It was a few minutes after ten in the morning; the fog was lifting. The bright sunlight hit Jepson’s sprawled body, made his bloody white shirt glow. “Jepson!” cried Tucker. He had been walking along the gritty beach. He was about fifty feet from Jepson’s body when he saw it. “Hey, Jepson!” he shouted again, although he knew that the man must be dead. As he jogged toward the body the small, chubby Tucker went over in his mind all the nasty things he’d been thinking about the missing Jepson. They’d figured, when he didn’t come back last night, that he’d run out on them. Or that maybe he’d told somebody about what they were looking for and then gone off to some kind of rendezvous. But none of that, apparently, was true. Jepson had had an accident, that was all. The broken body of his dead partner didn’t bother Tucker. He was sorry that Jepson was dead, it was too bad; but looking at what was left of him didn’t bother Tucker.
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