The Shore (Leisure Fiction)

by Robert Dunbar

  The freedom of the night streets always made him feel drunk, and he sprinted as though the wind had picked him up. He took a different route tonight. Mindful of the near-ambush of the day before, he kept to the back streets with their dead lawns and skeletal trees, fragile light at random windows only intensifying his sense of isolation.

  He stopped, his feet frozen in place. Wha--? Something with an impossibly broad face squatted on a tiny porch. He took another step. The bulky plastic snowman grinned innocently, and he remembered seeing it lighted many times over the years. He wondered why these people hadn't taken down their decorations yet, but a further look confirmed the answer already forming in his mind. The small house had an abandoned look. Another one gone.

  Abruptly, the street ended at a veritable tunnel. Glancing around, he darted up the ramp above it, feeling the temperature drop with every step.

  On the boardwalk, the wind made his face flame. Weaving like a kite, he rushed for the rail, grabbed it. Darkness here held a thicker texture, and he inched along, staring out to where moonlight flickered on the breakers. This had to be the place. Clutching the rail, he stepped on the lowest rung and leaned far over. The sand glimmered, stony areas gaping like holes.

  He saw no sign of his backpack...and again found himself watching the surf.

  Stars glinted sharply between wispy clouds. Low and fast, gray shapes scurried at the water's edge where shadows solidified into a barrier of mud--night-prowling seabirds or rats from the drainage pipe. He shuddered. Don't let it be rats. Moonlight left white tracks on the water, and he shivered again, feeling exposed as he hopped off the rail.

  He started down. As his soles gritted on the wooden steps, the sea rushed louder. Pacing through scrub grass, he stayed beside the boardwalk, searching. He remembered the knapsack had come off just as he'd started under the boards, and the spot where he'd crawled through had to be right about...

  The opening gaped. Sand sparkled around his sneakers, around tufts of inky dead grass. Stooping, he thrust his hand into the hole and felt around.

  The wood groaned. Yanking his arm away, he recoiled. Above him, someone leaned over the rail. A web of moonlight cauled the man's face. It was huge, bloated.

  Him!

  The shape lumbered back out of sight.

  It's him. Blood thundered in the boy's ears. This time it really is. As he tried to run, paralysis gripped his legs. Him! He sank toward the hole, but a gray thing squeezed along the edge of the sand, dragging a naked tail. No! Spinning, he sprinted for the sea.

  It seemed he moved very slowly across the softness, his feet grating with each tread, his breath coming in ragged gulps--he could hear nothing else. Finally reaching the water, he raced along the hardened mud. His sneakers gripped the ground wetly, and with every few paces he slipped.

  His chest ached, and a stitch ripped his side as he turned to look back. Nothing stirred on the beach, and no hulking shapes hobbled across the boardwalk. Agony snapping in his lungs, he tried to remember exactly what he'd seen. Blood-dark parka. The glint of the eyeglasses.

  Wind pierced his back, and he stumbled on.

  Moonlight frothed in black water, and each dying wave shimmered almost to his feet. Something flapped away from a jutting rock, and he groaned, running a few steps more. Boulders, protruding from the shale like broken teeth, stopped him. Beyond the rocks, a cyclone fence leaned into deeper swells, and between the links the moon trembled in water. He couldn't get across this way; he'd have to go back up the beach.

  Long arms on the ground reached for him. Only when he recognized his own shadow on the mud did he realize he must be silhouetted against the glittering waves. He can see me! His teeth chattered. That's how come he didn't already chase me. He knows I got to come back, and he can just wait. All feeling bled from his arms and legs. He had to get away. But where? If he could make it to where the salt marsh began at the other end of the beach, he might...

  No. Wind sliced through him. Too cold. Waves hissed, lapping at a ridge of stones. He would die in the swamp. He had to make it back to town. The hollows of the beach gaped before him. Somehow he had to make it back past the boardwalk. Trotting forward, he dodged erratically before dropping to a crouch.

  Wind zipped through beach grass around him, and he began to shake. He scuttled sideways to a deeper depression, freezing air lashing the back of his neck. Scrambling behind a larger dune, he halted, let ragged folds of darkness wrap about him while he listened to the tumbling whisper of the waves.

  Finally, he inched forward. On aching knees and hands, he reached the boardwalk at a point where it reared high above the sand. Staring hard, he made out the shape of a concrete pillar, and he edged closer until at last he huddled behind it. Heavy boots clacked above his head.

  He darted straight down the center of the passage. Tripping over something embedded in invisible sand, he sprawled, pain flashing in his foot, then stumbled up.

  Coming out the other side, he dashed through an opening between two abandoned restaurants. Foot throbbing, he limped into a side street as empty as a graveyard, then cut through a garden.

  At the entrance to the playground, a length of chain looped around a pole. As he squeezed through, the gate shifted slightly. He squirmed, briefly stuck, bruising his hips and shoulder as he shoved his way through.

  Something struck the ground with a metallic thump. The seesaw banged down again, one end rising a few feet in the wind, then crashing rhythmically. Did he see? Did he follow? Clouds churned. A strike of moonlight caught him, and he hobbled for the darkness beyond the slide. My foot. Jeez. He limped heavily now, and the chains for the swings chimed against metal poles with a sound like buoys. Maybe my ankle. He clambered through a concrete tube and hunkered for a long moment, panting. The playground was very near the beach. On the other side of the next fence lay the old amusement park, permanently shut now--he could hide there. He'd done it before, though he found the empty rides and boarded kiosks a little scary. No, I got to try and get back.

  He crawled out and headed away from the park. His ankle throbbed and his sneakers slipped on the links, but he topped the fence. Clouds flowed across the sky, and great blotches slid over the yards and houses. Agony stabbed through his foot when he dropped to the other side. Frost easily penetrated the jacket and both sweaters, and his muscles twitched, quivering like small animals beneath his clothes.

  So tired of running.

  Wanting to scream, she gritted her teeth against the itch. Even when she bent as far forward as she could in the heavy chair, her right hand still strained inches from her cheek. Frantically, she swung her head from side to side. Strips of rope cut into her arms, and she felt a trickling on her wrists.

  In the frigid stillness, her muscles had stiffened from hours of anguished waiting and now felt heavy, dead. Why didn't someone help her? Surely someone must be looking for her. She stared at the wall, until she saw faces in the rough and lumpy paint, malevolent leers and grimaces that eroded her control until panic overwhelmed her, and the walls reeled. Her body arched, only the straps holding her down. If someone didn't find her soon...

  Her fingers dug convulsively into the arms of the chair, and the cloth gag twisted in her mouth as tears and saliva slicked one side of her face. She'd seen blood on his hands. Dear God, she prayed silently, don't let me die like this!

  In the blustery shadows, hedges lurked. When a trash can lid clattered, the boy ducked behind a tree, and the shades of thin branches whipped through the fleeting moonlight at his feet.

  Grayness flickered at the back window of one of the bungalows, and laughter filtered through the wind, so faint it seemed to emanate from some assembly of phantoms. In the garden, he crept closer, stumbling over roots that knuckled through hard ground. Laughter fluttered again, and bright blurs oscillated through the curtain. Somebody watching television. It seemed so normal, he couldn't understand why it made him feel so sad. I didn't think nobody lived on this block in wintertime. He wondered who might be
inside, wondered if they knew what it meant to be freezing or frightened. Or desperate. Overhead, branches creaked, and he stumbled again, his feet snared in a net of shadows.

  While the television murmured, he felt his knee. His jeans had torn when he'd fallen under the boardwalk, and the skin still oozed. He couldn't walk around like this. I got to look normal. He could almost hear his father's voice: You know what they'll do to you if they find out?

  Constantly brushing sand from himself, he hurried on, this time keeping to the sidewalk, as far as possible from the evergreens that crowded the bungalows. Normally, he detoured a block around The Pine Inn, but tonight, already so weary, he hurried right by it.

  Don't nobody come out.

  Don't nobody open the door. He looked straight ahead as he passed the neon sign. Just let me get to the corner. Once beyond the spill of light, he tried to run but pain flared in his foot and knee. Just a little farther. Two blocks away, the only other open business in town blazed, and he rushed for it, his hands thrust deep in his pockets.

  Trying to look casual, he strolled through the entrance as the cashier looked up and snorted. The boy immediately sought escape down the farthest aisle and, cupping his hands over his ears, peeked at the covers of wrestling magazines and horoscope booklets. Tentatively, he took one hand away from his ears, half expecting to see blood; then he dug through packages of flavored chips, aware of the clerk's derisive stare in the fish-eye mirror. Ghoulishly pale under the fluorescent lights, his own reflection floated in the glass of the refrigerator case. He looked like something out of a zombie movie. He grabbed some hot dogs and a tube of grape concentrate, then found rolls and doughnuts before returning to the front of the store, his arms full. As he dumped his groceries on the counter, his eyes tracked to the glass wall. Anyone could see me.

  "That it?"

  "Uh...yeah."

  The man snorted again and pawed disdainfully through the items as he rang them up. Sleepy-eyed, the boy fumbled at his jacket pockets. He shucked a bill off the top, remembering to keep his hands low so the clerk wouldn't see the lump of twenties.

  "You hurt your leg?"

  He started to nod.

  "So how's your old man?"

  "Okay, fine," he got out through clenched teeth. "Real chilly out." He rubbed his hands together and forced a grin.

  "Yeah? So how come I ain't seen him in here?" The clerk stared at the crumpled bill.

  The boy's heart pounded, clouding his vision with a bright pulse. "Oh, and a pack of Camels."

  "He still smoking them? So how come...?"

  "You know." The boy shrugged, his gaze swerving to the door. "He's been busy."

  "Yeah, he's a real worker all right. You learn from him, kid. He worked hard all his life for his money. I knew him since we was both kids with nothing, no shoes even, running around in the street. Nobody never gave neither one of us nothing. You hearing me?"

  "No." He shook his head in urgent confusion. "I know."

  "Yeah, well, just so's you do know." He held out the change, but the boy jerked his hand away. "You tell him I says hi." He slapped the money down on the counter. "Tell him I says stop in sometime." His fingernails hooked, and hairs curled at the edge of his cuffs.

  "I will."

  "What's he too high and mighty to speak to his old buddies?"

  "No...just..."

  "You turning into a hippie?"

  "Huh?" He backed away. "Oh, no, I just...forgot to get a haircut." He pressed his palm to the door.

  "Yeah, you forgot your change too."

  "Oh." He scooped up the money and fled while the clerk sneered after him.

  Putting his head down, he hurried along the block, the chill soughing through the hole in his jeans. The cold feels even worse now. Halfway down the block, he suddenly became afraid; he'd been in such a hurry, he'd rushed right through the lights of the parking lot. Anybody could of seen. Now he stopped and peered about, but the fluorescent lights had blanked his night vision. Was it really him this time? Up there on the boardwalk? Arms outstretched, he plunged into deeper blackness. Could of been anybody really.

  But he knew.

  Halfway down the alley, he remembered the cat and paused, listening to the wind moan above his head. The handles to the plastic bag had wound tightly around his fingers, but he fumbled out the package of hot dogs. Biting off one end of the wrapper, he peeled out a frank, broke it in pieces, leaving one here on the ground, another by the wall, even tossing a piece over the fence. So's he can find it.

  Then he let the wind blow him down the alley like a bit of refuse.

  We've been here too long already. As he stood on the trash can and reached for the ladder, the thought he'd been avoiding for days caught up with him. Somebody might of noticed something by now. Other thoughts engulfed him, unwelcome memories that left him gasping: the woman's long mane and the way the blood had flown up this last time, worse than before, the sticking clamminess of it, spurting on his face when he'd used the saw; the noise of the hammer when it hit bone.

  Too long. He clambered up the sharp grid of the fire escape. Too long in one place.

  With a stiff, metallic grind, the window slid up. Even as he climbed over the sill, he could feel her stare. He'd left her tied in the big chair this time, bound with nylon cord from the basement, two blankets wrapped around her. Somehow she'd managed to knock one away completely, while the other hung loosely. "You warm enough?" He closed the window. "Boy, it's bad tonight."

  She watched him rub his hands over the electric heater. His waxen flesh had been scoured by frost until now his cheekbones flared, and his hair--even more blond than her own--held the light with a melting shimmer: he might have been an angel. She turned her face away.

  After dumping the groceries on the kitchen table, he crouched beside her and yanked away the remaining blanket to inspect the knots. "Shit," he muttered. Her struggles had abraded her wrists, and one of the cords dripped darkly. "How come you keep doing that?" With one finger, he picked at the adhesive strips that held the chewed gag in place. He yanked. A wounded groan throbbed from her, and he recoiled. "Don't yell or nothing, all right?" Trembling, he wadded the gag and gently stuck it back in her mouth. "You know I can't let you start in screaming."

  Everything in the room--the ironing board in the corner, the crumbled newspapers on the small table--shimmered in her vision.

  "If I take it out, do you promise to be good?" With the back of his hand, he stroked her cheek.

  She moaned, felt the glimmer in her eyes break and roll down her face.

  "Just be good." He fondled her ear, then the nape of her neck.

  When he pulled out the gag, she jerked her head away, panting gutturally through swollen lips. "Please, let me go. Please, Perry?" Her shoulders heaved. "I won't tell anybody. I won't tell about anything. I swear." She gulped air. "Oh God, please! Somebody, help me!"

  "Keep it down, or I got to get the tape again. I mean it. You don't want that, do you?" His voice seemed almost pleading. "Huh?"

  Biting her lip, she shook her head. She could taste blood, and the muscles in her neck throbbed beyond endurance.

  "You thirsty?" He strode to the sink and filled a glass.

  Again, she twisted her face away, but he stood behind her, gripping her head with one hand, prying the rim of the glass between her lips. She gagged, and water spattered her sweatshirt. "That's better," he said. "You hungry or what?" While she coughed, he wiped at her mouth with his sleeve. "All right? Dinner won't be long. Tell you what--I'll move the TV in here so we can both watch, and you can keep me company while I cook. Would you like that?"

  When he left the room, she struggled in frenzy against the ropes. He would hurt her again tonight--she could tell. The tears stung her cheeks, and she could feel a fresh trickle on her wrists. He would hurt her--he had that look. She gritted her teeth, knowing she couldn't afford to lose control. She had to get him talking, calm him down. At moments like this, her thoughts grew so dispassionately logi
cal they shocked her, but such moments never lasted. Seconds later, the savage panic slashed her. Her numbed fingers still couldn't find the knots, and she felt her arms begin to shake. "Oh God," she whispered. She pressed her eyelids shut and rocked back and forth as much as the ropes permitted. "I don't want to die like this."

  "You say something? Here we go." He set the portable television on the kitchen table, raveling the cord to the counter. Pulling plugs out of tangled extension cords, he rearranged them experimentally, stringing the hotplate off to the side. "Got to be careful with this." The electric heater buzzed loudly. "We don't want to blow a fuse again." The squat refrigerator cycled with a lumbering grunt. "I wish I could think of a way to get some more oil. Shame it takes so long to heat up water for the tub. I'm starting to smell. Next time we move, I got to find us a place with oil still in the tank. Maybe next winter..." His voice faded as he turned to the window.

  "Please," she murmured. "Please, God."

  "What did you say, Stell?"

  She fought, dragging herself back from the fog of despair that lay always ready to envelop her. No one would help. If she were ever to get away from him, she'd have to do it herself. She had to keep him talking, buy time, wait for a chance. It was all she could do for now. She searched his face. The pale mask stared back at her, a face so young, so unreadably soft as to be almost blank. She could detect no human feeling in that unformed countenance. She could no more reason with him than with the ropes that bound her. Again, terror stirred like a small animal within her chest; in seconds, it had her writhing against the chair.

  Averting his eyes, he got out a frying pan and started heating the oil, while the television set flickered noiselessly. "Always takes a few minutes for the sound to come on," he muttered. "You like yours burned a little, right?" He rattled things in the kitchen drawer. "See, I remember. I even got the cheese."

  She mustn't cry anymore. The rancid odor of frying meat wafted around her, causing a ripple of nausea deep in her gut. She had to get him talking. Sound drifted from the television. She drew a deep breath. "You've grown another inch. Those jeans are too short." She paused, then forced herself to continue. "And you're so skinny. They're practically hanging off you."