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Behold, I show you a mystery . . . I Corinthians, 15:51 The unfinished hull of the sailboat hoisted onto the roof of the Yankee Yacht Carpentry Shop bore large black letters that read “CLINT COME HOME!” The dilapidated building beneath the sailboat sat empty, and no boats were tied up at its pier waiting for repairs. From time to time, the brisk autumn wind would pick up a scrap of paper and swirl it against the shop’s locked door. Days, weeks, and months had passed since the mysterious disappearance of the shop’s owner, Annapolis boatwright Clint Riley. His credit cards had not been used, his bank accounts had remained untouched. He hadn’t contacted any of his friends or relatives. His estranged wife, Marilyn, had no idea where he was or whether he was alive. After more than two years of exposure to wind, rain, and sun, the letters on the sailboat hull had become faded and weather-beaten. The local papers no longer carried articles speculating as to Clint Riley’s whereabouts, and the public’s interest had gradually subsided. But that was about to change with a grisly discovery some twenty miles away on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. 1 1 October 1982: Clint Come Home ...

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