Cry for the Strangers

  “What the hell were you doing in my house?” Whalen said suddenly, changing the subject of the conversation so violently that for a second Glen drew a blank. Then he recovered himself.

  “You might say I was doing you a favor,” he said, controlling his anger. Who the hell did Whalen think he was? “My daughter thought someone was in the house this afternoon, and I thought I ought to check up. Or don’t you care who goes in and out of your own property?”

  “What I care about or don’t care about is my own damned business, mister. Understand? Next time you think someone might have been in that house you tell me about it. Don’t go snooping around on your own.”

  Glen felt his fury almost choking him but he held it back. “Fine,” he said tightly. “But in case you’re interested, which apparently you’re not, someone was in that house today. And he hadn’t been gone long when I arrived. There was a fire still burning in the fireplace. It had been banked, but not for long.”

  “You’re right,” Whalen said easily. “I was in the house this afternoon.” Then he jerked a thumb at Jeff Horton. “You ever see him before tonight?”

  “No.”

  “What about you, Horton? You ever see this guy before?”

  “I already told you, Chief, I’ve never seen anybody around here before tonight. Not you, not him, not anybody. Now, for God’s sake, aren’t you going to do anything about my brother?”

  “And I’ve already told you,” Whalen mimicked him, “there’s nothing we can do about your brother. If he was on that boat he died when it blew. If he went overboard he didn’t last more than twenty minutes in the water. In ten minutes a man passes out, out there. In ten more minutes he’s dead. So you’d better hope that your brother was never on that boat. And that seems pretty unlikely, since you claim the boat was headed directly for the rocks.”

  “What the hell are you saying?” Jeff cried.

  “I’m saying that unless one of you two is lying, it looks to me like your brother got on that boat and deliberately piled himself up.”

  “That’s a fucking lie!” Jeff yelled. “He was securing the boat for the night. Max would never do anything like that. Never!”

  A slow smile came over Whalen’s face. “What are you saying then? That someone killed him? Cut the boat loose? Steered it out onto that reef?”

  “Something like that,” Jeff replied. “I don’t know why, and I don’t know who, but it was something like that. But we won’t know anything about it until we go out there, will we?”

  “No,” Whalen agreed, “we won’t. Meantime, Horton, I think maybe you’d better plan on sticking around to answer some more questions. You too, Palmer.”

  Glen’s fury finally exploded. “Are you out of your mind?” he yelled at the police chief. “You tell me right now, Whalen, am I under arrest or not?”

  “You’re not,” Whalen said mildly, almost enjoying the other man’s rage. “Not yet.”

  “And I damned well won’t be,” Palmer declared. “I had no motive, I wasn’t there. Hell, I don’t even know what kind of a boat it was. Dammit, Whalen, all I did was try to help out.” He stalked out of the police station, half-expecting Whalen to stop him. But he didn’t.

  Instead, when they were alone, Whalen turned to Jeff Horton.

  “I don’t like what happened here tonight,” he said softly, almost menacingly. “I don’t like it at all. I intend to find out what happened though, and I intend to see to it that it never happens again. And once I’ve found out I’ll expect you to get out of Clark’s Harbor. I don’t like strangers. They bring trouble. You’ve brought trouble, and your friend Palmer’s brought trouble. So hang around only as long as I tell you to. Then get out. Understand?”

  Jeff Horton, still numbed from the shock of what had happened, nodded mutely and told himself he wasn’t hearing what he thought he had just heard. As he walked slowly back to the hotel, Jeff cursed the storm that had brought him to Clark’s Harbor, cursed Clark’s Harbor, and cursed Harney Whalen.

  His impulse was to leave. He had no baggage, nothing. He could simply check out of the inn, walk up to the main highway, and thumb a ride north. But he knew he couldn’t.

  He had to stay in Clark’s Harbor.

  He had to find Max.

  As the storm slashed rain in his face, Jeff tried to tell himself that he would find his brother, that Max would be all right.

  His guts told him he was wrong. His guts told him Max was not all right; nothing would ever be all right again.

  Glen Palmer was still almost shaking with rage when he left the police station. He began walking toward the harbor before he stopped to think it out. He wondered if Rebecca might drive in to pick him up, but decided she wouldn’t—she didn’t like leaving the children by themselves. Then he remembered Chip Connor. The deputy still hadn’t returned, but if Glen followed the road Chip might pass him and give him a lift. He turned around and began walking up Harbor Road. He had just reached the intersection with the main highway when a pair of headlights appeared from the north. Glen stepped out into the road and waved. The car pulled up beside him.

  “Climb in,” Chip called. “I’m so late now a few more minutes won’t matter. Is Harn mad at me?”

  Gratefully Glen got into the car, and as Chip made the U-turn that would take them back north, he asked the deputy for a cigarette.

  “I quit a couple of years ago,” he said as he lit it. “But after what just happened, I think I’m going to start again.”

  Chip glanced at him, then his eyes went back to the road.

  “If you want to cuss Whalen out,” he said, “could you wait until you’re home and I’m gone?”

  “What does that mean?” Glen asked.

  “Ah, shit, I don’t know,” Chip said. Then he grinned crookedly at Glen. “You know, it would have been a lot easier for you tonight if you hadn’t gone out playing good citizen.”

  “Rebecca told you where I was?”

  “I asked her. And don’t worry, I told her she didn’t have to answer any questions.”

  “But why did you even ask any?”

  “Just in case,” Chip said. He turned off the highway into the narrow drive that led to the Palmers’ cabin. He pulled up as close to the little house as he could but didn’t turn off the engine. “I’m not coming in. I’d better get back to town and see what Harn’s got.” He paused. Glen had started to get out of the car when Chip spoke again. “Glen?” Glen turned back to the deputy. “I’m not sure how to say this, but I like you and I like your wife. That’s why I didn’t want to hear you cuss Harney out I know what must have happened down there, and I have a feeling it isn’t over yet.” He paused, suddenly unsure of himself, then plunged on. “That’s why I wanted to get Rebecca’s story before you talked to her. Look, try to keep cool, okay? Harney can be hard to deal with, particularly if he doesn’t know you. But he’s fair. I know you don’t think so, but he is. Or anyway, he tries to be,” Chip added, remembering the spattered paintings that morning.

  Glen took a deep breath, then let it out in an even deeper sigh. “I don’t know,” he said finally. Then he chuckled hollowly. “But I guess I have no choice.” He extended his hand to the deputy. “I’ll sit tight and we’ll see what happens. Thanks for the ride. And everything else too.”

  The two men shook hands and Glen got out of the car. The rain had let up a little, and Glen waited until Chip had disappeared into the night before he went in.

  Rebecca was waiting for him. She threw her arms around him, and hugged him tightly.

  “What’s happening? Dear God, Glen, what’s happening here?”

  “I don’t know,” Glen whispered gently. “But whatever it is, it doesn’t have anything to do with us. Nothing at all.”

  He wished he was as certain of that as he had tried to sound. But something was happening, and he could feel himself and his family getting caught up in it. Without telling Rebecca, he decided to call Brad Randall in the morning.

  In the tiny bedroom
adjoining the main room of the cabin, Missy and Robby lay in their bunks, neither of them asleep. Robby’s eyes were closed, but Missy was wide-eyed, staring at the bed above her. When she spoke her voice sounded hollow in the darkness.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered.

  There was a moment’s silence, then Robby’s voice drifted back to her. “I think so. But I’ve been feeling funny for a long time.”

  “I know,” Missy said. “I had a dream.” Her voice faltered, then went on. “It was scary. And I don’t think I was asleep.”

  Robby crept down from the upper bunk and crouched by his sister. “What was it?”

  “I’m not sure,” the little girl said shyly. “I thought you were in it, but you seemed big. Real big. And not like you.”

  Robby frowned and waited for Missy to continue. When she remained silent he asked a question.

  “Was I … all right? Or was I sick again?”

  “You were …” Missy began, but broke off when she couldn’t find the right words. She started again. “You were making things happen. You made a boat sink and you laughed. At least I think it was you. Maybe it wasn’t,” she added hopefully.

  Robby shook his head in the darkness. “I don’t remember anything,” he said vaguely. “I couldn’t sleep and I wanted to go outside.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Missy asked.

  “You would have told Mom and Dad,” Robby said matter-of-factly. He climbed back up into the top bunk.

  Again there was a silence, and the two children listened to the storm howling outside.

  “I wish it would stop,” Missy said quietly.

  “I do too,” Robby agreed.

  Suddenly, without any warning, the rain stopped and the wind died.

  Silence fell over Sod Beach.

  BOOK THREE

  Storm Dancers

  18

  Elaine Randall was staring disconsolately at the dishes stacked on the kitchen counter. There seemed to be so many of them, now that they had been taken out of the cupboard, that she couldn’t decide whether to pack them in a box to be taken to Clark’s Harbor or to haul them down to the large storeroom in the basement where most of their personal effects were going to be stored while they were gone. Finally she evaded the issue entirely by turning her attention to the pots and pans. Those were easy—the old, battered ones went with them, the good ones stayed behind. She was about to begin packing what seemed to her like the ninety-fifth box when the telephone rang. Gratefully, she straightened up and reached for the phone.

  “I’ll get it,” Brad called from the living room, where he was filling cartons with books.

  “Some people get all the breaks,” Elaine muttered loudly enough so she was sure Brad heard her.

  “Hello?” Brad said automatically as he picked up the receiver.

  “Brad? Is that you? It’s Glen Palmer.”

  “Hi!” Brad exclaimed warmly. “What’s up?”

  There was a slight hesitation, then Glen’s voice came over the line once more, but almost haltingly.

  “Look, are you people still planning to move out here?”

  “Imminently,” Brad replied. “I’m packing books and Elaine’s working on the kitchen. Sort of a last vestige of sexism, you might say.” When the joke elicited no response, not even the faintest chuckle, Brad frowned slightly. “Is something wrong out there?”

  “I don’t know,” Glen replied slowly. “A boat cracked up on the rocks out here last night.”

  “Last night? But it was calm and clear last night.”

  “Not in Clark’s Harbor, it wasn’t. We had a hell of a storm.”

  Brad’s brows rose in puzzlement, but then he shrugged. “Well, anybody who goes out in ‘a hell of a storm’ deserves to go on the rocks,” he said complacently.

  “Except that nobody knows how the boat got there. Your landlord seems to think I had something to do with it.”

  “You? What gave him that idea?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.” There was a silence, then Glen’s voice went on, hesitantly, almost apologetically. “That’s why I called you. Everything seems crazy out here and I didn’t have anyone else to talk to. How long before you’ll be coming out?”

  “Not long,” Brad said. “Today, in fact.”

  “Today?” There was an eagerness in Glen’s voice that Brad found disturbing.

  “We’re packing up the last of our stuff. The truck should be here around noon. I’d say we should be there somewhere around four, maybe five o’clock.”

  “Well, I guess I won’t crack up by then,” Glen said, but his voice shook slightly. “I hate to tell you this, Brad, but something horrible is going on out here.”

  “You make it sound like some kind of conspiracy,” Brad said, his curiosity whetted. “You sure you’re not letting your imagination get the best of you?”

  “I don’t know,” Glen said. “How many times have I said that? Look, do me a favor, will you? Come see me this afternoon or this evening? If I’m not at the gallery I’ll be at home.”

  “I’d planned on it anyway,” Brad assured him. “And look, don’t get yourself too upset. Whatever’s happening, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re sure. All right, no sense running this call up any higher. See you later.”

  As Brad said good-bye he realized Elaine was standing in the archway that separated the living room from the dining room, a curious expression on her face.

  “What’s going on? Who was that?”

  “Glen Palmer.”

  “What did he want?”

  “I’m not really sure,” Brad mused. “He’s all upset about something. A boat went on the rocks last night and Glen seems to think Harney Whalen wants to blame it on him.”

  “I didn’t know Glen even had a boat.”

  “It wasn’t his boat apparently.” He shrugged, and began packing books again. “I told him we’d be out there this afternoon, so he didn’t go into the details. But he sure sounded upset.”

  Elaine stayed where she was and watched Brad work. Then she moved to the living-room window and stared out at Seward Park and the lake beyond. “I wonder if we’re making a mistake,” she said, not turning around.

  “A mistake?” Brad’s voice sounded concerned. Elaine faced him, letting him see the worry on her face.

  “It just seems to me that maybe we shouldn’t go out there. I mean, there really isn’t any reason why you can’t write here, is there? Certainly our view is as good as the view from the beach, and you don’t have to be bothered with interruptions. A lot of people manage to live like hermits in the middle of the city. Why can’t we?”

  “I suppose we could,” Brad replied. “But I don’t want to. Besides, maybe something is going on out there.”

  “If there is I don’t want any part of it,” Elaine said with a shudder.

  “Well, I do. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get a best seller out of this whole deal.”

  “Or maybe you’ll just get a lot of trouble,” Elaine said. But she realized that there was going to be no argument. Brad’s mind was made up, and that was that. So she winked at him, tried to put her trepidations out of her mind, and went back to her packing.

  She finished in the kitchen at the same time Brad sealed the last carton of books. As if on cue the truck that would move them to Clark’s Harbor pulled into the driveway.

  Jeff Horton stayed in bed as long as he could that morning, but by ten o’clock he decided it was futile and got up. It had been a night of fitful sleep disturbed by visions of the fire, and through most of the small hours he had lain awake, trying to accept what had happened, trying to find an explanation. But there was none.

  Max had been securing the boat. That was all.

  He wouldn’t have taken her out. Not alone, and certainly not in a storm.

  But he must have been on the boat or he would have come to the inn.

  If he was on the boat, why did it go o
n the rocks? Why didn’t he start the engines?

  There was only one logical answer to that: the engines had been tampered with. But by whom? And why? They were strangers here; they knew no one. So no one here would have any reason to sabotage the boat.

  None of it made any sense, but it had cost Jeff dearly. His brother was gone, his boat was gone, and he felt helpless.

  Several times during the night he had gone to the window and tried to peer through the darkness, tried to make himself see Osprey still tied up at the wharf, floating peacefully in the now-calm harbor. But when morning came Jeff avoided the window, postponing the moment when he would have to face the bleak truth of the empty slip at the dock.

  Merle Glind peered at him dolefully when he went downstairs, as if he were an unwelcome reminder of something better forgotten, and Jeff hurried out of the inn without speaking to the little man. He paused on the porch and forced himself to look out over the harbor.

  Far in the distance the mass of rocks protruded from the calm surface of the sea, looking harmless in the morning sunlight.

  There was no sign of the fishing trawler that had gutted itself on them only hours ago.

  Seeing the naked rocks, Jeff felt a surge of hope. Then his eyes went to the wharf, and there was the empty slip, silent testimony to the disappearance of Osprey. Jeff walked slowly down to the pier, to the spot where the trawler should have been moored. He stood there for a long time, as if trying by the force of his will alone to make the trawler reappear. Then he heard a voice behind him.

  “She’s gone, son,” Mac Riley said softly. Jeff turned around and faced the old man.

  “I warned you,” Riley said, his voice gentle and without a trace of malice. “It’s not safe, not when the storms are up.”

  “It wasn’t the storm,” Jeff said. “I don’t care how bad that storm was, those lines didn’t give way. Someone threw them.”

  Riley didn’t argue. Instead, his eyes drifted away from Jeff, out to the mouth of the harbor. “Sort of seems like the wreck should still be there, doesn’t it?” he mused. Before Jeff could make any reply, the old man continued, “That’s the way she is, the sea. Sometimes she throws ships up on the rocks, then leaves them there for years, almost like she’s trying to warn you. But not here. Here she takes things, and she keeps them. Reckon that’ll be the way with your boat. Wouldn’t be surprised if nothing ever turns up.”