The Shore (Leisure Fiction)

by Robert Dunbar

  Just rest my eyes. Stagnant air lulled him. Just a little. The drowsy chill made him yearn to pull up the blankets, and he considered switching off the lamp, then threw one arm across his face and let a sudden flush of weariness take him. I miss her so much.

  Wind rattled the window with a sound like ice cracking on a frozen river.

  A brick wall blocked the street lamp, sinking the alley in darkness. Like a garish phantom, black and gray and orange, one ear tufted with white, the brute of a cat flicked in and out of the light. It stalked along the fence toward a spot where a snarl of dead weeds sprouted like straw through the concrete. Suddenly, the beast froze into taut stillness, only the tip of the tail twitching.

  A grimy knot of life scuttled across the alley.

  The cat trembled then burst forward, ripping into the tiny creature, lifting it and hurling it against the wall.

  The mouse lay motionless. Already its life sapped away in agony. The cat inched closer, crouching, even the whipping of the tail stilled.

  In a gray streak, the tiny rodent darted for the pile of debris. It left a mottled trail.

  Leaping, the cat landed on the other side of the trash pile and halted again, ears flattened in consternation. The prey had vanished. A cardboard container lay on its side, slightly open at one end. The cat lowered its head quickly, but nothing moved. One paw struck loudly. Inside the container, something skittered. Then the claws began to dig in unison, shredding at the cardboard.

  ...car...soft roof...pretty...

  The cat jerked its head up toward the wall.

  ...red dripping on the sand...

  Instantly, the cat swelled, emitting a needle-toothed hiss. In terror, it fled for a hole in the fence.

  It seemed he'd lain awake a long time, trying to recall the dream. Now, he moved his arm away and blinked without comprehension at a ceiling where amorphous shapes and vague colors swam. Across the room, the curtains had drifted apart: fathomless darkness rippled beyond the window. He sat up with a jerk that nearly sent him over the edge of the bed.

  He checked his watch. Damn. Groping for the phone on the night table, he heaved to a sitting position. Almost missed it. Holding the phone in his lap, he stared intently at his watch as the second hand swung. Then he dialed a number, letting it ring twice. He hung up, waited a few seconds and then dialed again.

  "I'm sure now." Breath clogged in his throat, and he spoke in a rush, without preamble. "We've got another one."

  IV

  Night boomed hollowly in the black spaces beneath the house. Propped on stilts like all the properties at the edge of the bay, the duplex faced out over the water, and years of salt spray had encrusted the support beams until they glistened like mica in the moonlight. The wooden slats of the stairs also glittered, as did the rail on the landing. Darkness filled the lower row of windows, but slivers of light pierced the curtains of the upper floor.

  Inside, Kit grunted, twisting vigorously and listening to the wind. Just what is the temperature out there? The Franklin stove, which took up an entire side of her living room, gave off only sporadic warmth, and even above the sonata that poured from the CD player, she could still hear the windowpanes rattle. Would it be so awful if I stayed inside just one night? Illumination from a squat lamp glinted from the moisture beading the pane. Would I be fat by tomorrow or something? Bending far forward, she stretched. Sometimes I think I must be out of my mind.

  Whatever. She stretched to the other side. No excuses. The glass doors behind her made up most of the living room wall, and she checked her form in the reflection. The night, dimly striped by the caps of waves, stirred beyond the small balcony, and the moaning wind created an eerie counterpoint to the music. She owned only classical CDs--Beethoven, Chopin, Mozart--a small collection, mostly piano sonatas, and although (to her continuing chagrin) she could barely tell most of them apart, she could almost always lose herself in their melodies.

  She crouched, extending her thigh muscles, then the calves, trying not to let her vision stray to the glass doors. In the cramped apartment, any momentary lapse of concentration could result in seriously barked shins, even with the coffee table shoved up against the sofa and the ottoman pushed to one side so she could exercise. This was as cleared as the room ever got. Far too many heavy pieces of furniture, any single one of which was probably too large for the space, had been jammed into the apartment. Now go for it. Gritting her teeth, she tried for maximum extension in one leg, then the other.

  A clammy dread closed on her.

  ...something watching...

  Slowly, she straightened and turned to the balcony. Something massive moved out there, some hulking nightmare.

  ...no...

  A gaze glittered at her from seven feet above the balcony. One of the eyes moved, became a fat droplet that slid down the door, glistening.

  What's wrong with me? She stepped closer to the glass. Rolling blots marked the edges of the sea. There's nothing there. Often, she had considered that this view made her life endurable, but this winter the hushed whisper of the surf seemed only to intensify her constant unease. All of a sudden, I'm scared of reflections? She pulled a cord, and the drapes swung closed, leaving only a wedge of darkness at the center. Who did I think was that big anyway?

  The central heat rushed on with a grunting exhalation, as though some beast hulked below the grill on the floor. She stepped over the barbells on the carpet, got her running jacket from the closet, pulling up the tight hood of the jogging suit. Tucking her short red curls in all around, she rummaged on the closet shelf for leg warmers and a hat. Where did I...? She opened a bureau drawer to a snarl of scarves, and her attention settled irresistibly on the pistol that nestled among them. For a moment, her hand hovered. Then she slid it out of the holster and almost tenderly hefted it before returning it to the leather pouch and smoothing a scarf around it. No one knew about the gun. She'd had it since Boston. The force here didn't even carry them.

  I'm just jumpy. Perhaps the run would help. Who wouldn't be jumpy after today? The run would have to help: she would not resume the tranquilizers, refused even to consider it. No, she was through with all that.

  Grabbing her keys from the small kitchen table, she let the door slam behind her. This stairwell always looked unfinished to her, as though the glaring white paint had been intended as an undercoat. Months earlier, her firstfloor neighbors had moved away; yet halfway down she paused, listening. Wind soughed through the foundations. Near the entrance, dank, heavy musk clung to the carpet, something no amount of airing had ever more than temporarily diminished, and an arctic night seemed to bulge at the front door. Squaring her shoulders, she flung it open and stepped out onto the landing.

  The chill shocked her. A swath of light rippled briefly; then the door banged shut behind her. Slowly adjusting to the dark, she let her gaze drift out over the bay. She could just make out pinpoints of light on the mainland, faint as distant stars.

  Here goes. Freezing air drilled into her chest as she ran in place for a moment, swinging her arms. Then she launched herself down the stairs and into the bottomless night.

  Monsters.

  He'd hung up the phone, feeling bitterly wretched. They couldn't seem to talk about anything else anymore. He stopped pacing and peered out the window. Had there ever been a time when they could? The endless hunt had consumed both their lives, crowding out everything else. He knew what he had to do now. But what if nothing could draw the boy out of hiding? What if all the months spent tracking him here ended in failure? How could he face her again?

  He poked the curtains aside. At the end of the block below, a car swung onto the street, and the glacial glow of its headlights somehow made him feel even more isolated. It was time to make his sweep of the streets.

  Shrugging into his jacket, he eased open the door, and light swung out across the faded hall carpet. He stared into the brown gloom. Unable to bring himself to switch off the lamp, he closed the door on it instead, then felt his way along
the hall, letting his hand ride the gritty banister as he descended into vague brightness. The stairs creaked in agonized whispers.

  The lamp on the desk still glimmered. Barely. Twenty watts? Nice of them to make that concession to his presence, he thought. They're probably asleep. He crept across the lobby, the damp chill penetrating his clothes before he reached the foyer. The inner doors groaned softly. In the vestibule, murky illumination quivered through a design on the leaded glass. He put his shoulder to the outer door.

  Lord. As the wind struck, he swayed on the doorstep. Feel sort of wobbly all of a sudden. He looked around. Only a blue van shared the small lot with his Volkswagen. Better eat something. An empty can rattled across the ground.

  The boy could be anywhere by now. The muted rush of surf seemed to drift in the wind, to drone from the sky, to reverberate from the wall behind him. Around any corner. He unlocked the car and checked the backseat before getting in. The engine stuttered to life, but the headlights barely penetrated the night. The heater would kick in once he got started, he told himself, letting the motor idle. By the light of the dashboard, he examined his hands. So they're shaking. So what? The green flicker made them look like the hands of some alien creature.

  Usually he drove to a diner a few miles along the highway, but tonight...

  I need to watch the streets. The wind yowled like a dying wolf. Earlier, he'd spotted a shabby luncheonette but knew it would be closed at this hour, and other establishments he'd seen--variety store, pharmacy--had apparently closed forever. But he recalled a convenience store where he'd bought some coffee and figured they would have sandwiches at least. As he eased the car out of the lot, his teeth began to chatter.

  He headed away from the beach, the Volks shivering through the deserted streets. Could've sworn it was just down the block here. The oil light blinked red, a permanent feature, and the speedometer glimmered too faintly to make out. No hint of warmth rose from below the dash. By the time he spotted the glare of the convenience store, his head throbbed from the cold.

  A pickup truck without wheels angled at one corner of the lot, an oil spot spreading beneath it. Stepping out of the car, he turned up his collar. A decal on the glass door read PULL, SO he tugged several times before pushing inside.

  He blinked at the sheer brightness. "How you doin'?" He coughed. "Bad out there tonight." The clerk never looked up from a tabloid on the counter, but something like a sneer flickered on his lips. "Do you make sandwiches?" The clerk jerked his head at a hand-lettered sign that read DELI CLOSED. "Oh." The deli apparently consisted of half an unlit case of packaged luncheon meats.

  I'll find something. He wandered the tight aisles, but items on the shelves wouldn't stay in focus. No, I can't get sick now. And his vision seemed to blur. I'm just hungry. That's why I feel weak. Under the fluorescent lights, all the packaged foods gleamed in queasy, garish shades. Maybe I should try to talk to this guy again. Empty-handed, he returned to the front of the store and leaned against the counter. You never know who might tell you something useful.

  Flakes of skin curled in the folds of the clerk's face. "Yeah?" The protuberant eyes moved constantly, at first conveying an impression of active mental processes, then merely of habitual agitation.

  "So how are you tonight?"

  No response.

  "Uh...do you have pipe tobacco?"

  The man made a rude noise and reached behind him without looking. The packet he tossed on the counter was clearly labeled with a price more than double what it should have been.

  He paid, disgusted with himself. "Uh...thanks." A few months ago he'd have spoken with this man, possibly managing to draw from him some fact about the background or circumstances of the town, something that could have helped in his search, but now the energy seemed to have dried within him. He could barely force himself to talk, couldn't shake this marrow-deep fatigue or the dizziness and the feeling of...

  A form darted at the edge of the lot: he glimpsed it through the glass wall. Don't look. He jerked his head down, trying to track the movement peripherally. Behind the pickup truck...somebody crouching? He pocketed his change. "Thanks again."

  Leaving the store quickly, he moved along the strip of sidewalk, casually strolling away from his car. So now he's stalking me. The wind thrust at his back. So let him. Frost stung his ears. Let him catch me even. He quickened his pace. Might be the only way.

  Darkness thickened with every step as he plunged into a side street. I'm invisible here. But the driveway he picked his way across seemed to be graveled with shell particles that shone like freshly fallen snow, and his every tread crunched loudly.

  He halted. Approaching, a noise like no human footstep grew louder until a paper bag blew past, scratching and scooping loudly along the sidewalk.

  Shaking, he laughed aloud. Christ, man. He scanned the block behind him. You're losing it. The houses here seemed smaller, closer together than most others he'd seen. What am I doing out here in this wind? He hurried back toward his car, deciding to drive out to the highway after all. Find a diner. Then get some rest. It had been days--he couldn't remember how many--since he'd slept more than fitfully. Got to be able to think straight tomorrow. Confusion now could be fatal, he knew.

  But where the hell am I? He rushed to the corner. Christ. Nothing looked right in either direction. How could he get lost so fast? Leave it to me to get turned around in such a small town. He huddled onward. I could get frostbite or something, wandering around out here. The wind numbed his face, and it seemed the streets altered before him, became a maze of corridors. From every direction came the roar of the surf. Maybe I've finally snapped. Steam rose from a sewer grating to swirl like fog. Maybe this is the end of the line for me.

  Mist streaked as a blaze of cold struck at his face, and he clamped his hands over his ears. A few doors away, a thick gleam bulged at a mottled window, flickering: no frills, just BAR with specks crawling in the neon. Salvation.

  Wet heat enveloped him the instant he opened the door, and he stood blinking. The lights, though precariously dimmed, still revealed more people gathered inside than he'd so far seen in all of Edgeharbor, and they all stared back at him.

  Each stride drummed against the boards. Her toes ached in the running shoes, and despite the temperature, her chest and stomach grew damp with perspiration. Damn, this wind. She adjusted the earmuffs under her hood. I've got to get off the boardwalk while I still have skin left. Catching hold of the rail, she spun onto the stairs and quickstepped down to a landing. Some nights, it dies away down lower. She leapt the rest of the way to the beach, landing lightly in a crouch, then plodded across dense, choppy sand to the harder soil by the water. Hell, this is no good either. The chill drove her back like a whip. I can't believe it got so terrible so fast. Just last week I could still make it all the way to the cannery. Turning her back to the sea, she sprinted. If I cut under the boards here...

  She came to a dead halt and stared into the dark as the feelings of dread she had been fighting for weeks engulfed her. For an instant, it seemed she had become part of the night somehow, part of an inky cloud that swirled up from the sea to threaten the town and the scattered human beings left in it. I've got to keep moving. Fighting off morbid fancies was a skill she had worked hard at acquiring. Or I'll cramp up. She stepped closer to the boardwalk, and the hand she held out vanished as though chopped off.

  No way I'm going under there. Breathing hard, she jogged in place a moment and started back to the stairs.

  Her leg muscles ached as she climbed. I must be out of my mind. She dashed diagonally across the walkway and down the opposite ramp. Running out here on the worst night of the year. If this isn't obsessive-compulsive behavior, I don't know what is. But she understood all too well why she had to run tonight, knew exactly what she was compensating for. She'd been allowed no active role in today's events, not even marginal participation, and her frustration and humiliation demanded an outlet. First big case to hit this town ever, and what am I
doing? Zip.

  Faint blue moonlight flooded the empty lot. This is my town, damn it! She had to stop thinking about it, had to concentrate on the run. Crossing the lot almost soundlessly, she turned the first corner to escape the wind, then cut over to an alternate route along a smaller street. My time stinks tonight. Maybe I can make it up on the home stretch. Her heart pounded. I'm still jumpy as hell. Maybe I'll cheat and take the shortcut out past the amusement park. As she wove in and out of divots of light beneath random street lamps, every noise, every gusting motion made her gasp. Got to get my nerves under control.

  Empty crates, bundled newspapers and other flotsam of the streets lay scattered around a yawning trash can. Dense shadows loomed. As she dodged past, her foot slipped on a patch of garbage and she felt a pulling burn in her leg. Shit! She limped on. Probably not so bad.

  The pain balled hotly in her calf. Just hurts like a...

  With a mewling choke, she whirled, both hands raised to protect her face. Something squirmed, and a small gray form blurred away from her on the ground. Wind spun an unearthly whine into the night.

  What...? Shivering with more than the cold, she hobbled closer.

  V

  As a frigid wave of air swept in, the barmaid looked up with a reflexive smile. Yes, she thought, checking out the newcomer, that was the same pinched, bitter look she'd seen on the face of each patron to stumble in tonight. But this one had something else to offer.