The Shore (Leisure Fiction)

by Robert Dunbar

  She smiled thinly. "You really are crazy, aren't you?"

  "You tell me." He turned to look back at the beach. "I found footprints in the sand. Not every morning. But enough. And I waited."

  "I could have made those. I run every night."

  "Not these tracks. You see them once, you never forget. Then about a week ago I, well, let's say I caught a glimpse of the boy." Disgust and frustration gritted together in his voice. "That day they found the woman in the bay."

  "Spell it out for me. Let me just hear you say the words, just so I know I'm not dreaming this."

  "What difference does it make? Whatever you want to call them. There's one of them here in this town, and I'm not going to let him get away." He pulled something out of his coat pocket.

  "What is that?"

  "A list."

  "I can see that much."

  "From the cemetery."

  "You copied names off headstones?" She leaned away from the bit of paper.

  "There are families that show up a lot." A muscle tightened in his face. "I was looking for any kind of lead I could follow. I found Chandlers going back four generations. All over the pines." He squeezed her gloved hand between his fingers. "I'm not crazy. Honest to God, I'm not, Kit. And I need your help. Kit, please, look at me."

  "Stop."

  "Look at me. I'm a zombie. Going through the motions. And sooner or later, I'll drop. Entropy, it's called. And it won't matter. Not even to me."

  "Stop, please."

  He didn't seem to hear her. "There's only one door out of this place. If I can finish this, if I can stop this nightmare, then maybe I've got a chance to get my life back. Some kind of life at least."

  Stiffly, she pulled her hand away. "I can't do what you're asking." She brushed at her coat, stood.

  "Can't you?" He rose beside her.

  "I'm a cop."

  "A cop who doesn't report homicides?"

  Her expression hardened.

  "That has to tell you something, Kit. Like it or not, you do trust me. What if he really does have a hostage? You want her death on your hands? Like you said, you're involved in this now. You know what kind of job the troopers will do, don't you? Blundering in like an army? A minute after they pull into town, pieces of that girl will start hitting the water, because you can be sure he's aware of everything that goes on. Can't you feel that? Can't you feel he's watching us all the time?" He scanned the beach. Far off in the haze, a gull dipped languidly. "We're her only chance. If we can find out where the boy's got her..."

  "It doesn't make sense. It's the other one, Ramsey, who has the hostage. Has to be. But what did he say? Something about..." Her voice faded like a receding wave. A stiff wind pushed her, and she staggered against him. "I knew you were good at this." She shuddered with anger. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? To suck me into this. To compromise me. Now I'm stuck. How could I explain my delay in reporting...how could I explain that I...?"

  "You could always make an anonymous phone call."

  She huddled into her coat. "I still might."

  "No, you won't."

  "Don't be so sure." A pigeon seemed to fall out of the air. It flapped spastically on the boards. "I'm freezing. Can we go now?"

  His hands slid beneath her jacket, slipping from her waist to her back, under her sweater. Despite the chill, his palms felt warm against her spine, and she pushed against him, then went slack. Her head barely reached his shoulder.

  "Go on. Tell me you're not just using me." Angrily, she tried to pull away. "I'll end up doing whatever you want."

  He pressed closer.

  She'd never felt anyone's heart pound that way before, dull, rapid blows, as though some animal struggled beneath his jacket. Pulling off a glove, she touched his cheek, felt the heat flare beneath her fingertips, and she kept her hand there as though her touch had the power to silence whatever thundered within him. "Don't look like that." The pale stubble of his beard scratched her palm. "I've never seen anything so sad."

  She kissed him back, hard and determinedly, like a stubborn child. She felt him shiver but realized that she herself had stopped shaking.

  He pulled her harder against him. Even in the wind, she felt his heat increase. He brought his mouth to hers and forced her teeth apart, sliding in his tongue, as she ground her hips against his.

  "Can we get inside now, please?" She jerked her head away. "Before we freeze to death?"

  XVII

  As dream images lanced her psyche, she twitched: something vaguely human prowled along the swamp, and somehow she knew its pain and sensed the fetid lusts that drove it, even felt the freezing water that sucked around its legs. A thickly veined mixture of mud and stringy weeds dripped from its clawed hands.

  No, not mud, she realized.

  She sat up in the bed. Bright patches brindled the ceiling and blotted down toward the floor. Beneath the bureau, the cat curled in a wedge of sunlight, just a twist of dusty fur, belly-up to the warmth. Kit lay back, and the movement disturbed Steve so that he slid against her. She listened until his breathing eased again. After a moment, he turned slightly, and his chest, damp against her side, pulled away with a sound like a kiss. She stayed very still, and the drumming of her heart slowed. Just a dream. Heat faded from the bed, and a sweetness thickened the air. Molten light still pooled on the windowsills, but a tide of shadows rose along the walls and dimness sloped through the room. Chilly in here. Folded, the fireplace screen leaned against the wall. I have to get more wood.

  Pulling the blanket higher, she tried to examine her feelings of exhaustion and tension...and contentment? Faintly, she could hear the wind chimes that had been left behind on the downstairs balcony, and her thoughts wandered to the past. Her mother used to play something for her on their old stereo. What was it? She could almost hear it. Something classical of course--Mozart or Beethoven, she supposed. Always, it had seemed to transform their cottage into something grander. This piece in particular had been her favorite to run about to, dancing and leaping, and always she'd hated to hear the final crescendo, to know that it heralded the return of drab normality. She felt that way now. This was fragile magic. Carefully, she rolled her head on the pillow. The blanket rose evenly with his chest, and she studied the square, flat muscles of his torso. So strong-looking. Yet he exhaled haltingly, as though gritting back a continuous onslaught of small pains.

  She took in as much of the room as she could without moving. A puddle of amber light dripped across the edge of the carpet, and the cat rolled through it, then shook its head free of dust and sneezed before curling back to sleep. What have I been doing here? These past two years, she'd scarcely allowed herself to think about her life, but now, struggling not to twitch, she clenched her fists. I've got nothing of my own. How could she still be living like this? I've done nothing. All the furniture had come from her parents' house. Even the dishes. Pictures on the walls. Everything. Like some college student whose adult life never got started.

  In the dusk across the room, his leather jacket sagged over a bench, seeming to radiate some animal heat of its own. Dressed like a biker and trying to look inconspicuous. Ruefully, she grinned. And that awful car. Then she frowned, searching for the source of a low sound. I don't believe it. She blinked at the cat. The thing snores. She felt herself sinking back toward sleep. Now, if I could just teach it to spit, I wouldn't need a man in my life at all.

  Without opening his eyes, Steve stretched across the rumpled bedding to draw a finger along her stomach. "...soft..."

  "..."

  "Did you say something?" he mumbled.

  "...m..."

  "Beg pardon?"

  Sprawled in a languid stupor, she rolled and mumbled into his shoulder. "I thought you were asleep." Her knees slid up beneath the sheet, and her legs wrapped around him, slackly.

  Murmuring something that sounded like "I am," he molded himself against her.

  The blanket slipped down, and she wriggled on her side. Imbibing the musky smell o
f him, she toyed with the tightly curled hairs at the back of his neck, then languorously stroked the bright dusting of fur on his shoulders, remembering the warmth of his mouth and the taste of his tongue. Honey-colored light streaked his chest, and her fingers traced the muscles that braided his arm, traced the prominent veins. She brought his hand to her mouth, kissed his fingertips. Golden hairs glinted even on the backs of his hands.

  He drew her damply into the nook of his arm. "You're a very beautiful lady."

  "I was just thinking the same thing."

  "And modest too."

  "I meant about you, stupid."

  "I'm a beautiful lady?" He twitched back the sheet. "If you'll notice..."

  "Shut up, idiot." She smacked playfully at his head. "And I can't believe this hair. Like animal fur."

  His limbs wound hot and moist around her. "And you haven't commented on my almost canine sensuality."

  "Idiot." Her laugh blurred against his chest.

  "Doesn't say much about your judgment, does it? What kind of a cop are you anyway?"

  "The world's worst. Haven't you figured that out by now?"

  "I think there's some pretty stiff competition for that title just in this bed."

  "Stiff what?" She stroked him.

  "Stop that. Hussy." In retaliation, his hand slipped silken between her legs.

  "Oh." Her words flowed in a warm rush. "This scar on your stomach. It's not from an operation, is it?" Everything had changed from this morning on the beach. Even their voices sounded different, she thought, like the voices of happy strangers, and they couldn't stop touching each other. "So jagged." She leaned forward and tried to kiss it, but he shifted away. "There's another. You're lucky to be alive, my boy." She traced a line beneath his chin and down the side of his throat, until her hand hesitated. "My God." Her voice cracked. "One of them did this to you. This is what you meant, isn't it?"

  The bed quaked as he turned away and sat at the edge of the mattress.

  "Steve...I still can't believe any of this is happening." She watched his back. "Look at me."

  "Uh...do you have that list of properties here?"

  He barely turned his head, but she glimpsed his eyes: dirty ice.

  "You have it here? The addresses you found in Chandler's office?"

  "I have it." She rolled away.

  "We should begin checking them."

  "Of course." She reached for the clothes she'd thrown off earlier. "I didn't mean to waste your time. Should we divide them?"

  "Wait. I'm sorry. I didn't mean we had to..." He tried to pull her toward him, but she continued to dress. It seemed the light clarified every freckle on her pale arms and legs. "Kit, there's no reason for you to be involved in this any further, I'll..."

  "Don't even try it." Fingers trembling, she zipped her jeans. "We'll take turns watching the apartments."

  "No, if you insist on coming with me, we'll..."

  "Barry, Steve, whoever the hell you are..." She squinted at the window. "The only possible excuse for my not having informed the authorities already is for us to be handling this ourselves. We should have moved on it by now, but here we are instead. So tell me again how committed we are to saving lives. Do you want to eat something, before we get started?"

  He shuffled through the blankets. "Kit."

  Shrugging away from his touch, she tugged her blouse on, then hurried out of the room. As she walked, the cat pressed at her ankle.

  What am I doing? She got out a skillet and began to root through the refrigerator. He's just sitting on the bed, waiting for me to say something. Her hand went to a package of ground meat, and her fingertips pressed it. Gelid. Grainy. Deep pink dotted with white. At the crinkled bottom of the cellophane, a tiny amount of red fluid had gathered. Swaying, she closed the refrigerator and leaned against the door while the room swayed; then she rushed for the bathroom. An unblinking feline gaze observed her.

  Leaning on the sink, she listened to his movements in the next room. I won't be sick. She twisted a faucet, and water gushed. She watched it beat against the basin and splash across her blouse; then she adjusted the flow and cupped her hands to bathe her face. It cooled her burning eyes, but when she looked at herself in the mirror, she cringed. She tugged at the sleeves of her blouse. It made her look bony, boyish. Salt spray and the pillow had made a bizarre frizz of her hair, which now curled chaotically in a coppery mesh. The cat scraped at the door. "Can't you leave me alone for five minutes?" She turned the shower on full blast before letting her clothes fall in a heap, as though she couldn't bear to touch them. They smell of the beach. She stood under the water a long time. Everything smells of the beach.

  Afterward she wiped the skin of steam from the mirror and combed her hair straight back before wrapping herself in a white terry cloth robe. Maybe he's right. She had to wipe the mirror with a towel again to see herself, the image smeared and blurred around the edges. Wet, her hair looked almost chestnut. Maybe all I care about is a chance to take the killer down myself. What would that get me anyhow? She shrugged the thought away. Out of here? Is that what I want?

  She found him sitting in the armchair, his face buried in her notes, and she walked past without speaking. Finding her slippers, she headed back into the kitchen.

  Moments later, cooking odors twined through the warm air. Or do I just want him? She'd pulled the curtains aside, and the last of the light pooled in the center of the table where the cat fitfully purred. "Who said you could sleep on the table?" But the cat just lifted its head, squinting at her. The electric clock on the wall whirred softly. It seemed a reassuring noise, so normal, making nonsense of all their talk of monsters. In the next room, a chair scraped, and a few seconds later she heard the shower. Slicing onions and peppers, she prepared an omelet for them, annoyed with herself at the amount of effort she put into it, disgusted with her own transparent need to impress him with her domestic skills.

  The cat slid off the edge of the table and leapt to the windowsill. "What do you want from me, cat? This never letting me out of your sight business is getting on my nerves. You're not hungry. You won't let me pet you." She moved to the old china cabinet and got out her best dishes and linen. "So what is it?"

  The cat's tail tapped the wall in a restless oval.

  "We should start with these cottages on the outskirts of town," he said, his fingers tracing a column of addresses. "The ones most likely not to attract attention. We need to go back to the Chandler house too--just to check--periodically. See if anybody shows up."

  Her hand glided above the table, started for the salt, then the water glass, hesitated and returned to her lap. "This is what it's all about for you."

  He poured himself another cup of coffee.

  "This search. Everything else...just a means to an end."

  He chewed mechanically.

  "What happened to you? What could make a person like this?"

  "I shouldn't have touched you." Finally, he faced her. "Taking warmth from you. I don't have the right." He forced his attention back to his plate. "What? Were you going to say something?" His hand dropped to the table with a thud. A moment later, he tried to smile. "I'm sorry. Was this for the cat?"

  "Shut up. It's tofu. It's good for you."

  He prodded the omelet with his fork. "No sprouts?"

  "Don't try to be funny." She snatched the list off the table. "It scares me worse than anything when you're charming." She studied the page. "You know, these places will all be locked up tight for the winter. How do you intend checking them out?"

  He forked another bit of omelet into his mouth.

  "Oh." She picked up her coffee mug, almost brought it to her lips, set it down again. "We're going to do some more breaking and entering, right?" Her fingers tightened around the handle of the mug. "Didn't take you long, did it?"

  He swallowed glumly. "What?"

  "To turn me into an outlaw."

  "Like me, you mean?"

  Her shoulders pressed back, and her arms stiffene
d.

  "Can't you trust me just a little longer, Kit?" Veins in his temples bulged, and the muscles under his shirt twitched visibly. "Can't you believe we're doing this for the right reasons?"

  "How can I believe anything you say?" She covered her face with her hands. "What's wrong with me? Monsters. Am I crazy too? There aren't any rules for this, no departmental directives."

  "You're right about one thing. I can't do this alone, Kit. Help me, please." He stroked her arm. "I've told you everything I can." He stood up. "It's your call. I'll go if you want me to."

  "And?"

  "And try on my own."

  "I don't know what I'm doing," she said. "I'm scared. And I probably am falling in love with you. God help me." Silence thundered in the room. "Did you hear what I said?"

  "I haven't even thought words like those in a long time." He stood close beside her, and his hand smoothed the delicate tendrils of hair at the back of her neck. "I'm not sure what they mean anymore."

  She pressed her face damply into his shirt.

  "C'mon, Kitten." He stroked her back. "We've got work to do."

  XVIII

  Motion washed over him, and bare trees banded the gray sky. For a moment, it seemed they might be going anywhere at all, away, to safety; then her voice brought him back.

  "...used to be the best section of town." She maneuvered them through the narrow streets. "Did you nod off?" Surreptitiously, she checked herself in the rearview mirror. She'd worn the green scarf in hopes that it would bring out the color of her eyes. It didn't, she decided. "Used to get the highest rents."

  He noticed she wore earrings today, the first jewelry he'd seen on her, and the tiny gold circles glinted dimly as she turned her head to peer down the street.

  "Stands to reason the Chandlers would own half the properties here," she said as she parked the jeep and zipped her jacket.

  They walked briskly down the block, side by side under the trees, neither quite looking at the other. At the top of the bluff, majestic homes commanded an imposing view of the sea.