One day, a few months ago, Robby Palmer had stopped coming to see Brad Randall, and Brad had never understood why. When he had tried to talk to the Palmers about it they had only said there was a miracle and left it at that. Silently, Brad Randall wondered if Clark’s Harbor had anything to do with that miracle. Now Glen told him.
“You won’t believe it,” he was saying. “The change in Robby is absolutely incredible. Ever since we brought him out here. He’s calm, Dr. Randall. He’s still active, but it isn’t like it used to be. Now he’s like other children.”
“But what caused it?” Brad asked.
Glen Palmer shrugged. “I haven’t any idea. We came out here on a camping trip and stopped just north of town, at a place called Sod Beach. And Robby calmed down. Just like that,” he said, snapping his fingers. “And he stayed calm as long as we were on the beach. So we moved out here.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Brad mused.
“Maybe not,” Palmer agreed. “But we don’t question it. Whatever demons were in him, they’re gone now. Gone forever.”
Brad’s fingers drummed softly on the table top as he turned Glen’s statement over in his mind, trying to figure out what could have cured Robby’s disorder. It had been a problem case too long, and Brad was always skeptical of “miracles.” “I wonder if I could see him?” he asked.
“Why not?” Glen agreed amiably. “He always liked you.”
“Tell that to my receptionist,” Brad chuckled. The receptionist had lived in terror of Robby’s visits to the office, and often made up reasons not to be there when the child arrived.
Glen glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Tell you what,” he said, “why don’t you come out to our place this evening or tomorrow morning? Are you staying in town?”
“I guess we might as well,” Elaine said uncertainly, knowing Brad would want to. “Is there a decent place?”
“The Harbor Inn, down on the waterfront,” Glen said. “It’s the only place.” He stood up. “Look, I’ve got a lot to do this afternoon. See you later, okay?”
“Sure,” Brad said. Before he could say anything else Glen Palmer hurried away from their table and disappeared through the door.
“That was sudden,” Elaine commented.
“It was, wasn’t it?” Brad agreed. Then he noticed that as soon as Palmer left a buzz of conversation had started among the remaining patrons of the café.
“Well,” a woman at the next table said a bit too loudly to her lunch partner. “At least he’s shaved off that awful beard.”
“Not that it matters,” the other woman replied. “He still doesn’t fit in around here.”
“You’d think he’d get the message,” the first woman said. “Everybody else like them has caught on right away and left us in peace.”
“My Joe offered to buy that building of theirs just yesterday,” the second woman said. “And do you know what Glen Palmer told him? He told him it wasn’t for sale. Joe told him he’d better sell while he could, before he ruined it completely, but Palmer told him he wasn’t ruining it—he was remodeling it.”
“Into an art gallery,” the first woman sniffed. “What makes him think he can make a living with an art gallery in Clark’s Harbor? And that wife of his—makes pottery that looks like mud pies and thinks people will actually buy it!”
The conversation continued to buzz around them. From the few words Brad could catch, he knew they were all talking about the same person—Glen Palmer. Everyone, apparently, talked about him. No one had talked to him.
“Maybe I was wrong,” Brad heard Elaine say. She also was listening to the comments from the other tables.
“ ‘New England,’ you said.” Brad gave her a wry smile. “Sounds to me like you were right on target. These people don’t seem to like strangers any more than villagers do anywhere else.”
“It’s kind of scary, isn’t it?” Elaine asked.
Brad shrugged. “I don’t know. I think it’s more or less to be expected. We’ll probably get the same treatment no matter where we go. But it’s just a matter of time. People have to get used to you, particularly in places like this. I’ll bet a lot of people in this town rarely see someone they don’t know. When they do they get suspicious.”
Elaine fell silent and continued eating her lunch. The psychiatrist in Brad was enjoying himself, finding the hostile attitudes of the locals “interesting,” and she wasn’t sure she approved. But, she quickly reminded herself, you knew when you married him that he was a psychiatrist; you have nothing to complain about. She concentrated on looking out the window and did her best to ignore the chatter going on around her.
It wasn’t until they were finishing their coffee that Brad spoke again.
“I think we should look around.”
“I’m not so sure …” Elaine began.
Brad tried to reassure her. “Honey, any small town is going to be the same, and if we’re going to live in a place like this for a year, we’re going to have to tolerate some hostility and suspicion at first. It goes with the territory: if you want to be in a small town, you have to put up with small town attitudes.”
He paid the check and they left the café. Downstairs, in the tavern, Brad saw that the checker game seemed not to have progressed at all. One of the old men stared intently at the board, the other out the window. If either of them noticed the Randalls neither gave a sign.
“Let’s look around the wharf,” Brad suggested, as they came out into the sunlight.
Most of the slips were empty, but five or six fishing boats were still tied up, with men working on them, repairing nets, tinkering with engines, inspecting equipment. They walked the length of the wharf, pausing to inspect each boat as they passed it. No one spoke to them, and once, when Brad offered a tentative “hello,” there was no response.
“They don’t talk much, do they?” Elaine observed as they neared the end of the pier.
“Odd, isn’t it?” Brad replied. “Apparently the image of the happy fisherman hasn’t reached Clark’s Harbor yet.” He glanced around as if unsure what to do next. “Shall we go for a ride?”
Before Elaine could answer him there was a blast of a siren and a police car pulled up to the wharf. From the driver’s side a barrel-chested man of about sixty emerged, then circled the car to open the door for a heavyset woman. She got out of the car, one hand clutching the police officer’s arm, the other holding onto a crumpled handkerchief.
All activity on the wharf came to a halt as the men on the boats stared at the new arrivals.
“Something wrong, Chief?” a voice called.
“Something’s always wrong when Harney Whalen comes to the wharf,” another voice shouted.
Police Chief Harney Whalen didn’t acknowledge the second voice, but chose instead to answer the first.
“Don’t know,” he called out. “Miriam Shelling here can’t seem to find Pete. Any of you guys seen him?”
There were negative murmurings among the fishermen, and they began leaving their boats to gather around the chief. Miriam Shelling still clung to Whalen and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.
“He went out last night,” she said, looking from one of the men to another, then another, her eyes never resting for long on any single face. “He said he’d be back about four o’clock this morning, but he never came in.”
One of the fishermen nodded in agreement. “Yeah, he was right behind me when I went out last night, but he didn’t come back in when I did. He’s probably found a school and wants to get all he can.”
Miriam Shelling shook her head. “He wouldn’t do that,” she insisted. “He’d know I’d be worried. He’d at least have called me on the radio.”
The men exchanged glances among themselves. Harney Whalen looked uncomfortable, as if he was wondering what to do next, when the silence was broken by the blast of an air horn. Everyone turned toward the harbor, where a small launch was speeding toward the wharf. Miriam Shelling’s fingers tightened on
the police chief’s arm.
The launch pulled up into one of the empty slips and a line was tossed out, caught, and tied to a cleat. A man leaped from the small boat, his face pale. He looked quickly around, his eyes coming to rest on Harney Whalen.
“Are you a policeman?”
“I’m the chief,” Whalen said. “Something the matter?”
The man nodded. “I found a boat drifting out there. When I hailed it there wasn’t any response, so I went aboard. The boat was deserted.”
“Where is it?” Whalen asked.
“It’s anchored about a mile north, maybe three hundred yards out,” the man said. “It’s called the Sea Spray.”
“That’s Pete’s boat,” Miriam Shelling cried. The man stared at her for a moment, then pulled Whalen a few feet away. When he spoke again his voice dropped low.
“Its nets were out,” he said softly. “I decided to pull them in. And they weren’t empty.”
Whalen glanced quickly at Miriam, then back to the stranger.
“A body?”
The man nodded. “I brought it back with me.”
Whalen moved to the launch and stepped down into it. The fishermen crowded around as Whalen pulled back the tarpaulin that lay bundled in the stern. Pete Shelling’s vacant eyes stared up at them.
Ten yards away the Randalls watched as the fishermen reacted to the death. They stared mutely down into the boat, then one by one began drifting away, as if somehow embarrassed to be in the presence of death. They passed Miriam Shelling silently, offering her neither a word nor a gesture of comfort. When they were gone and only Harney Whalen and the owner of the launch remained, Miriam finally stepped forward and peered down at her husband. She froze for a moment, then wailed his name and threw herself into Harney Whalen’s arms. He held her for a moment, then spoke quietly to the man who had brought Pete Shelling home. Finally he led Miriam Shelling from the wharf, helped her back into the police car, and drove her away.
“My God,” Elaine breathed softly. “How awful.”
Brad nodded, his eyes still fixed on the wharf. Elaine grasped his arm.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said. “Please?”
Brad seemed not to hear her. “Did you notice?” he asked. “It was almost as if nothing had happened. They didn’t speak to her, they didn’t speak to each other, they didn’t ask any questions, they didn’t even seem surprised. It was almost as if they were expecting it.”
“What?” Elaine asked blankly.
“The fishermen. They didn’t react to that man’s death at all. It was almost as if they were expecting it, or it didn’t have anything to do with them—or something. But what happened to him could happen to any of them.”
Elaine looked carefully at her husband. She knew what was coming. She tried to head it off.
“Let’s leave, Brad,” she said. “Please? I don’t like Clark’s Harbor.” But it was too late, and she knew it.
“It’s fascinating,” Brad went on. “Those men didn’t react like normal people at all. Not at all.” He took Elaine’s hand and squeezed it.
“Come on,” he said, “let’s find that inn.”
“We’re staying?” Elaine asked.
“Of course.” Brad grinned. “What else?”
Elaine felt a twist of fear deep in her stomach and forced it away, telling herself it was unreasonable. But deep inside, the fear remained, unreasonable or not.
Far out on the horizon, a storm was gathering.
3
The Harbor Inn, its Victorian façade painted a fresh white with sky-blue trim, perched almost defiantly in the center of a neatly tended lawn. It gazed suspiciously out over the water, as if it expected the sea to snatch it away at any second. From a room on the second floor Elaine Randall stared at the sea in unconscious imitation of the inn. She listened to the wind whistle under the eaves of the old building and marveled that the fishing boats, secured against the growing storm, rode so easily in the choppy water of the bay. As rain began to splash against the window she turned to her husband.
“I suppose it will do for one night,” she said doubtfully, glancing around the room. Brad grinned at her.
“You love it and you know you love it,” he chuckled. “If it hadn’t been for that drowning, you’d be happy as a clam.”
Elaine sat down heavily in the slipcovered wing chair that filled one corner of the small room and tried to analyze her feelings. She knew Brad was right: if they hadn’t been on the wharf when that man’s body had been brought in, she would now be raving about the room, raving about the town, and excitedly planning to spend a year here. But the fisherman’s death had drained her enthusiasm, and now she looked bleakly at the antique furnishings of the equally antique inn and found herself unable to muster any positive thoughts at all.
“It’s run-down,” she said sourly.
“It isn’t at all,” Brad countered. “All things considered, it’s remarkably well kept up.”
“If you like this sort of thing.”
“Which you do,” Brad said emphatically. “Look at that washstand. Not a chip in the marble anywhere, and if that oak isn’t hand rubbed, I’ll eat it for dinner.”
Elaine examined the washstand closely and had to admit that Brad was right—it was a genuine antique and it was flawless. Forcing her negative feelings aside, she made herself look at the room once again. She had to concede that it was charming. There was no trace of standard hotel furnishings, nothing to indicate it was anything but the cozy bedroom of a private home. The double bed sported what was obviously a handmade quilt, and all the furniture was good sturdy oak. Not fancy, but warm and functional.
“All right,” Elaine gave in. “It is nice, and it’s exactly the sort of thing I love. I just wish it weren’t in Clark’s Harbor.”
“But if it weren’t in Clark’s Harbor it wouldn’t exist, would it?” Brad reasoned.
“You’re not going to trap me into that old argument. Besides, you know perfectly well what I’m talking about. You’re just trying to be ornery.”
“Me?” Brad said with exaggerated innocence. “Would I do a thing like that?”
“Yes, you would,” Elaine replied, trying to keep her voice severe. “But I won’t fall for it. If I did, in another minute you’d have me all turned around and I’d be begging you to let us stay here at least for a few days. But I don’t want to stay. I want to go back to Seattle, and I want to go in the morning.”
“Yes, ma’am,” her husband said, clicking his heels and saluting. He smiled at his wife and wondered how serious she was—and how much arguing he was going to have to do to convince her to stay in Clark’s Harbor for a while. He decided to approach the problem obliquely. He began untying his shoes.
“I’ve been thinking about Robby Palmer,” he said neutrally.
Elaine caught on immediately. “The book,” she said. “You’ve decided to write your book about him, haven’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Brad countered. “I’d like to find out what happened to him, though. The kind of disorder he has doesn’t just clear up as Glen said it did. It just doesn’t happen.”
“But if it did?” Elaine asked.
“Then it’s worth knowing about. My God, if there’s something out here, something about the area, that affects children like Robby, and helps them, then the world should know about it.”
“What would you call the book? Paradise Found?”
“Well, a book about Robby Palmer might have a wider appeal than a book about bio-rhythms,” Brad said defensively.
“Why don’t you write about both?” Elaine offered. “Get both audiences?” She began laughing at her own joke, but stopped when she saw the look on Brad’s face. “Did I say something?” she asked warily.
“I don’t know,” Brad said. He kicked his shoes off, then tossed bis socks after them. He stretched out on the bed and opened his arms invitingly. Elaine moved from the chair to the bed and snuggled close to him. His arms pressed her against h
is chest; one hand stroked the back of her neck softly. The patter of rain against the window became a steady drumming. And he knew he was about to win: they would not be going home in the morning.
“Do you really hate it here all that much?” he asked after a moment.
Elaine wriggled sensuously and nuzzled Brad’s neck, then once more tried to sort out her feelings.
“I suppose it was mostly that body,” she said finally, shuddering slightly at the memory. “I keep telling myself that the same thing could happen anywhere—I mean, fishermen drown all the time, don’t they?—but I keep seeing that face, all blue and bloated, and I’m afraid that I’ll always associate that memory with Clark’s Harbor.” She paused and felt Brad stir. “You want to stay here, don’t you?”
“Well, it’s certainly the prettiest place we’ve seen so far, and it seems perfect for what we want. It’s isolated and it’s small and there isn’t much chance that we’ll get so caught up in the social whirl that I won’t get any writing done.”