Cry for the Strangers

  Not until the storm broke.

  Sometimes it seemed to Harney Whalen that in Clark’s Harbor the storms never broke.

  He was about to leave the house when the telephone rang. He didn’t bother to go back. He already knew why it was ringing.

  17

  Glen Palmer reached out and touched Jeff Horton on the shoulder. Jeff turned, and Glen recoiled slightly from the vacant look in the young man’s eyes and the dazed expression that had wiped all traces of emotion from his face.

  “What happened?” he asked gently.

  Jeff blinked twice and his mouth worked spasmodically. “My brother—” he said. “Max—the boat …” The reality of it seemed to hit him then like a physical force, and he sank slowly to his knees and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook with the sobs that wracked his body.

  Glen bit his lip nervously, uncertain what to do. He thought he probably should go to the inn and ask Merle Glind to report what had happened, but he didn’t want to leave the grieving young man alone. Then he heard the sound of running feet pounding on the wharf. There was no need to go to the inn.

  He knelt next to Jeff and squeezed his shoulder.

  “Is it your boat out there?”

  Jeff nodded, unable to speak.

  “And your brother… ?”

  Jeff looked up then, and the slackness in his face had been replaced by a grimace of confusion and pain.

  “He was only going to batten down and grab a couple of charts—” Jeff tried to explain. “He said he’d be right back. But he didn’t come back—” Sobs overtook him and he leaned heavily against Glen, his body heaving.

  “Glen?” The voice was tentative, and Glen looked up to see Chip Connor standing over him. “I thought it was you. What the hell’s going on?”

  Glen shook his head. “I don’t know. I just got here myself.”

  “I told Merle to call Harn Whalen,” Chip said. Then he too knelt beside Jeff Horton. “That your boat out there, buddy?”

  Jeff nodded miserably. Chip gazed out into the night. The fire was dying down; the driving rain and wind would put it out in a matter of minutes. “Let’s get over to the inn,” he said softly. “No point in staying here.”

  Supporting Jeff Horton between them, Chip and Glen started back along the wharf. After a few steps Jeff seemed to come to his senses a little and was able to walk unaided. Every few steps he would stop, turn, and gaze out at the blaze for a few seconds. Then, finally, he turned to look and saw only the blackness of the night. The fire was out; Osprey had disappeared. Jeff didn’t look back again.

  Merle Glind bustled up to the trio as they entered the inn. “I called Harney,” he chirped breathlessly. “There wasn’t any answer.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Chip told him. “He probably saw the fire from up on the hill and left by the time you called. Why don’t you give this guy a slug of brandy—he looks like he could use it.”

  Jeff was slumped in a chair. The bright light of the inn revealed an ashen face, the stubble of a day-old beard, and red-rimmed eyes that made him seem old and broken. The vacant stare Glen had noticed when he first found Jeff had returned, and once more his face had gone slack.

  “I think we’d better call a doctor,” Glen said. “I think he’s in shock.”

  “Call Phelps,” Chip said.

  Glen quickly made the call and was returning to the lobby when Harney Whalen lumbered through the door. Whalen glanced around, sizing up the situation, then approached his deputy.

  “What the hell’s going on?” he asked, echoing Chip’s question of only a few minutes ago. “Is everybody all right?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Chip replied. “I was in the bar with Merle, having a couple drinks, when we heard the explosion. I thought it was thunder but then we saw the fire. Merle called you and I went down to the wharf. Glen Palmer was there with this guy.” He nodded toward Jeff Horton, who sat staring at the floor, his hands clutching the glass of brandy Merle Glind had brought from the bar. If he was aware of the conversation between the chief and his deputy, he gave no sign. Whalen’s eyes narrowed slightly as he looked Jeff over, then he approached the young man.

  “You want to tell me what happened?” he asked. His voice held neither hostility nor concern; it was his professional voice, the voice he habitually used before he had made up his mind.

  “I don’t know what happened,” Jeff said absently. He still stared at the floor.

  “My deputy tells me you were out on the wharf when that boat blew up.”

  Jeff nodded and sipped his drink.

  “Mind telling me what you were doing out there?”

  Jeff frowned a little, as if trying to remember. “I was looking for my brother … I was looking for Max …” he trailed off, then suddenly took a long swallow of brandy, and set the empty glass down. Whalen sat down next to him.

  “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

  “There isn’t anything to tell,” Jeff said slowly, making an effort to keep himself under control. “I was up in our room waiting for Max. He was going to secure the boat for the night—he shouldn’t have been more than ten minutes. After forty-five minutes I looked for him in the bar over there, then went down to the wharf. The boat was gone. I didn’t believe it at first, but then there was a bolt of sheet lightning and the whole harbor lit up. And I saw Osprey. She was heading out of the harbor, right toward the rocks—” He broke off, seeing the explosion once more, hearing the dull booming sound, watching the trawler burn. He struggled with himself and regained the composure that had nearly collapsed. “I have to go out there,” he said dully. “I have to go out and look for Max.”

  “You aren’t going anywhere tonight, son, and neither is anyone else,” Whalen said emphatically. “No sense having two boats piled up on those rocks.”

  Doc Phelps arrived then, and immediately began examining Jeff Horton. While he bent over the young man, Whalen turned his attention to Merle Glind.

  “Who is he?” he asked Glind quietly.

  “His name’s Jeff Horton,” Glind said. “He checked in about five thirty, six o’clock. He’s from Port Angeles.” Glind frowned, as if remembering something. “Didn’t Chip call you? I was sure he did.”

  “He called me,” Whalen said patiently. “But that didn’t mean this was one of the same guys he told me about. Did you hear what Horton just told me?”

  Glind bobbed his head. “Not that I was eavesdropping, mind you. You know me, Harney—I’d never try to listen in on something that’s none of my business. But he is a guest in my hotel and I figured—” Before he could continue, Whalen cut him off.

  “Merle, it’s all right. All I want to know is if you can verify any of his story.”

  Glind thought hard and finally nodded. “I can verify the time he went out. I was sitting with Chip and I was facing the door. I saw him stick his head in and look around. Then he went out and about five minutes later, maybe less, the explosion happened. He couldn’t have had anything to do with it, Harn. There wasn’t enough time. It’d take any boat a lot longer than that to get from the wharf to the rocks.”

  “You don’t say,” Whalen said, scowling at the little man. Merle flushed and his glance darted toward the bar.

  “I’d better be getting back to business,” Glind said anxiously. “Likely to be a lot of customers in here tonight. Not every night we have excitement like this.” Rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the cash he expected to see flowing over the bar this evening, he hurried away. Whalen watched him go and shook his head sadly, pitying the fussy little fellow who tried so hard to fit in—and failed so miserably. But Whalen forgave him his shortcomings: he and Merle Glind had grown up together.

  He was about to ask Dr. Phelps about Jeff Horton’s condition when Chip Connor waved to him. He and Glen Palmer had been talking near the registration counter. Whalen looked inquiringly at Chip.

  “Do you need me for anything?” Chip asked him. “If you don’t, I
thought I’d run Glen home. He’s afraid his wife will be worrying about him.”

  “Well, she’s just going to have to worry awhile longer, I’m afraid,” Whalen said, his voice hard, uncompromising. “I have a few questions to ask you, Palmer.”

  Glen started to argue, then changed his mind. An argument would only make Whalen determined to keep him even longer. Instead, he turned to Chip.

  “I know it’s a hell of a thing to ask, but do you think you could run out there anyway, just to let her know I’m all right?”

  “No problem,” Chip said. “Unless Harn has something pressing he wants me to take care of.” He turned to the chief, and Whalen chewed his lip, thinking. Finally he nodded curtly.

  “All right, but don’t be gone all night. I’m going to need you later.”

  “I’ll be back in half an hour,” he promised. He went to the bar, and returned a minute later with his raincoat. “Anything special you want me to tell her?” he asked Glen. Glen shook his head.

  “Just tell her what’s happened and not to worry. Tell her I’ll be home when I get there.”

  Chip nodded and went out into the storm. Glen waited until he was gone, then went over to Whalen, who was talking to Dr. Phelps.

  “Shall we get started?” he asked as amiably as he could. “I’d just as soon not be here all night. It’s been a long day.”

  “I’ll bet it has,” Whalen replied. “It’s likely to be a lot longer before it’s over. Why don’t you have a seat. I’ll get to you when I get to you.”

  “Is it all right if I wait in the bar?” Glen asked.

  “Suit yourself. Just don’t try to leave the hotel.”

  Glen chose to ignore the veiled threat, and nodded briefly. He ordered a beer and prepared to drink it slowly. He was going to have a long wait.

  Rebecca Palmer sat by the fireplace and tried to concentrate on her knitting, but she was unable to complete more than a stitch or two before she set her work aside and went to the window once more, straining to see beyond the wet blackness of the rain and the wind.

  It had been almost an hour and a half since Glen had left the cabin, and he should have been back at least an hour ago. She had stayed by the window after he left, and fifteen minutes later had seen his flashlight, dim but distinct, going steadily on and off. She had relaxed then and waited for him to return, sure she had read his signal correctly. But then—she wasn’t sure how much later—she had heard the explosion and run to the window to see the ball of fire far beyond the beach. There had been a second explosion, a second fireball, and a blaze out at sea.

  Since then, nothing.

  Innumerable trips to the window.

  Impulses to go out on the beach and search for Glen.

  Attempts to concentrate on her knitting.

  And a continually growing fear.

  Something had happened. She didn’t know why, but she was sure the explosions at sea had something to do with Glen’s protracted absence. But what?

  It was the not knowing that was the worst. If only they had a telephone. If only the storm weren’t so bad. If only the children were old enough to stay by themselves. But there was no phone, the storm showed no signs of abating, and the children could not be left alone. Even the puppy was too young to serve as a guardian.

  She was about to go to the window again when she thought she heard a car door slam. She froze where she was, listening intently. Then came the knock at the door.

  Rebecca felt her heart begin to pound as she went to the door, but before she readied out to pull it open, something in her mind rang a warning bell.

  “Who is it?” she called softly, not wanting to wake the children.

  “Chip Connor,” came the reply. Rebecca threw open the door and stared up at the deputy, her fear growing.

  “What is it?” she cried. “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing’s happened, Mrs. Palmer. Well, nothing’s happened to Glen, anyway. May I come in?”

  Rebecca felt the tension she had been under suddenly release; her knees felt weak. “Of course,” she said, stepping back to make room for the deputy. She closed the door after him, then went to the fire. She poked it, then turned to Chip.

  “What’s happened? Where’s Glen?”

  “He’s fine, Mrs. Palmer. He asked me to come out here and tell you he’s all right. He’ll be back as soon as he can.” He saw the look of bewilderment on Rebecca’s face and decided he’d better explain things. Fast. “There was an accident. We still don’t know exactly what happened,” he began, but Rebecca cut him off.

  “An accident?” she said dazedly. “What kind of accident? Was it that fire? I saw a fire out in the water. Was that it?”

  Chip nodded. “That’s it. A boat that was tied up in the harbor for the night wound up on the rocks in the mouth of the harbor. It blew up.”

  “My God,” Rebecca breathed. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Someone may have been on the boat. We don’t know for sure yet. Anyway, when I got to the wharf Glen was already there. He saw as much of what happened as anybody. So Whalen asked him to stick around for a while.” Chip saw no point in telling Rebecca that her husband had been ordered to stay at the scene, not invited.

  “Thank God,” Rebecca sighed. “You don’t have any idea of how worried I was. He should have been back, and then I saw those awful explosions, and—” she stopped talking when she saw the expression on Chip’s face.

  “You mean he wasn’t here when the explosions happened?” he asked.

  “No, of course not,” Rebecca said. “Didn’t he tell you?”

  “He didn’t tell me much of anything,” Chip replied. “Where was he?”

  “He’d gone down the beach to check on the old house—the one the Randalls are going to move into. Missy—our daughter—thought there was someone in the house this afternoon, so Glen went down to check on it. He must have seen the explosions from there and gone to the wharf.”

  “How long was he gone? Before the explosions, I mean?”

  “I’m not sure,” Rebecca began. Then she realized what Chip was getting at. “My God, you don’t think Glen had anything to do with those explosions, do you?”

  “Of course not,” Chip said immediately. “But I want you to tell me exactly what happened.” He got out a notebook and a pencil, then saw the look of fear in Rebecca’s eyes, the same fear he had seen in Glen’s eyes earlier. He smiled at her reassuringly. “Mrs. Palmer, you don’t have to answer any of my questions if you don’t want to. But I hope you will. I want to put down in this notebook, right now, everything you can remember about what you and Glen talked about, why he went out, what time he went out—everything. I’m absolutely sure that everything you tell me will match up exactly with what Glen tells Harn Whalen. And then I’ll be able to back him up, because I’ll have the same story from you before you and Glen could possibly have talked to each other.”

  Rebecca turned it over in her mind and tried to figure out what Glen would want her to do. She remembered Glen talking about this man, telling her he’d spent most of the day helping him—helping them. Now here he was, volunteering to help them again. Or was he? She gazed into his eyes, trying to read his motives.

  His eyes were clear.

  “My name’s Rebecca,” she said softly. “Glen told me about what you did today. I want to thank you.”

  Chip flushed and kept his eyes on the pad. “It’s okay,” he said. “I had a good time doing it.” Then he looked up at her. “What about the questions? Will you answer them?”

  “Of course,” Rebecca said. “Where shall we start?”

  The third beer was sitting untouched in front of Glen when Harney Whalen stepped through the door to the bar and called him.

  “Palmer, you want to come in here now?”

  Glen slid off his stool, and went into the lobby. Dr. Phelps had left, after concluding that Jeff Horton was suffering from a mild case of shock that would pass before morning. The doctor had assured Whalen that there was
nothing about the young fisherman’s condition that would make it inadvisable for Harn to question him, and Whalen was in the final stages of doing just that. As Glen appeared in the lobby he looked up.

  “I want you and Horton here to come down to the station. We might just as well fill out the official reports tonight, while everything’s still fresh in your memories.”

  Glen grinned wryly, and said, “I’m not sure anything’s still fresh in my memory. I’ve been drinking beer for almost an hour.” Then he glanced around the room and his grin faded. “Where’s Connor?”

  “He hasn’t come back yet,” Whalen informed him. “You ready?”

  Glen shrugged, as if to imply that he had no choice, then followed Jeff Horton and Harn Whalen to Whalen’s black-and-white. Minutes later they were in the police station.

  “Okay, Palmer,” Whalen said without preamble, “let’s have it.”

  “Have what?” Glen asked. “I’m afraid you’ve kept me around all night for nothing. I don’t have any idea what happened.”

  “Maybe you’d like to tell me about how you happened to be on the wharf?”

  “I saw the explosions and ran to the harbor. Then I saw this fellow at the end of the dock. I went out to see if he needed any help. That’s all there was to it.”

  Whalen studied him through narrowed eyes for a few seconds. “You sure must run fast. The wharf’s a long way from your house.”

  “I wasn’t at home,” Glen said, offering no more information.

  “Why don’t you tell me Just where you were?” Whalen growled.

  “Actually I was in your house, at the other end of Sod Beach from mine. From there it isn’t very far to the wharf. Just around the point, across the rocky beach and the sandbar.”

  Whalen’s fingers drummed on the desk. He seemed to be turning something over in his mind.

  “How did you happen to be the only one who went out on the wharf? Merle and Chip were both outside, but they didn’t go out on the dock.”

  “They probably didn’t see any reason to go. From where they were standing they wouldn’t have been able to see Jeff. I only saw him because he happened to be between me and the fire. If I hadn’t, I would have gone to the inn. But I saw him, so I went out on the wharf.”