Cry for the Strangers

  “Well, if you need me call me on the radio. I’m going to give Glen Palmer a hand today, but I’ll leave the radio open.”

  Whalen scowled at his deputy. “I don’t suppose it’s any of my business what you do on your days off, but I think you’re wasting your time. You get involved with Palmer and you’ll get in trouble.”

  “I don’t see how,” Chip said, annoyed at Whalen.

  “That’s the way it happens, that’s all,” Harney said flatly. He pulled a file from the top drawer of his desk, and opened it, as if to dismiss Chip.

  But as the door to his office closed behind his deputy, Harney Whalen looked up from the file he had been pretending to be reading. His eyes fastened vacantly on the closed door but he didn’t really see it. Instead he saw Chip’s face, but it was not quite the face he knew so well. There was something different about the face Harney Whalen visualized.

  Something strange.

  That was it, he thought to himself.

  Chip’s become a stranger to me.

  Then he put the thought aside and returned to the file in front of him.

  “Want a beer?” Glen asked as Brad came through the front door. He and Chip were leaning against one of the display cases admiring their work. The mess was gone, the shelves were back up, and all but one of the display cases had been repaired.

  “I thought you said it was destroyed,” Brad said, puzzled.

  “I guess it wasn’t as bad as I thought,” Glen replied a little sheepishly. “Not that I could have fixed it myself, of course.”

  “He’s been fussing around, getting in the way all day,” Chip said. “I told him to go out and paint a picture but he wouldn’t.”

  “Well, if you can get along without him I’ll drag him down to the library with me.”

  “The library?” Chip asked. “What’s at the library?”

  Brad glanced at Glen and Glen nodded his head. “If he doesn’t think I’m crazy,” he said, “he’s not likely to think you are.” He turned to Chip. “Brad has a theory about what’s going on around here.”

  “It has to do with the storms,” Brad said. “They seem to affect Glen’s son and I’m wondering if they might be affecting somebody else too.”

  Chip frowned, puzzled. “I don’t get it.”

  “I’m not sure I do either,” Brad said. “But it just seems as though too many ‘accidents’ have happened out here. I’m just trying to find out if they really are accidents.”

  “You mean the drownings?” Chip asked.

  “Not just the drownings,” Glen answered. “There’s also what happened here, and Miriam Shelling, and my dog. It all just seems like too much.”

  “I don’t know what you think you’ll find out,” Chip said. “Harney Whalen sure doesn’t seem too interested.”

  “What does he think is going on?” Glen asked carefully. He’d learned to be careful with Chip on the subject of Whalen.

  “He seems to think it’s some kind of fate, or an old Klickashaw curse or something. He says whenever strangers come to Clark’s Harbor trouble comes with them, but that it always turns back on them.”

  “Makes things simple anyway,” Brad commented.

  “Yeah,” Chip said, a little uncomfortably. He glanced around the gallery and set his empty beer can down. “Tell you what,” he suggested to Glen. “If Brad wants you to help him, why don’t we call it a day? I’ll go down to Blake’s and pick up what we need to finish this off and we’ll do it tomorrow.”

  The sky had turned black by the time they locked up the gallery, and Chip glanced at the western horizon. “Looks like a storm’s getting ready to hit.” The three men shuddered, keenly aware of what a storm could mean in Clark’s Harbor.

  Jeff Horton had spent the entire day walking the beach, tramping north aimlessly, telling himself he was looking for wreckage from Osprey when in fact he was trying to sort out the pieces of what had happened.

  He had been awake all night, and several times he had heard someone else downstairs, also awake. Twice he had been tempted to go down and tap at the Randalls’ bedroom door, just for the company. But it wasn’t company he needed. He needed to understand what was happening.

  He had left the house early in the morning, telling no one where he was going—he was sure the Randalls would understand, and besides, he wasn’t sure where he was going. Or what he was looking for.

  He knew that storms could kill people, but they did it simply, straightforwardly. They came down on you if you were at sea, tossed you around, terrified you, then, if the spirit moved them, hurled a gigantic wave at you and crushed you.

  If you were on land you were safer, though a storm could still smash your house, drop an electrical line on you, or cut you down with a bolt of lightning. But could a storm make someone cast a boat adrift? Could it send someone into an art gallery to destroy its contents? Could it hang a woman from the branch of a tree in the middle of the woods? All Jeff Horton’s sensibilities told him it could not. And yet, as the wind began to blow and the dark clouds began to lower over the horizon, he turned south and started back toward Clark’s Harbor. The surf began to build and the tide began flooding in, the storm on its heels.

  Missy and Robby were on Sod Beach when the storm struck the coast. As the first drops of rain fell Missy gave up her search for a perfect sand dollar and called out to her brother.

  “It’s starting to rain.”

  “So what?” Robby said, not looking up from the patch of sand he was carefully searching. So far he had found five undamaged shells, and Missy none, and he was sure she was just trying to spoil his fun. Besides, the beginnings of the storm made the beach exciting. He glanced up at the clouds, then grinned happily at the sight of the churning surf. He was only vaguely aware of Missy’s complaining voice.

  “I want to go home,” she insisted. “I don’t want to stay out here and get soaked!”

  “Nobody’s home,” Robby pointed out. “Dad’s still at work and Mom’s down at Dr. Randall’s.”

  “Then let’s go there,” Missy begged. “We can go through the woods.” She started across the beach, determined not to look back, not to give her brother a chance to cajole her into staying on the unprotected sand. She wanted to turn around when she got to the reef of driftwood that lay at the high water line but was afraid to, afraid that if Bobby wasn’t coming along behind her she would give in and go back toward the angry sea and the growing storm. Not until she was safely into the forest did she risk a look.

  Robby was no longer on the beach. Missy had a moment of panic, then decided that her brother was teasing her, trying to scare her. Well, she wouldn’t be frightened. And she wouldn’t go running around looking for him, the way he wanted her to. She would stay right where she was, in the safety of the forest, and watch. Sooner or later, Robby would come looking for her.…

  Jeff Horton arrived at the north end of Sod Beach in a shadowy half-light, a dark gray dusk made heavy by the now-raging storm. The beach looked deserted, but as Jeff passed the Palmers’ cabin he paused, a curious sense of apprehension sweeping over him. When he began walking again he had an urge to run but fought it off, telling himself there was no danger, nothing to be afraid of; he only had a few hundred yards to go before he would be comfortably inside the Randalls’ house.

  But as he moved through the storm Jeff began to feel an odd sensation: the lightning flashing around him seemed to slow him down, drain his energy. He wanted to run but found he could only walk, and with each step his stride became slower.

  He tried to force himself to hurry but it did no good. And as his pace slowed he came to the realization that he was no longer alone on the beach. Something else was there, something terrifying. Something that had come out of the storm.…

  From her vantage point in the meager shelter of the forest Missy could barely make out the shape moving steadily down the beach. At first she thought it must be Robby, but then she realized it was too big. It was too dark for her to recognize who it might be; i
ndeed, as the light faded into darkness the figure began to disappear entirely. But as night closed around her the full force of the storm struck, and the beach was lit up by sudden flashes of lightning. Each time the beach became momentarily visible, Missy looked fearfully around for her brother. He was nowhere to be seen.

  A few minutes later she lost her courage and crept away into the woods when the white flash of pent-up electricity suddenly revealed not one, but two figures on the beach. They were close together, and as she watched they suddenly merged.…

  Jeff Horton felt the attack before it came. The hair on the back of his neck tingled and stood on end, and his feeling of apprehension changed suddenly into a sense of danger. He was turning to face whatever enemy was behind him when he felt the massive arm slide around his neck and a force on the back of his head pushing forward. He felt his windpipe close under the pressure of the opposing forces and began to struggle, his arms flailing in the rain. Once he got a grip on his unseen assailant, but his hands, slick with wetness, slid loose. Before he could break free he began to lose consciousness. His last memory was of a sound, a cracking noise from just below his head. He wondered what it might have been, but before he could find an answer the blackness closed in on him and he relaxed. Seconds later he lay alone on the beach, the rain pounding down on him, the surf licking at him like a beast sniffing at its fallen prey.

  Missy ran along the trail through the woods, her heart pounding, her small voice crying out to her brother. And then he was there, standing on the trail ahead of her, waiting for her.

  “I was looking for you,” Robby said softly. “How come you hid?”

  Missy stopped running and stared at her brother, her breath coming in great heaves. She tried to speak through her gasps of exhaustion and fear but couldn’t. She sat heavily on a log and began crying. Perplexed, Robby sat beside her and put his arm around her.

  “I—I saw something,” Missy stammered. “I was waiting for you, but you didn’t come, and I saw something. On the beach—there was someone on the beach, and then someone else—and I—oh, Robby, let’s go home,” she wailed.

  Robby took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “You didn’t see anything,” he assured her. “It’s too dark.” He began leading her along the path, his step sure, his pace fast. The excitement of the storm swept over him. He wished it would never end.

  At nine o’clock that evening the librarian at the tiny Clark’s Harbor public library—two rooms in the town hall—tapped Brad Randall on the shoulder. Brad stopped writing in the notebook he had nearly filled in the five hours he and Glen had been working and looked up.

  “It’s closing time.” The gray-haired woman whispered, though there was no one else in the area. “You’ll have to come back on Monday.”

  “That’s all right,” Brad said. “I’m almost finished.” He smiled at the woman ruefully. “I hope we haven’t put you through too much.”

  “Oh, it’s all right,” the librarian assured him. “Most days I just sit here. It’s nice to have something to do now and then. Though what you want with all those papers is beyond me, I’m sure.”

  “Just checking some things out,” Brad said mildly. “Sort of a research project on the history of the town.”

  “Not much history,” the librarian sniffed. “We live and die and that’s about it.”

  “That’s what I’m interested in,” Brad said mysteriously. The librarian’s eyes widened, but before she could ask any questions Glen Palmer came in from the other room.

  “That does it,” he said. “We’ve gone as far back as the records go.”

  “That’s all right. We’ve got enough information, I think.”

  As Brad and Glen left, the librarian began putting away all the old newspapers they had gone through. She was puzzled. She made a mental note to talk to Merle Glind about it. If something was happening he would surely know what it was.

  The storm had closed in and rain was coming down in sheets as Glen and Brad made a dash for Brad’s car. As they started toward the main highway the wind, blowing at close to gale force, pulled at the Volvo, and Brad had trouble keeping it on the road.

  “Why don’t we leave your minibus at the gallery?” he suggested as they turned onto the highway. Glen shook his head.

  “Not in weather like this. If there’s anything to your theory, this is the kind of night that something could happen to it.”

  Brad chuckled appreciatively, and pulled as close to the ancient Volkswagen van as he could get. “You want to stop at our place on the way? I wouldn’t be surprised if Rebecca and the kids aren’t there, keeping Elaine company.”

  “Fine,” Glen replied. “See you there.”

  They found Rebecca and Elaine in the living room. The two women rose to greet them with worried faces.

  “It’s all right,” Brad assured them. “We’re here and we’re safe. You don’t have to look like tragedy struck.”

  His grin failed to wipe the frowns from their faces and they glanced at each other nervously. It was Elaine who spoke.

  “The children came in a while ago,” she said quietly. “About half an hour after the storm struck. Missy thought she saw something on the beach, but she isn’t sure what.”

  “Where are they?” Brad asked.

  “We put them to bed,” Rebecca explained. “They were soaked and Missy was frightened.”

  Missy thinks she sees things. Robby’s words echoed in Brad’s mind but he decided not to say anything. Not yet anyway.

  “Did you find anything at the library?” Elaine asked softly, almost hesitantly.

  Brad nodded. “Something’s going on all right,” he said. “We went through a lot of papers this evening. Every time something’s happened out here, there’s been a storm blowing. And it’s funny, it seems as though the worse the storm is, the worse the things that happen.” He was warming to his subject now, oblivious of the stricken look on his wife’s face. “For instance,” he went on, “did you know the Shellings weren’t the first case of a couple dying here?”

  “What do you mean?” Rebecca asked, suddenly pale.

  “The people who built this house died the same way,” Glen said quietly. “Baron fell off his fishing boat and got caught in his own nets. A few days later, Mrs. Baron hanged herself. It happened during a three-day storm.”

  “I wish you hadn’t told me that,” Elaine said softly. “Things like that scare me.” Brad moved to put his arm around her shoulder but she pulled away suddenly as a thought struck her. “Where’s Jeff?”

  Glen and Brad looked at each other blankly. “Jeff? He wasn’t with us. We haven’t seen him all day…” Glen’s voice trailed off as he realized what he had just said. Jeff must have been on the beach.

  And a storm was blowing.

  A bad storm.

  He grabbed his coat and began putting it back on. “Let’s get going,” he said to Brad. He picked up a flashlight from the dining-room table and was gone. disappearing into the blackness. The wind-driven rain quickly blotted out even the faint glow from his light.

  24

  They almost stumbled over Jeff.

  The young fisherman was lying in the sand, and if they hadn’t been walking at the water’s edge they would have missed him entirely.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Glen whispered as Brad’s light played over Jeff’s face. The mouth was twisted in a grimace of pain. Dead, Glen thought. Oh, my God, he’s dead. But then his eyelids fluttered and Glen fell to his knees, touching Jeff’s arm. The eyes opened.

  Jeff’s mouth began to work, but no sound came out. His eyes closed again, tightly this time, as he winced in pain.

  Brad wanted to move him, to pull him further up the beach so the surf couldn’t get at him, but as he played the flashlight over Jeff’s body he realized something was terribly wrong.

  Jeff’s head lay at a strange angle. His neck was broken.

  That Jeff was alive at all was a miracle.

  Then Jeff’s eyelids fluttered again and on
ce more he tried to speak. Glen leaned down, dose to Jeff’s lips.

  “What is it, Jeff? What happened?”

  Jeff tried hard but no sound would come out of him. He used the last of his strength to take a deep breath, then made a desperate effort to speak. But before the words could be formed the breath turned into a soul-shaking rattle and was expelled in a long, slow sigh.

  Jeff Horton, like his brother, lay dead on Sod Beach.

  Elaine Randall paced between the kitchen and the living room, pausing every few seconds to stare futilely into the blackness of the night. Several times she forced herself to sit down in front of the fire, but it was useless. A moment later she was on her feet again, her nerves jangling, a knot of fear twisting her stomach.

  Her eyes flicked around the room and she wondered briefly what she was looking for. Then she knew.

  The float.

  The glistening blue glass ball she had found on the beach—how long ago? It seemed like years, though it had been only weeks.

  She picked the sphere up from its place on the mantel, and stared into its depths.

  It was no longer beautiful.

  What she had thought of as an omen for good now seemed evil to her. She turned it over in her hands, wondering what to do with it.

  She decided to return it to the sea.

  Without giving herself time to change her mind, Elaine put on her pea coat and hurried out of the house. She moved directly across the beach, and when she neared the surf line she stopped. She looked at the float once more, curiously, then raised her arm and hurled it into the pounding waves. As it left her hand Elaine felt a tingling—almost electric—in her arm. Suddenly terrified, she turned and fled back into the house.

  Glen Palmer lurched unsteadily through the kitchen door, his face pale and his hands trembling.

  Elaine stood at the stove stirring a pan of hot cider. As soon as she saw Glen she knew.