by R. L. Stine
He swerved to avoid a lake of rainwater that glimmered darkly over the right half of the road. He could feel the wind push the car sideways. “Vince, this rain is killing me.”
“There’s a hurricane, Pavano. Down South. A big one. It pushed out into the ocean, but we’re getting the sloppy seconds.”
Andy snickered. “Vince, you’re a poet. Sloppy seconds? That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Hey, what makes sense?”
Andy joined the Sag Harbor Police Force three weeks before, but it was long enough to know that what makes sense? was the height of Vince’s philosophy.
“The wind is trying to blow this fucking Ford off the road.”
The radio squealed again. Then Vince’s distorted voice: “Language, dude. Remember? People listen in. Civilians. Shut-ins. Keep it clean.”
“Okay, Mom.”
“You city guys don’t know how to drive. How long were you a New York City cop?”
“I was a Housing Authority cop.”
“Ooh, I’m wetting myself. I’m so impressed. How long?”
“None of your business, Vince. What’s up with the chitchat? You just lonely?”
“I’ve got a wife, an ex-wife, and four kids, man. How do you get to be lonely? Tell me.”
Andy didn’t have an answer for that. He had an ex-wife, too. The lovely Susannah. One of the reasons he moved to Sag Harbor.
All My Exes Live in Texas.
Someone should write one like it about New York.
All of Andy’s philosophy could be found in country songs.
He thought about Sari. Her dark hair falling over her forehead. Those beautiful eyes, oval and green like cat eyes. He should turn around and maybe drop by her house.
That first visit was awkward. No. Worse than awkward. She was ice. She tried to freeze me. All that talk about how she was in love, how she was going to get married. To a guy who owns the tennis shop in Southampton?
No. That’s crap. No way that was going to happen.
Now she’d had time to think about him, get warmed up to the idea of Andy being around again.
Sure, he blew it the first time with Sari. Maybe this time . . .
“Pavano, what’s your ten-twenty?”
“I’m east on Noyac. Am I going in the right direction?”
“Maybe you need a GPS. Like the summer people. You’re still a tourist, Pavano. Why don’t you talk to your uncle about getting a—”
“You’re going to keep calling him my uncle, aren’t you.”
“Yeah, probably. My sense of humor, you know. Riding this desk you need a sense of humor.”
“Riding this desk? You been watching Cops again?”
The car rumbled past the turn at Long Beach. The rain formed a heavy curtain. He couldn’t see the bay. No cars in either direction. Who would be out driving in this?
“So tell me again where this house is, Vince.”
“It’s a left on Brick Kiln, then a left on Jesse Halsey. Go to the end. Take a right on Bluff Point Road.”
Andy sighed and shifted his weight in the seat. “Got it. You know, I didn’t sign on for shit like this. I came out here for peace and quiet. Maybe a domestic or two. A deer down on the road, someone steals a stop sign or takes a leak in a supermarket parking lot.”
“That sounds a lot like whining, Pavano.”
“Left on Brick Kiln, right? Okay. I’m here. I’m not whining, Vince. But, look—you’re riding a desk, as you so colorfully put it. And I’m—”
“Got another call. I’m out. You’re not the only cop out tonight, Sergeant.”
“Just about.”
The Sag Harbor Police wasn’t exactly a big force. Vince on the desk nights, the chief, and how many patrol guys? Four? Andy ran through their names in his head. Three Italian, one Irish. He made the left, then the right.
“Vince? You still there? I can’t do this. It’s making me sick. Really. I’m going to lose my supper.”
“Not in the car, please. If you’re going to blow chunks, stick your head out the window.”
“I have a weak stomach. Really. It’s in my physical report. You can check it.”
“Please don’t make me cry. My mascara will run.”
“I can’t see a thing, Vince. It’s total darkness here, and the rain—”
“You can do it. Just follow the regulations. Go to the house. Show them your ID. Say what you have to say. Then go throw up.”
“Why did I get this, Vince? I don’t even know where I’m going.”
“No one else would do it, Andy. That’s a ten-four.”
The radio made a loud click. Silence.
Bluff Point Road curved around the south side of a part of the bay known as Upper Sag Harbor Cove. The houses were far back from the road, hidden behind trees and tall hedges. Ahead of the clicking wipers and the splashing currents of rain, they rose up in the windshield like dark walls, blacker than the sky.
How’d they expect him to find the house? Oh. There. On the right, near the end of the street.
He made a sharp right, and the tires spun over the wet gravel drive. Slow down. You’re not in a hurry for this.
Behind a low brick wall, the house stretched across a wide lawn. A big modern house, gray shingles, with a terrace between the house and the garage. Small windows on this side. The side facing the bay was probably mostly glass. A single light cast a faint glow over the front door. Two well-trimmed evergreen bushes rose on both sides of the entrance.
Andy stopped the car near the front walk and cut the wipers and the headlights. He sat motionless for a while, staring at the rainwater rolling in waves down the windshield. Thunder crackled somewhere far in the distance.
He realized he had his hands balled into tight fists. The meatball hero weighed heavily in his stomach. You’re forty, Pavano. Maybe you need a better diet.
It wasn’t age. It was tension. Sure, he was tense. Who wouldn’t be?
Who on earth would want to do this job?
He glanced into the mirror. Saw his eyes gazing accusingly back at him.
Get it over with.
He picked his cap up from the passenger seat and pulled it down over his thinning hair. He had an umbrella, but it was in the trunk. He pushed open the door, slid his legs around, and climbed out of the car. He was drenched before he got the trunk lid open.
Perfect.
The umbrella caught and refused to open.
Even more perfect.
He spun away from the car, slipped on the flagstone walk, caught his balance, and jogged to the safety of the overhang above the front door. Lights were on, but no sign of any movement in the front window.
Water rolled down the brim of his cap. He shook his head hard, then pressed the bell. He could hear it chime inside.
Footsteps. Then a man pulled open the door and stared out at him in a pool of bright light. “Yes?”
Andy gazed at the man’s startled face. He was dark and had a stubble of beard on his cheeks. He reminded Andy of . . . reminded him of that actor . . . He had just watched Brokeback Mountain a few weeks before. Not his kind of thing, although the scenery was pretty.
And, yes. This guy looked just like that actor with the funny name. He wore designer jeans and a white dress shirt. He held a can of beer in one hand.
“Can I help you, Officer?”
Andy nodded solemnly. “Perhaps I should come in?”
A woman appeared behind the man. She had short black hair and a drawn face, kind of weary-looking. She had a baggy brown sweater pulled down over black leggings. “Who is it, Mark?”
“A police officer. I don’t understand—”
Andy felt his throat tighten. Gusts of wind blew the rain under the overhang.
Just get it over with. No way you can make it any better.
What was he supposed to say first? What was he supposed to ask them? He couldn’t think straight.
“Sir,” he started, raising his voice over the wind, “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I have bad news.”
The man and woman both gasped. Her mouth dropped open. The beer can slid out of the man’s hand and hit the floor.
“I’m really sorry, sir,” Andy said, suddenly breathless. “But they sent me to tell you that your wife has been killed.”
12
The woman let out a cry and grabbed the banister beside her, struggling to hold herself up.
The man made a choking sound. He blinked several times. He turned and grabbed the woman’s hand.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Andy said, lowering his eyes. Rain pelted the back of his uniform shirt.
“How—” the man started. He made the choking sound again. The woman started to sob, burying her face behind the man’s shoulder.
“It was a traffic accident.” Andy kept his eyes down, partly not to see their grief. He had to force his voice to stay steady. “On Stephen Hands. Near 114. The Easthampton police—they didn’t want to tell you on the phone. They asked me—”
The man’s expression changed. His eyes went wide. He raised a hand to say halt. The woman lifted her head and squinted at Andy. Tears glistened on her pale cheeks.
“That can’t be,” the woman choked out. “You’re wrong.”
“My wife . . . she is away,” the man said, staring hard into Andy’s eyes. “She’s on an island off South Carolina. She isn’t in Easthampton.”
Andy’s throat tightened again. He swallowed hard. “Mr. Hamlin, I was told—”
“He’s not Mr. Hamlin, you idiot!” the woman screamed. Her hands balled into tight fists. “He’s not Mr. Hamlin. Oh, I don’t believe it. I don’t fucking believe it.” She pounded the banister.
“I’m Mark Sutter,” the man said. He slid an arm around the woman’s trembling shoulders. “Roz, please—”
But she pulled away and flung herself toward Andy, furiously shaking her head. “How could you do that? How could you be so stupid? Why didn’t you ask our names first?”
“I . . . was nervous,” Andy said. “I should have done that. Really. I didn’t mean—”
Could I just dive headfirst into the bay and drown myself now?
“I think you want Bluff Point,” Sutter said softly. “This is John Street.”
“Oh my God.” The words tumbled out of Andy’s mouth. “I am so totally sorry. I hope . . . I mean . . . The rain. It’s so dark. . . .”
What could he say? “I’m sick about this, sir. Ma’am.” He really did feel sick.
They glared at him, both breathing hard. Sutter reached for the doorknob.
“I can only apologize,” Andy repeated. “I’m new out here, and, well . . . I’m so sorry. If you’d like to report me to my chief, I can give you my ID.”
Roz spun away. She disappeared into the house. Sutter shook his head. “You should get out of the rain, Officer.”
Andy nodded.
The door closed. He heard the lock click.
He stood there for a moment, letting the rain batter him.
Perhaps I’ll laugh about this in a few weeks. Tell it like a funny joke.
He suddenly found himself thinking of the Police Academy movies. The cops were all total idiots.
I should join them.
He sighed and strode slowly to the car. No reason to run. He couldn’t get any wetter. He slid behind the wheel. A cold shudder ran down his back.
The radio squealed. “Pavano, you there?” Vince’s distorted voice.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“How’d it go?”
13
“Let go of me! Please! Don’t hurt me!” Lea cried.
Mumbling crazily to himself, the man dragged her to a pile of boards and stones. His eyes were wild, bulging wide, his gaze darting from side to side. He didn’t seem to hear her cries.
He’s gone crazy from the storm.
What does he plan to do to me?
Then she saw the bare-chested boy, a stream of long hair hanging down over his face. His mud-drenched shorts clung to his hips as he bent over a pile of rubble. He appeared to be struggling with something in the pile.
As the man pulled her nearer, Lea heard the shrill screams. And saw the openmouthed, terrified face of a woman peering up from below a ragged crisscross of boards.
The boy had her by the hands and was tugging with all his strength, crying and tugging, trying to free her from beneath the caved-in house. The woman tossed her black hair wildly, her head tilted back in pain, and she shrieked in agony.
“Help,” the man grunted, letting go of Lea. He motioned toward the screaming woman. “Help me.”
He lifted the boy out of the way. He gave Lea a gentle push and motioned for her to take one of the woman’s flailing hands.
I must have been the first person he saw. He’s obviously in a total panic.
She gripped the woman’s hand tightly. It felt cold and damp, like a small drowned animal. She gave the hand a gentle squeeze—and the woman screamed.
Startled, Lea dropped the hand and jumped back. Her heart was pounding in her throat. She had to open her mouth to breathe.
Don’t panic. You can do this.
The man motioned Lea to grab one corner of a slab of drywall. Lea grabbed it. They tugged in unison and managed to slide it a few inches off the woman’s chest.
The woman shrieked and wailed, batting her head from side to side.
Lea pulled up on a broken two-by-four. The man grabbed it from her and heaved it aside.
Then he turned back to the woman and wrapped his big hand around hers. The woman screamed again. Lea knew she’d hear these screams in her nightmares. Screams that seemed to have no end.
The man gave Lea a signal with his eyes. Working in unison, they forced the woman nearly to a sitting position. Then the man reached behind her back. Lea took her hands and gave a hard pull. With a moan of pain, the woman rose up, rose up in Lea’s hands. Rose up . . .
Lea heard a wrenching sound. Like fabric tearing.
She gasped as the woman came stumbling out, falling toward her. Her face showed no relief. In fact, it twisted into a knot of agony. She pulled her hands free from Lea and shrieked in an inhuman animal wail: “My leg! My leg! My leg! My leg!”
Lea gasped. The woman was balanced on one leg. Blood poured from an open tear in her other side.
“Oh my God!” Lowering her gaze, Lea saw the ragged flesh of the woman’s other leg trapped beneath the pile of debris. A white bone poked up from the torn skin.
No. Oh no.
The other leg. We left it behind.
It’s torn off. I pulled it off. I pulled her leg off!
Blood showered the ground from the open tear in the woman’s body.
“My leg! My leg! My leg! My leg! My leg!”
The man stood hulking in openmouthed shock. Fat tears rolled down the boy’s red, swollen cheeks.
Heart pounding so hard her chest ached, Lea searched frantically for help. No one. No one around.
What could even a doctor do?
She and the boy and the weeping man took the woman by her writhing shoulders and lowered her gently into her own pool of blood. They stretched her out on the dirt, and the man dropped down beside her, soothing her, holding her hand, cradling her head till she grew too weak to scream.
Lea staggered away. She knew she couldn’t help. She stumbled away, holding her stomach with both hands, gasping shallow breaths of the heavy, salted air. She wandered aimlessly into the wails and screams, the moans, the howls of disbelief, the symphony of pain she knew she would hear in her nightmares.
I’m not here. I’m asleep in our bed at home. I have to get Ira and Elena to school. Mark, give me a shove and wake me up. Mark?
“My babies! My babies!”
The woman’s shrill howls shook Lea from her thoughts. She turned and saw a grim-faced worker holding two tiny lifeless figures, cradling one in each arm, as if they were alive. But their heads slumped back, eyes stared glassily without seeing, arms and legs dangled limply, lifelessly.
The shrieking woman
, tripping over the jutting wreckage of her fallen house, followed after them, waving her arms above her head. “My babies! My babies!”
Lea lowered her eyes as they passed by. I’m in Hell.
Suddenly, she pictured Starfish House. Was the little rooming house still standing? And what of Macaw and Pierre? Were they okay? Had they survived? Her laptop was there. Her clothes. All of her belongings.
How to get across the island? James’s truck was useless. The road would be impassable. She could walk, but it would be a walk of endless horrors.
A steady drone, growing louder, wormed its way into her consciousness. A hum quickly becoming a roar.
“Help is already on the way.”
Lea turned to see James behind her. He had changed into baggy gray sweats. His eyeglasses had a layer of white powder over the lenses. Behind them, his eyes were bloodshot and weary.
She followed his gaze to the sky and saw the helicopters, five or six of them, pale green army helicopters, hovering low, moving along the shoreline.
“They probably can’t believe what they’re seeing down here, either,” she murmured. She shivered.
James lowered his hands to her shoulders. “Are you okay, Lea?”
She nodded. “I guess.”
His eyes locked on her, studying her. “No, I mean, really. Are you okay?”
“I . . . I’m upset. No. I’m horrified. But I’m okay, James. I was just thinking about Macaw and Pierre. . . .”
“Martha and I will walk you to your rooming house. It won’t take long. Maybe half an hour.”
“But—”
“If there’s a problem there, you can come back and stay with us.” He kept staring at her, as if searching for something she wasn’t telling him.
Lea pictured the little white building with its bright yellow shutters and the sign over the entryway: Starfish House. She saw Macaw in her bright red-and-fuchsia plumage; Pierre, bored, hunched over the front desk, thumbing through a magazine, humming to himself.
“Yes. I hope there’s no problem,” she said.
But there was a problem. A sad and sickening problem.
14
Staring at the wreckage, Lea hoped she had made a mistake. Maybe I’m in the wrong place. But the sign still stood, crooked on its pole: Starfish House. The two-story house had toppled forward. The walls had collapsed on themselves, folded like an accordion on its side. And now the whole house lay in a broken, ragged heap, a low mountain of soaked and cracked boards and crumbled shards of drywall.