The Shore (Leisure Fiction)

by Robert Dunbar

  As the newscast dissolved into the swirling colors of a commercial, people erupted with sudden animation all around the bar.

  "Oh my God."

  "Would you believe that? Right here."

  "Oh my God. On the news and everything."

  "Thanks." Nodding, he felt the food lump inertly in his gut. "Stacey." He threw some money on the bar, then staggered across the room and out the door without even zipping his jacket.

  "Come again," she called, watching the door swing shut on the night. As she glanced up at the television, a line creased her forehead, and after a moment, she clicked to the end of the bar and picked up the phone.

  VI

  On the private beach, sand clung to the earth in frozen mounds and patches. Boulders, scaled with broken shells and furred green, angled steeply to moonlit surf.

  The old house appeared empty, and a ship on the weathervane slued inland as the current that carried it shrilled across the chimney. The house seemed to lean against the wind, and a shutter banged at a gabled dormer. Front windows boldly faced the sea, but thick draperies hung behind the shutters so that no lights showed at all.

  In the front parlor, a deeper shadow swayed. One shaking hand clutched at the curtain. "I have seen you," the old woman whispered dryly. "And I know you wait there still." She stared down the beach to where the black sea writhed. "By the rocks at night, I have seen you."

  All her life, she'd hated the sea. Bit by bit, it had taken from her everything she had ever cared for. She lived by it now in a state of conscious challenge and had come to believe without hesitation that it was equally aware of her. Sometimes she felt their enmity was all that remained of her life, all that animated her.

  "And I know what you are." An acute sense of absurdity floated through her dread. She envisioned herself with clarity, alone in an old dark house, whispering to the windowpane and watching for a dead thing to heave from the waves. "But not yet. You won't rise yet." She wished she could laugh at her own madness. "I'm not quite crazy. I have seen. And I know."

  Sea winds surged against the walls, and the beams of the house creaked like the timbers of an ancient ship.

  ...and I did nothing.

  His hands shook as he hurried from the bar. Young woman...ripped apart. The words snarled in his brain. Right here. In this town. While I...

  When his chest began to ache, he realized his jacket still hung open. Pneumonia won't help. Fumbling with the zipper, he hurried down the street. He'd have to lay low--the police would be here in full force now. Nothing must interfere. He had to get to the boy before they did.

  Cold stabbed into his lungs, and an old knotted scar along his ribs throbbed, but he used the pain, forcing himself onward through the wind. The empty bungalows no longer looked sad to him. They looked ominous, corrupt. Can't let the cops get onto me. The maze of streets untangled. The lights in the convenience store still blared, though a placard in the window now read CLOSED, and he fished out his keys and slid into the front seat of the Volks. My gloves. He stared at his hands on the steering wheel. Must have left them at the bar.

  Slowly, his breathing eased, and the engine growled. Torn to pieces.

  All the way back to the hotel, he fought the impulse to take the first road out of town, to speed on until the pinelands lay far behind him, until even these past years of his life dwindled in the distance. What life would that be? So many times before, he'd struggled with the impulse to run. Sometimes I think I've been dead all these years. Dead and just too stupid to fall over.

  He parked and hurried to the door. Don't make me have to ring. I don't think I could deal with any more suspicions tonight. But the hotel door swung easily at his shove, and he released a steaming sigh. The small lamp still glowed in the deep gloom by the desk. If I can just lie down for a while, I'll be all right. Closing the door softly, he shivered in the entrance, waiting for his vision to adjust.

  "Pardon me, but do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

  Brown shadows slid one into another as someone rose from the lobby sofa. He blinked rapidly and his mouth dropped open. Before he could speak, the door behind the desk flew open, and the hotelkeeper shuffled forward, holding his bathrobe closed. Mrs. D'Amato trailed him aggressively, and as she gestured and muttered in Italian, the sleeves of her housedress flapped to reveal angular glimpses of bony arms. He knew not a word of the language, but her tone of voice he understood perfectly. "You startled me." Turning back to his visitor, he tried to smile with numbed facial muscles. "Is anything wrong?" He'd grown sufficiently accustomed to the light to make out the insignia on her coat.

  "Officer Lonigan," she told him. "I'm with the Edgeharbor Police Department." Somehow she made it sound like a question. "Mr. D'Amato, could we get a little more light in here, please?" Her voice held a cajoling quality.

  The chandelier flared. A coating of dust blazed on the crystals, and discolored bands of brightness striped the faded wallpaper. Blinking rapidly, he looked down at the old stains that pooled across the carpet.

  "We had some trouble here in town earlier. Perhaps you heard about it? Mr....Hobbes, is it?"

  "Yes, I..." His voice cracked. "Yes."

  "We're just doing some routine checking on people, finding out about any strangers that might be in town." As she studied his face, her expression hardened. "Nothing to be nervous about."

  He succeeded in making his features relax. "Of course." He spread his hands open as though attempting to conjure invisible forces from the air.

  "Thank you, folks." She turned her head slightly, holding him in her peripheral vision. "That'll be all for now. I'll call you if I need you," she added, iron courtesy in her voice. "I mean it, folks. You can leave us alone. Thank you. I'll put the lights out when we're through."

  So close. He felt himself sink, mired in the glare from the chandelier. I got so close. A torrent of thoughts surged through his brain, all of them desperate. Can't let them stop me. The top of the policewoman's head barely reached his chin, and her honey-colored hair glinted in the light. Not now. Her hair had been cut unbecomingly short, brushed severely behind the ears, the effect a touch too insistent in its attempt to minimize her femininity. And the face looked young, too young really. Are those freckles? The tension in his shoulders relaxed, and suddenly, he smiled. "Anything I can do to help, Officer."

  "Won't you sit, please?" She remained standing.

  Good. He nodded approvingly. Basic stuff--maintain the psychological advantage. He kept smiling. Right out of a textbook. Though her stance and tone of voice suggested confidence, the details of the performance didn't bear up under scrutiny. When he held her stare, she shifted her weight and wiped her palms on her pants, and her left leg seemed to tremble slightly. Well, why shouldn't she be nervous? I might be a killer after all. He even thought he detected a trace of lipstick. Total amateur. Apparently about to speak, she fumbled in her coat pocket for a notebook. What in hell is she doing here alone? This nervous woman had waited alone for a suspect? And suddenly he placed her as the type who, though nearly paralyzed with fear, inevitably pushed themselves into dangerous situations. Just what I don't need. It was just this quality that always rendered rookie cops a hazard--that need to prove themselves.

  "Could I have your full name, please?"

  She had the voice of a little girl, he realized, and the officious tone she tried to maintain made him want to laugh. "Funny, you seemed to know it a minute ago."

  "I mean, just for the record." She pretended to write something down.

  His nerves must be even worse than he'd thought--such a flimsy routine, and for a moment he'd actually been worried. "Barry Hobbes," he told her. "I'm an appraiser, doing on-site inspections for an Atlantic City developer." It amused him to see her tense up as he dug for his wallet. "This is my company's card. Would you mind sitting down too? It's been an exhausting day, and you're making me crane my neck. This weather. Everything aches." He sank back into the sofa and immediately sneezed as a cloud of dust e
ngulfed him.

  She perched on the arm of the facing sofa. "Did you hurt your hand?"

  He unzipped the jacket. "I stopped in at one of your local taverns, yes. I'm afraid I broke a glass." He smiled fiercely, forcing his posture to slacken.

  "That would be The Pine Inn," she continued, struggling to retain an authoritative manner. "It's the only one that's open. Awfully brisk night to be out, isn't it?" She seemed surprised to find herself sitting, and for just an instant, her glance lingered on the way his jacket bunched across his shoulders.

  Good Lord, she likes me. It made him uncomfortable again, and he twisted a button on the front of his shirt, trying to conceal one hand beneath the other. She asked something else, but now the ardent voice maddened him. Run away from me, you little idiot. Suddenly, he wanted to shake her. This isn't a game, little girl, with your toy badge. You could wind up dead. He stared past her, forcing her to follow his gaze. Didn't your parents teach you not to talk to strangers? You'll never see anybody stranger than me.

  "Folks, why don't you turn in now? Like I asked. Mr. Hobbes and I have a few things to discuss." Her voice betrayed annoyance at finding the D'Amatos still hesitating in the doorway, and with an exchange of worried looks, the couple retreated to their apartment. "We've had some trouble as I said, Mr. Hobbes. Have you heard about it?"

  Slowly, his hand rose to brush at his forehead. "Saw something about it on the news." Seemingly of their own volition, his fingers returned to the loose button. "Terrible thing. Really terrible." The muscles of his upper arms and shoulders bunched like a boa constrictor as he fidgeted. "Was she a local woman?"

  Her eyes narrowed. The words sounded right, but there was something about his manner, as though the facial expression lagged a beat behind his voice, the effect oddly mechanical. "They haven't released the identity of the body yet."

  The button came away in his hand, and he held it in his palm. "But can't you give me some idea?" A smile of impressive voltage lit his face.

  "We found a car," she responded. "It's registered to a dealer at one of the casinos. We don't know much yet, but it looks like she may have been involved in some pretty shady stuff." Biting the inside of her lip, she tried to look away from him. "Kept company with some real high rollers."

  "That's very interesting. And the body? Is it still here in town?"

  "They took it...took her...what they could find of...away to the lab in A.C. They'll do all the..."

  "And her car?"

  "Still at the...they'll send a tow truck to...get it." Her face clouded, and she seemed to shake herself. "Well, thank you for speaking with me. If I...if we have any other questions, how much longer will you be staying in Edgeharbor?"

  Not bad-looking. He allowed himself to admire the way the glow caught in the stray curls around her face. But such an odd bird. As with so many redheads, her skin held its pallor deeply, showing none of the latent tan sported by most of the town's residents. What the hell can she be doing here? Edgeharbor couldn't have more than a handful of cops on payroll. It seemed unlikely she'd seen cases involving much besides summer vandalism. He knew enough about small-town police to guess the layer of professionalism in which she cloaked herself must have been acquired elsewhere, and he wondered how old she could be. Twenty-five? Twenty-six? He squinted, trying to make out the color of her eyes, but they glinted red in the glare. "Until my work is finished." He rose abruptly, dismissing her. "A few more days probably."

  The sudden sympathy in his smile startled her even more than the way he'd taken control of the interview. "I guess," she said, a flush creeping up her neck, "that'll be all for the time being." She snapped the notebook shut.

  He barely responded as she thanked him for his time. The door closed behind her, and he listened to her footsteps going down the steps, then heard the muted growl of an engine. The front window lit for an instant, and the noise faded. Cops--last thing I need now. Shaking his head, he turned away, and the weariness claimed him. He almost staggered. Halfway up the stairs, he heard the office door creak open, and a woman's voice lanced out, shrieking in Italian.

  I need time. Her screams scalded his back as he climbed. I'm so close. Can't let anything stop me now.

  Stupid, stupid fool! Only when her stomach muscles finally unclenched did she realize how tense she'd been. Idiot! She pounded her hands on the steering wheel. What's wrong with me? The tires heaved over cracked asphalt, and the jeep's worn shocks creaked like mattress springs. I let him do all the questioning!

  An icy wind prowled the streets, rattling windows and doors and rustling through evergreen hedges. The town seemed truly dead.

  She'd gotten nothing from him. The jeep swerved through an intersection. Nothing! He had controlled the interview from start to finish. Except for those first few seconds when he'd looked startled.

  She fiddled with dials and knobs, trying to get some heat into the frigid vehicle. How could she have allowed herself to be interrogated that way? Just because he looked like that and smiled at her a little? Pathetic! With a screech of brakes, she pulled the jeep over by the darkened church. Who is he that he can do this to me? Fighting to get herself under control, she adjusted the rearview mirror until she could see herself. What's the big deal though? Even an alley cat had gotten over on her this evening, assuming the damn thing was still alive. She almost laughed at herself.

  Switching on the overhead light, she examined the business card Hobbes had given her, held it closer to the dim illumination. It looked legitimate enough, but every instinct told her otherwise. All right, you won the first round, Mr. Hobbes, or whatever your name is. But I'm after you now, and I mean to find out who you are and what you're doing in my town. She gunned the engine, but the jeep only grunted and fell silent. She cursed and twisted the key. So be careful, mister. This time the engine sputtered to chattering life, the stick vibrating like the controls of a mechanical bull. Be real careful.

  The scream flowered in the night.

  It coiled its tendrils about the fire escape, twining over broken gutters and antennas. A lonely cry, like the howl of something lost and afraid, it seemed to change directions in the air, an ember of noise, drifting across the roofs, above the streets. It circled on the wind, at times bestial, at times almost a sob, until at last, it settled into a gurgle of pain--a final shuddering burst of ecstatic agony.

  From far below, a few dogs barked, then lapsed into terrified silence.

  Finally, only the wind moaned in the empty streets, sweeping the mournful sound of the sea through the town.

  Night wind stirred through a tangle of evergreens, and between the firs, sparse white sand shimmered faintly. This strip of ground lay far inland, nearly at the center of the peninsula, as far from the water as it was possible to get in Edgeharbor. Yet the wind still carried with it the distant howl of waves, like the muted wail of a drowning child.

  He listened for a long time without moving. From his hiding place among the scrub growth off the road, he cautiously surveyed the fenced lot.

  The brown lace of branches twined overhead. Pine shadows, slender and indistinct in the moonlight, mottled the ground, and branches rattled and whispered. Beneath each tree, a mat of dried needles crunched underfoot like dead insects, and skeletal fingers seemed to tear at his sleeves as he pressed through.

  He launched himself at the fence, his fingers hooking through the wide links, his shoes scrabbling for purchase. Near the top, a cramp seized him, and hanging by one hand, he clutched his side. Slowly, the deep green scent of the forest filled his lungs, and he eased his legs over the wire.

  He dropped to the other side. In the distance, a dog barked.

  The wind stung his ears so hard they began to feel warm, and he took the tiny flashlight from his pocket and swung it around. Shapes flared, lurching. Before dissolving in the woods beyond the fence, the circular glow traveled across a metal sign that identified this as a county impoundment lot. Sand and bird droppings powdered the closer vehicles. One of the cars had
been stripped, eviscerated even of doors and seats, naked wheel rims jutting like knobs of bone. He jerked the light back. The roof of the convertible by the gate had been shredded in wide strips, and behind it, a dented van listed on rusted rims.

  The wind died away, and all around him the night stilled. Solemnly, he approached the convertible. The beam yoked the tattered roof, then quivered to the scrapes on the side of the door.

  "Dear Jesus." Despite the intense cold, he felt a film of moisture slide between his shoulder blades. Claw marks. A radiant impact had burst across the windshield, its center snowy in the pencil beam, fraying into crystal webbing at the edges. He paced to the other side, the beam slicing ahead. The door had been torn from the frame, and jagged bits of metal still protruded. As he leaned in, a splinter of glass caught at his sleeve, and the beam slid across dark stains on the seat.

  Switching off the flashlight, he pulled back from the car. As he gazed imploringly up at the stars, the fierce yapping of the wind surrounded him.

  VII

  Easing his legs over the sill, the boy slipped into the night as smoothly as into frigid water. Then he slid the window down behind him, leaving it open a crack.

  Somehow the moon made the cold seem even worse, and he turned his collar up as he hurried down the fire escape, treading on smears of moonlight around the worn paint. He listened for a long moment before going over the side and down the ladder to the drop.

  Landing on all fours, he paused, still in a crouch, his fearful gaze stabbing the night in all directions. Then he scrambled down the alley.

  Near the street, he slowed and peered out cautiously; hunching his shoulders, he hurried straight into the wind. At this hour, the sidewalks belonged to him, and he barely felt afraid at all. Besides, he had to go out tonight. No choice. They needed things...and he had an important errand. Nothing would happen. Mouthing the words, he hurried down the street. Nothing. I'll be safe.