Cry for the Strangers

  “I don’t know,” Chip said nervously. “I just thought maybe if you could go down there—maybe to talk about something being wrong with the house—and sort of draw him out. Maybe you could tell if he’s all right or not.”

  Brad turned the idea over in his mind, wondering if it could possibly work. If the chief were obsessive, as Chip seemed to think, Whalen certainly wouldn’t open up to him. But on the other hand, his refusal to talk just might tell him something too.

  “Well, I suppose I could try,” he agreed without much conviction. “But I can’t promise you anything. Don’t expect me to go down and talk to him for five minutes, then be able to tell you if he’s sane or not. It just isn’t that simple. Besides, he’ll probably throw me out of his office.”

  “But you’d be able to tell if he’s reasonable or not, wouldn’t you?”

  “I can tell you that right now. I don’t think Whalen’s reasonable, and I never have. But what I think doesn’t constitute either a medical or a legal opinion. All it means is that as far as I can tell he’s a rigid person with some pretty strong prejudices. That doesn’t make him crazy. All it makes him is difficult.”

  “But what about Glen? What about what Harney’s doing to him?”

  “So far he hasn’t done anything except make a lot of wild accusations. And he hasn’t even done that on the record. I mean, he hasn’t charged Glen with anything. Or has he?”

  Chip shook his head. “No. But I think he’s going to.”

  “Do you? I don’t. I don’t think Whalen has the vaguest idea of what’s going on, and he certainly doesn’t have anything to use against Glen Palmer, or anybody else. And I’ll tell you something else—I don’t think he’s ever going to make sense out of this mess. I’m not sure there is any sense. All I know is that the storms around here do something to Robby Palmer, and my best guess is that they’re doing something to someone else as well.”

  Something stirred in Chip’s mind—a connection only half-made, but he was sure it was an important connection.

  “What happens to Robby?”

  “I’m not sure exactly,” Brad confessed. He made a gesture encompassing the books around him. “I’ve been trying to find something similar, but so far there isn’t anything. Even Robby isn’t sure what happens to him. The storms excite him but he doesn’t remember what he does during them.”

  The connection clicked home in Chip’s mind. Whalen’s visit to Doc Phelps. Was it really indigestion? And other things, little things. The day he had worked with Glen, undisturbed. It had been stormy that day and Whalen had never called him. And that night the Hortons’ boat had gone on the rocks. He searched his mind frantically, trying to remember where Harney Whalen had been each time something had gone wrong in Clark’s Harbor. And he couldn’t remember. All he knew was that usually Harney had been home. Except … who knew if he was at home or somewhere else?

  Chip made up his mind to have a talk with Doc Phelps. Then, and only then, would he talk to Brad Randall. After all, Randall was a stranger, and Harney Whalen was his uncle.

  In Clark’s Harbor the natives stuck together.

  28

  The leaden sides over the Olympic Peninsula were dropping a soft mist on the small graveyard that overlooked Clark’s Harbor, but there were no umbrellas raised above the heads of the tiny group of people who watched as Rebecca Palmer was laid to rest.

  Lucas Pembroke closed his bible and began reciting the prayers for Rebecca’s soul from memory, his eyes closed not only in reverence, but so that no one would see the sorrow he was feeling for Rebecca.

  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust …”

  As the words droned automatically from his lips the minister wondered how much longer he would continue to come to Clark’s Harbor, how much longer he would be able to tolerate the coldness that emanated from the village, how much longer, and how many more deaths, it would take before he turned his back on the little settlement nestled by the harbor.

  Glen Palmer, holding Missy and Robby close, stood bare-headed in the rain, with Brad and Elaine Randall flanking him. They stood at the end of the open grave, and as the coffin was slowly lowered into the pit Missy began sobbing quietly. Elaine immediately knelt beside the child and gathered her into her arms. Robby, his face frozen in stoic acceptance, watched impassively, but as the coffin disappeared from his view a tear welled in his eye, overflowed, and ran unnoticed down his cheek.

  A few yards away, his hands fingering his gloves nervously, Chip Connor stood with his grandfather, Mac Riley. Every few seconds Chip glanced at Glen, nodding slightly, as if to encourage his friend. The gesture went unheeded. Glen’s eyes remained fastened on his wife’s casket, his features a study in confusion and anguish.

  At the fringe of the group, not really a part of it but observing everything, Merle Glind and the village librarian stood clucking together under the protection of a newspaper, their inquisitive eyes darting from face to face, filing away the reactions of everyone there for future discussion and reference.

  As the Reverend Pembroke finished his prayers and picked up a clod of earth to sprinkle over the casket, he noticed a flash of movement in the trees beyond the graveyard. But when he looked more carefully, hoping to see who—or what—was there, there was nothing. Pembroke bit his lip, crushed the lump of earth, and dropped it into the grave.

  It was like pulling a trigger. Missy Palmer, her quiet tears suddenly bursting forth into loud sobs, clung to Elaine Randall; and Robby, his hand tightening in his father’s, suddenly looked up.

  “I—I—” he began, but his words were choked off as he began to tremble and sob. Glen quickly sank to the ground beside him and held him.

  “It’s all right, son,” he whispered. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Then he scooped up a handful of damp earth, put it in Robby’s hand, and led him to the edge of the grave. Together, father and son back farewell to Rebecca.

  “I’m so sorry, Glen,” Chip said softly when it was over. “If there’s anything I can do—anything at all—”

  “Find out who did it,” Glen pleaded. “Just find out who killed her.”

  Chip glanced quickly at Brad, who just as quickly shook his head slightly. Neither of them had yet told Glen of Brad’s suspicion, and this was not the time to do it.

  “We’re working on it,” Chip assured him.

  “Thanks for coming,” Glen said then. “I can’t really say I expected you to be here. Not after what Whalen put me through yesterday.”

  “What Harney thinks is up to Harney,” Chip replied. “I asked you what happened Sunday night and you told me. I haven’t had any reason to change my mind.”

  There was a sudden silence and Elaine picked Missy up, then tried to smile cheerfully. “Why don’t we all go out to our place,” she suggested. “I’m not sure what we have but I’ll scrape up something.”

  Mac Riley, his ancient sensibilities serving him well, took up the suggestion immediately.

  “You figure out how to make that old stove go yet?”

  “I’m working on it but it still gets to me.”

  “Nothing to it,” Riley quavered. He began leading Elaine away from the graveside, sure that the others would follow. “I been using one of those things all my life, and the trick’s in the wood. You got to have small pieces, and lots of different kinds. Some of ’em burn hotter than others. Once you know what’s going to burn how, it’s a lead-pipe cinch.”

  Moments later they had reached the cars. The cortege drove slowly away from the graveyard, leaving Rebecca Palmer at peace under the protection of the earth. Glen Palmer glanced back once and for a split second almost envied Rebecca. For her, the horror was truly over.

  He wondered if it would ever be over for him.

  The gathering at the Randalls’ was a quiet one. Chip had begged off almost immediately, pleading business in town. While Elaine wrestled with the stove, encouraged only a little by Mac Riley’s advice, Glen and Brad stood nervously in the k
itchen, trying to explain to the old man what they thought might be happening.

  Riley listened patiently as they told him about the strange effect the beach and the storms had on Robby, and how they had come to the conclusion that Robby was not the only one to be affected by the storms. When they finished Riley scratched his head thoughtfully and turned the whole matter over in his mind.

  “Well, I just don’t know,” he said at last. “Sounds to me like craziness, but then this beach has always been full of craziness. Maybe that’s what all the old legends were about.” Then he shook his head. “Afraid I can’t buy it though. I’m too old for these newfangled ideas. If you ask me it’s the sea. The sea and the past. They always catch up with you in the end. No way to get around it.”

  “You think the sea is breaking people’s necks?” Brad asked incredulously. Riley peered at him sadly.

  “Could be,” he said. “Or it could be the Indians. Some say they’re still here, out on the beach.”

  “If they were we’d have seen them,” Glen objected.

  “Maybe you would, maybe you wouldn’t.” Riley’s ancient voice crackled. “Only a few people can see the spirits, and even them that can, can’t always.”

  Brad decided to play along with the old man. “Missy seems to think she sees things on the beach.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me a bit,” Riley replied calmly. “Children have better eyes for things like that.”

  “And better ears for old men’s stories?”

  “Think what you like. Someday you’ll know the truth.” He glanced over the window. “Rain’s starting up again. Big storm coming,” he observed.

  Involuntarily, the Randalls and Glen Palmer shuddered.

  Chip Connor spent the afternoon with Harney Whalen. It was a difficult time for both of them: Chip tried to pretend that all was as it had always been between them, but Whalen was not fooled. Finally, in midafternoon, he accused Chip of staring at him and demanded to know what was wrong.

  “Nothing,” Chip assured him. “Nothing at all. I’m just a little worried about you.”

  “About me? I should think you’d be worried about your pal Glen Palmer. He’s the one who’s gotten himself in a peck of trouble.”

  Chip ignored the gibe, wanting to steer the conversation as far from Glen Palmer as possible. “I was just wondering how you’re feeling,” he said solicitously. “You look a little off color.”

  “I’m fine,” Whalen growled. “Nothing wrong with me that won’t be cured by a little peace and quiet around here.” There was a pause, then Whalen went on. “Tell you what—why don’t you take off for a couple of hours, then come back around dinnertime, and spell me for a while.”

  Chip couldn’t think of a good reason not to, so he left the police station—reluctantly—and went looking for Doc Phelps. He found him at the inn, sitting on the stool Chip usually occupied, a half-empty beer in front of him. He started to get up when Chip came in, but Chip waved him back onto the stool.

  “Order one for me and I’ll fill yours up,” he said cheerfully, sliding onto the stool next to Phelps.

  “What about me?” Merle Glind piped eagerly from the stool on the other side of Phelps.

  “You could buy your own just once,” Chip teased. “But what the hell. Might as well be a big spender.”

  The beers were drawn and set up in front of them when Phelps asked about Harney Whalen.

  “Whalen?” Chip said carefully. “What about him?”

  “Well, I ordered him to come in for some tests, but he hasn’t showed up. I guess he must be feeling better.”

  “What kind of tests?” Chip asked, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

  “Oh, just some things I’d like checked out,” the doctor replied cautiously. “He hasn’t been feeling too well, you know.”

  “Told me it’s just indigestion.”

  “Indigestion?” Dr. Phelps gave the word a sarcastic twist that riveted Chip’s attention. “Damnedest kind of indigestion I ever heard of. Most people remember indigestion.”

  Chip felt his heartbeat skip and a knot of anticipation form in his stomach.

  “You mean he’s having memory problems? Like blackouts?”

  “That’s what he told me,” Phelps said. “Wanted me to keep it to myself, and I suppose I ought to. But if he isn’t going to obey doctor’s orders, seems to me something ought to be done.”

  Chip didn’t hear what Phelps had just said—his mind was racing.

  “Doc, tell me about the blackouts. It might be important. Very important.”

  Phelps frowned at the young man and tugged at his lower lip. He didn’t like these kids trying to push him around.

  “Well, I don’t know,” he hesitated. “Seems to me like I’ve already broken Harn’s confidence—”

  “The hell with Harn’s confidence,” Chip snapped. “Dr. Phelps, I have to know what you know about those blackouts.”

  “Well, I don’t really know much at all,” Phelps grumbled. He still resented being ordered to talk by Chip, and yet there was a note of urgency in the young deputy’s voice that struck a chord in the doctor. “He didn’t really tell me much. Mostly he was upset about something that happened the other day while he was driving out to Sod Beach. It was the day those new people moved in—the Randalls?—and I guess Ham was taking them out to their house. Anyway, he froze at the wheel, I guess, and almost ran over those two kids who live out there.”

  “Robby and Missy? The Palmer kids?”

  “Those’d be the ones,” the doctor agreed. “Anyway, it upset Harney enough so he came to see me. Told me he’d been having what he calls spells. His hands start twitching, and then he doesn’t remember anything for an hour or so.”

  “Do you know what’s causing it?” Chip asked anxiously.

  “Haven’t any idea at all,” Phelps shrugged. “I wanted him to go down to Aberdeen for some tests, but you know Harn—stubborn as a mule!”

  “And you didn’t try to make him?” Chip demanded unbelievingly. “For Christ’s sake, Doc, he might have killed somebody!”

  “But he didn’t, did he?” Phelps said blandly.

  “Didn’t he?” Chip muttered. “I wonder.”

  He slid off the barstool and headed back to the police station, intent on confronting the police chief. But when he got to the station, Harney Whalen’s office was empty.

  Chip glanced around the office and saw that Whalen’s raincoat still hung from the coat tree in the corner. Wherever he had gone, and for whatever purpose, he hadn’t bothered to take his coat with him.

  The storm outside, so gentle this morning, was raging.

  And it was getting dark. Tonight high tide would be an hour after dusk.

  As dusk began to fall Elaine took Missy and Robby into the downstairs bedroom and began putting them to bed. The storm had increased, and the sound of rain battering against the window seemed menacing to Elaine, but she was careful not to communicate her feelings to the children. As she tucked them into the big bed Missy suddenly put her arms around her neck.

  “Do we have to sleep here?” she whispered. “Can’t we sleep at home?”

  “Just for tonight, dear,” Elaine said. “But don’t you worry. We’ll all be in the next room. Your father, and me, and Brad. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Missy said, her voice tiny and frightened. “Nothing’s ever going to be fine. I know it isn’t.”

  Elaine hugged the child reassuringly and kissed her on the forehead. Then she kissed Robby too and picked up the lantern by the bed.

  “If you need anything you just call me,” she told them. Then she pulled the door closed behind her as she left the room.

  They lay in bed, listening to the rain beat against the window. For a long time they were quiet, but then Missy stirred.

  “Are you asleep?”

  “No. Are you?”

  “No.” Missy paused a moment, then: “I miss Mommy. I want to go home. I don’t like
this house.”

  “It’s just a house,” Robby said disdainfully. “It isn’t any different than any other house, except that it’s better than ours.”

  “It’s creepy,” Missy insisted.

  “Oh, go to sleep,” Robby said impatiently. He turned over and closed his eyes and tried to pretend that he was sleeping. But he heard the sounds of the rain and the wind and the building surf of the flowing tide. The sounds seemed to be calling him, and try as he would, he couldn’t ignore them.

  “If you really want to, we can go home,” he whispered.

  Missy stirred next to him, and he knew she’d heard him.

  “Could we go through the woods?” she whispered.

  “All right,” Robby agreed. The beach would be better, he thought, but the woods would be all right. At least he’d be near the storm.…

  A few moments later Robby raised the window and the two children crept out into the night.

  29

  Harney Whalen sat behind the wheel of the patrol car, his knuckles white with tension, his face beginning to twitch spasmodically. The windshield wipers, almost useless against the driving rain, beat rhythmically back and forth in front of his eyes, but if he saw them, he gave no sign. He was watching the road in front of him, and there was an intensity in his look that would have frightened anyone who saw it. But he was alone, driving north toward Sod Beach.

  As he approached the beach he began to hear voices in his mind, voices from his childhood, calling to him.

  Floating in the darkness ahead of him, just beyond the windshield, he thought he saw faces—his grandmother was there, her face twisted in fear, her eyes reflecting the panic of a trapped animal. She seemed to be trying to call out to Harn, but her voice was lost in the howling tempest—all that came through was the faint sound of laughter, a laughter that mocked Harney, taunted him, made the chaos in his mind coalesce into hatred.

  He turned the car into a narrow side road halfway up Sod Beach and picked his way carefully through the mud until the forest closed in on him, blocking him. He turned off the headlights, then the engine, and sat in the darkness, the rain pounding on the car, the wind whistling around him, and the roar of the pounding surf rolling over him, calling to him. Beckoning him.