Cry for the Strangers

  Listening only to the voices within him, unmindful of reality, Harney Whalen suddenly opened the car door and stepped out into the storm. A moment later the police car stood lonely and abandoned in the forest.

  Harney Whalen had disappeared into the night.

  When the pounding on the front door began Brad Randall’s first impulse was one of fear—the sudden, gripping fear that always accompanies an unexpected sound in the night. But when he heard a voice calling from outside, his fear dissipated and he hurried to the door.

  “I can’t find him,” Chip Connor cried as he came in out of the storm. “He’s gone, and I think it’s going to happen again!”

  “Can’t find who?” Brad asked. “For Christ’s sake, calm down! You’re not making sense.”

  “It’s Harney Whalen,” Chip gasped. “I’m sure of it. He’s been sick lately, then he got mad at me today. So I went and found Doc Phelps.” Chip dropped into a chair and tried to catch his breath.

  “Phelps?” Glen asked. “What the hell does he have to do with anything?”

  “He told me about Harn,” Chip said. “He told me that Harn’s been having blackouts.”

  “Blackouts?” Brad repeated. “What kind of blackouts?”

  “The same kind Robby has. He doesn’t pass out—he just can’t remember what he was doing. As soon as Phelps told me that I went back to the station, but he was gone. His raincoat’s still there but he’s not.”

  “Maybe he went home,” Glen suggested, though he was sure it wasn’t true.

  “That’s the first place I went,” Chip said. “He’s not there. So I figured I’d better come out here and warn you. If what you think is true, he’s probably prowling around the beach somewhere.”

  “My God,” Elaine moaned. “Is the house locked up?”

  “It’s been locked up all evening,” Brad said.

  “I’m going to check anyway.” She picked up a lantern and started toward the dining room, intent on circling the main floor.

  “We’ve got to find him,” Chip said as soon as Elaine was out of the room.

  “Maybe not,” Brad replied. “As long as we’re all here there isn’t much chance that Whalen will find anyone on the beach. Not tonight.”

  As if to confirm what he said, a bolt of lightning struck, briefly illuminating the room, then the clap of thunder shook the old house, rattling the windows.

  As the thunder died the sudden void was filled by Elaine Randall’s scream of horror. A second later she appeared at the bedroom door. “They’re gone,” she cried, her face pale and her voice strangled. “The children are gone.”

  Glen Palmer started for the bedroom and Elaine stepped aside to let him pass. He looked frantically around the icy room, then went to the open window, the cold, wind-driven rain stinging his face.

  “Please,” he prayed silently. “Leave me my children.”

  When he returned to the living room, Chip and Brad were waiting for him, their coats on, flashlights in their hands. Next to the fireplace, Mac Riley stood uncertainly.

  “I think I should go too,” he said. “I’ve known Harney since he was a baby. If something’s happening to him …”

  “No, Grandpa,” Chip replied. “Stay here. You can’t move as fast as you used to, and Mrs. Randall shouldn’t be left alone.”

  “Please,” she begged. “Please stay with me. If I have to wait by myself I’ll go out of my mind. I know I will.” Sobbing softly, she sank into a chair. Brad started toward her, but Mac Riley held up his hand.

  “Go on,” he said. “Find the children. We’ll be all right, I promise you.”

  As Chip, Brad, and Glen went out into the night, Mac Riley poked at the fire, then began one more circuit of the house, checking the doors and windows. When he came back to the living room he tried to comfort Elaine.

  “They’ll find the kids,” he said softly. “Don’t you worry.”

  But inside, the old man was worried.

  30

  The maelstrom crashed around them, the high keening of the wind screaming in the treetops providing an eerie counterpoint to the roar of the surf as the tide came to full flood. The beach had shrunk to a narrow ribbon of sand between the roiling sea and the tangle of driftwood that creaked and shifted in the storm.

  “I can’t see anything,” Missy cried out, clinging to her brother’s hand, stumbling blindly along after him as he moved quickly through the night.

  If he heard her Robby gave no sign. The excitement of the beach was upon him, and his senses took in the wildness of the elements, absorbing the unleashed energy of the tempest. His body was filling with a strange exultation, exciting him, yet at the same time calming him. It was a feeling he didn’t quite understand, but he accepted it and was grateful for it.

  Missy stopped suddenly and Robby nearly lost his footing as she jerked on his hand.

  “Something’s here,” Missy whispered, pulling close to Robby and putting her lips to his ear. “I can feel it.”

  “Nothing’s here,” Robby said. “Only us.”

  “Yes there is,” Missy insisted. “Something’s in the woods looking for us. Let’s go back. Please?”

  “We can’t go back,” Robby told her. “Not anymore.”

  He started forward again, pulling Missy with him, and she began sobbing, her terror overcoming her. As they moved along the beach she began to see shapes, strange glowing figures, moving along beside her, in front of her, behind her, coming closer, reaching out for her.

  She began screaming.

  Harney Whalen crouched behind the pile of driftwood that separated the beach from the forest and listened to the sounds in his head. The laughter was getting louder and the screams of his grandmother seemed to be fading away.

  There was a flash of lightning and he saw two figures coming toward him across the beach. They were small figures but he knew who they were.

  They were strangers.

  Strangers had killed his grandparents while he had helplessly watched.

  He wanted to run, wanted to go away and hide, as he had done so many years ago.

  But he couldn’t. He felt something gripping him, forcing him to stay where he was. He turned and there was someone beside him in the night. His grandmother, her strong, chiseled features gleaming in the night, her dark eyes flashing, was beside him.

  While the rain slashed at him and the wind tore through his clothes, chilling him, she whispered to him, her words echoing against the pounding of the surf.

  Don’t run away. Avenge. Avenge.

  Harney waited behind the log, waited for them to come near.

  He crouched lower, huddled in upon himself, and listened to the words of the old Klickashaw at his side. She spoke to him of ancient wrongs.…

  On the beach Robby and Missy, the wind whirling around them, hurried along, unaware of the danger waiting for them in the forest.

  Far down the beach, Chip Connor, Brad Randall, and Glen Palmer hurried through the storm, their flashlights playing over the sand, nearly useless in the rain.

  “We’ll never find them,” Brad called out, raising his voice against the wind. “Not if we stay together. Let’s spread out.”

  “You take the surf line,” Chip yelled. “Glen, stay in the middle of the beach. I’ll go up by the forest. And call for them. They might hear and it will let us keep track of each other. I don’t think we should get too far apart.”

  They spread out, and the three dots of light scattered themselves across the beach, visible for only a few yards but lighting the way for the searchers. They began calling out the children’s names.

  Robby began pulling Missy toward the forest but she hung back, her terrified eyes seeing nothing but the strange figures closing in around her, reaching for her. A faint sound drifted through the night, nearly lost in the storm. Missy pulled Robby to a halt.

  “Someone’s calling us. I can hear my name.”

  Robby glared at his sister, tugging on her arm. “We have to go into the woods. We??
?ll be safe there,” he hissed.

  Once more the faint sounds echoed through the night: “Missy … Robby!”

  The children crouched uncertainly in the sand, straining to hear better, but it was useless. The wind increased, howling in from the ocean, carrying the acrid smell of salt water with it.

  They began climbing over the pile of driftwood.

  Harney Whalen also heard the voices calling. But stronger in his mind was his grandmother’s voice, whispering to him, urging him on, reassuring him.

  We are with you. We will help you. You are a child of the storm. You belong to us.

  He stood up, facing the storm, and exultation swept through him. His grandmother cried out to him. Vengeance! Vengeance!

  The lightning flashed.

  The instant of electric brightness seemed to last an eternity, and the three figures froze, staring at each other across the driftwood.

  And Missy knew.

  “It’s him,” she screamed. “He’s here, Robby. He’s going to kill us.”

  Harney Whalen didn’t hear the words Missy cried out—only the sound. He peered malevolently at the two figures, seeing not two small and frightened children, but two faceless figures from the past, two unidentifiable forms, laughing at him, laughing at what they had done to his grandparents.

  He had to destroy them.

  He started over the driftwood.

  The two children, suddenly coming to life, began running up the beach.

  The lightning faded and the roll of thunder began.

  “I see them,” Brad cried as the night closed around him once more. “North. They’re north of us, right near the woods.”

  On either side of him, the pinpoints of light that were Chip and Glen suddenly began bobbing in the darkness as all three of them broke into a run. Then they began hearing Missy’s frightened cries, leading them through the night.

  The children tore through the night, hearing the pounding of feet behind them. Then Robby stumbled and fell, and Missy tumbled on top of him.

  Harney Whalen, his breath coming in fitful gasps, caught up with them, towering over them, glowering down upon them like a furious giant.

  Missy saw him first and her eyes widened in terror as she screamed out into the night. Then she felt a hand clamp over her mouth and her scream was cut off.

  Robby scrambled free from the tangle of limbs, but his mind was confused and nothing was making any sense to him. He moved aside, staring helplessly at his struggling sister, then began to scream.

  “My God, he’s got them,” Glen shouted as he heard first Missy’s choked-off scream of terror, then Robby’s mindless howling in the night. The three men were running together now, shining their lights into the darkness, praying that they would get to the children before it was too late.

  And then they found them. Chip Connor hurled himself onto Harney Whalen’s back, grabbing the chief by the neck. Whalen let go of Missy and began struggling with Chip, desperately fighting off his unseen assailant.

  Glen grabbed Missy and held the sobbing child close to him, stroking her head, patting her, trying to calm her. Then Robby too flung himself onto Glen, and the three of them held each other, unmindful of what was happening around them.

  Brad stood helplessly, wanting to come to Chip’s aid but unsure if it would do any good. Then, before he could make up his mind, Whalen broke free of Chip’s grasp and ran.

  Chip started to follow him, but Whalen disappeared into the darkness.

  “Which way did he go?” Chip cried. “I can’t find him.”

  “Toward the water,” Brad called.

  They began running, Brad shining his light ahead, the wind clutching at them.

  And then they saw him.

  Harney Whalen was in the surf, wading out to sea.

  Chip started in after him, but Brad stopped, holding his light steadily on the retreating figure of the police chief.

  “Let him go,” Brad called.

  Chip stopped, instinctively obeying the command.

  As the two men watched, an immense wave swept in from the sea, breaking over Harney Whalen’s head.

  He struggled against the force of the water for a moment, his arms waving ineffectually in the air.

  Then he was gone, taken by the sea.

  Chip walked slowly back to where Brad stood, still playing the light over the spot where Harney Whalen had vanished.

  “Why did you stop me?” Chip asked softly.

  “It’s better this way,” Brad answered. “This way we know it ends.”

  Then they turned away from the sea and started back toward Glen Palmer.

  Behind them the tide turned and began to ebb.

  An hour later the storm broke.

  Sod Beach was quiet.

  Epilogue

  “It’s over,” Chip Connor said as he walked into the Randalls’ living room.

  Brad and Maine looked at him expectantly, but Glen Palmer didn’t seem to care.

  Two weeks had passed, two weeks during which the strange story of Harney Whalen had passed through Clark’s Harbor in whispers, two weeks during which the people of the village had come to accept what had happened.

  Today it had been finished. The coroner’s inquest had been held. It had been a strange inquest.

  There were few facts to be discussed. Much time had been spent on speculation, on trying to decide exactly what had happened to the police chief.

  In the end it had been decided that Harney Whalen had died a suicide. Nothing was said about the other deaths in Clark’s Harbor, the deaths that dotted its history like a pox. But outside the inquest the people talked, and wondered, and clucked their tongues in sympathy.

  Sympathy for those who had died—and for Whalen, who apparently had killed them.

  “They want me to take over Harney’s job,” Chip said when he had finished telling them the results of the inquest.

  “Are you going to?” Brad asked.

  “I don’t know,” Chip said uneasily. “It makes sense, I suppose, but I don’t know if I want the job.”

  “You’d be good at it,” Glen Palmer offered.

  “That’s not what worries me,” Chip replied. “It’s the memories. Too many memories. I’d probably do too many things differently from Harn.”

  “Would that be so bad?” Elaine asked.

  Chip shook his head. “That’s what I don’t know. Harn wasn’t all bad. For a long time he ran things very well. If it all hadn’t gone wrong for him …” He let the thought go, then turned to Brad. “What happened?” he asked. “Isn’t there any explanation?”

  “A theory,” Brad said. “But I’ll never be able to prove it. There was a connection between Bobby and Harney Whalen.”

  “I don’t understand—” Chip began, but Brad stopped him.

  “I’m not sure I do either. It has to do with bio-rhythms, and bio-rhythms are elusive things. We know they affect us, but we don’t know why. For that matter, we aren’t even sure what they are. Everyone has a set pattern of rhythms that begins the day he’s born, and the pattern only repeats itself every fifty-eight years and sixty-seven days. As it happens, that’s exactly how much older Whalen was than Robby. Both of them, apparently, had a bio-rhythmic pattern that’s affected by the storms out here. For Robby the effect is good. For Whalen—well, coupled with the trauma he had when he was a boy, the effect was disastrous.”

  Chip stared at the psychiatrist. “How come you didn’t think of that before?” he demanded. “If you knew something like that could happen, Harn could have been—”

  Again Brad cut him off. “I’m sorry, Chip,” he said gently. “There’s nothing that could have been done. In fact, I don’t even know if my theory is right. All it is is a theory, but it fits the facts. And with bio-rhythms that’s most of the story. You can’t predict what’s going to happen, but they often explain what did happen. You might call them a good tool for hindsight,” he added wryly.

  But what about the future, he wondered to hims
elf. His eyes wandered to the window, and came to rest on Robby Palmer. The boy was walking slowly along the beach, studying the sand at his feet.

  Again the words came into Brad’s mind. What about the future? With Harney Whalen gone, what would the beach hold for Robby?

  As if reading Brad’s mind, Chip Connor suddenly stood up. “I think I’ll go for a walk,” he said, almost too casually. “One thing about this beach—it was always a good place to think.” As he pulled on his coat, Chip gazed out at the calmness of Sod Beach. On the horizon, as often was the case, a storm seemed to be building, but it no longer posed a threat, no longer induced a fear of something horrible about to happen …

  And yet, far down the beach, he could see Robby Palmer, standing still now, staring at the darkening horizon, his puppy frisking at his feet.

  A chill crept through Chip’s body, and he buttoned his coat snug around his neck.

  * * *

  He left the old house and started north, not stopping until he reached the point where Harney Whalen had disappeared into the surf.

  Chip’s eyes scanned the sea, unconsciously searching for the police chief’s body.

  It had never been found, never washed up on the sand, either here or on the beaches to the north and south, all of which had been patrolled regularly.

  Chip turned away from the sea and started toward the woods. As he made his way to the top of the driftwood tangle the wind began to blow.

  Two weeks ago the blowing of the wind would have frightened him.

  He sat on a huge silvery log and tried to sort things out in his mind, tried to separate his memories—tried to categorize them, keeping the good memories and discarding the bad ones.

  He wanted to create two Harney Whalens: the one he had known so well, the one he had grown up respecting and admiring; and the other one, the recent one, the Harney Whalen whose mind had been twisted, partly by his ancient memories, but also apparently by the same elements that had twisted the log on which Chip sat. Maybe, Chip reflected, his grandfather was right—maybe it was the sea that got to Harney.