far to the left to avoid the water. Where had he been hiding? He spoke briefly to Officer Braddock, lifted the yellow tape, and ducked under it. His eyes took in the crowd; then hesurprised me by coming up directly to Connie and giving her a kiss on the cheek.
    “Hi, Connie. How’s it going?”
    “Fine, Dennis. Considering.”
    Dennis extended his hand. “Hannah, isn’t it? You probably don’t remember me, but we met at Craig’s funeral.”
    “Of course I remember!” I didn’t, of course. The funeral had been a merciful blur. I doubt I would have noticed if Ronald Reagan had happened to stop by to offer his condolences. With Nancy.
    Dennis smiled, revealing even white teeth. “I’ll be back with you in a minute.” He turned to address the crowd. “There’s nothing to see here, folks. Why don’t you just go on home now and read all about it in the papers tomorrow?”
    Connie came to my rescue. “That’s Dennis Rutherford,” she whispered. “He and Craig went to high school together, then joined the police force at about the same time. Dennis is a lieutenant with the county’s criminal investigation division. He must be in charge here.”
    The crowd retreated slightly, but only to keep their feet dry and to clear the way for the recent arrival of a hearse with