The Shore (Leisure Fiction)

by Robert Dunbar

  She bit her lip. "When we get back to town..." The jeep surged to one side. "If we get back to town..."

  "No cracks about my driving." Finally, his glance veered to her, and he tried to smile. "You're going to tell the authorities finally, right? You've been threatening to all day. Go ahead, if you feel you need to. But do you really think it's such a good idea?"

  "I've seen it now." The glittering curve of their headlights preceded them along the road. "Whatever it is. It's not a game anymore."

  "Nobody was ever playing games, Kit." He turned to her, fully taking in her appearance: the soaked ringlets, clinging to her skull like a cap, the tense intelligence of her eyes. "Nobody." He returned his full attention to the road. "Besides, I thought you'd decided it was just some guy in a mask?" A casino bus swerved at them, spraying water on all sides, and she gasped as he jerked the wheel. "Try to relax," he said.

  "Just shut up and drive." The tires hummed wetly over the asphalt. "So this is what it feels like to want something again," she said. "All right. I want something. I want to hope for something and work for something, and I hadn't even realized I'd let go of all that. Until I met you."

  Rain shuddered on the roof.

  "Steve, please? We need to talk." Suddenly, she couldn't look at him. Rivulets snaked across the glass, and she forced herself to watch the drowned forest. "I hate this." Pines sagged, bunching together against the freezing drizzle, the thinner branches vibrating until the trees seemed to shiver, the whole forest twitching. Moments later, the woods thinned, and the first drab buildings rose. "What are we going to do?"

  The slick road ranged into town without apparent strategy. Sometimes it swerved to avoid rocky outcroppings; sometimes it plowed straight through boulders that reared like ancient sentinels. From the first steep rise, she glimpsed the gray hump of the sea; then the streets of Edgeharbor engulfed them. The road climbed so that they seemed to be level with the upper stories of the houses they passed, and the windows of those houses reflected the stony havoc of the sky. "Steve, I'm scared." The clouds looked solid, mountainous, like the contours of some frost-covered shore they had no hope of reaching. "I've never been so scared. I think something awful is about to happen, and there's nothing I can do to stop it."

  "You could have been killed." He spoke with considered finality, turning onto the road to the marina.

  "Steve..."

  "No more." The jeep slowed. All around them, gulls screamed and wheeled, their bodies the color of the winter sky. They settled on rooftops and posts, until shrieking in outrage, they simply raised their wings to the wind and lifted again.

  He pulled into the carport, close beside the Volkswagen, and they hurried to the stairs through a chilling veil of drizzle. A sudden gust slapped hard at her, and she clutched the rail as he caught her about the waist. For an instant, she turned toward the sea. "Jesus."

  Foam rolled across the edge of the dock.

  Above them at the kitchen windows, the cat stared through wavering glass.

  XXII

  "I can't get an answer at Charlotte's. I'm worried. Storms always hit worse on that side of the inlet." She hung up but kept her hand on the phone. "The lines could be out in places, I suppose. And she never picks up after she's gone to bed."

  He could see how nervous she was becoming. Sitting stiffly on the sofa, he cradled his head in his hands.

  Twice the lights flickered, until finally she lit candles. The effect was hardly romantic, actually seeming to accentuate the shabby, claustrophobic aspects of the duplex. Eventually, she threw together a meal, but neither of them really touched it, and though she tried repeatedly to begin a conversation, he couldn't seem to bring himself to respond. After dinner, he sank back on the sofa, still silent.

  Outside, rain billowed at the windows with a sound like cracking glass. A moment later, he kicked off his shoes and shifted a cushion. He saw her turn away quickly when she realized that he meant to sleep right there.

  She left the room.

  After a moment, he heaved himself up and followed. She had her back to him. Perched on the kitchen windowsill, the cat tentatively allowed the stroke of her fingertips. Rivulets snaked across the glass, and wind struck again. With an explosive hiss, the cat backed across the sideboard, knocking over a ceramic vase. "It's okay, cat. Don't be afraid. Just a little storm." Stooping, she began to gather the shards of the vase. "Hell, that was my mother's."

  "You need help?"

  She whirled around, not having heard him enter the room. Before she could respond, the ringing of the phone made her jump. "Could you grab that?" She dropped the fragments. "It might be Charlotte."

  He'd already picked up the receiver.

  "Who is it?" she asked. "Steve? Is it...?"

  He turned away, cradling the phone. "It's for me," he answered in a flat voice.

  "Oh." She dropped the pieces into a wicker wastepaper basket. "Who knows you're here?"

  "Yes," he muttered into the phone, pacing back into the living room, as far from her as the cord would allow. At first, all he heard was a dissonant hum; then the voice on the phone reached his brain like the twitch of a nerve.

  "Shall we not play games? Good. You know who I am," the voice grated. "Is your little policewoman in the room? Simply say 'yes' again in a normal tone."

  He pushed the phone so hard into his ear that it ached like an old wound. "Yes."

  "Well done. You'll want to memorize this address. Six thirteen Decatur. Fourth floor rear. I assume you do understand why I'm contacting you. Am I correct in this assumption? Yes? He'll move soon now. He's been searching for a new place for days." The words broke apart on a raking cough. "Just remember--leave the girl alone! Can you comprehend that instruction?"

  "Yes."

  "Pardon me if I get personal for a moment, but I've been observing you for quite some time now. You seem, if you don't mind my saying so, passionately involved in your pursuit. Is that correct? What precisely is your stake in all this? Did the boy take the life of someone you loved? Not that I object to such a motive, you understand. This merely represents, shall we say, academic curiosity on my part."

  A dead voice issued from his throat. "Something like that."

  "I thought as much. How virtuous of you. Virtuous in the old sense--an eye for an eye and all that. Moralizing, however, is hardly my line, and--as I said--it scarcely matters so long as you take his life."

  Even after the line went dead, he kept the receiver pressed to his ear, as though seeking somehow to gain control of it. "Monsters," he whispered.

  "What did you say? Steve?"

  He kept looking at the phone as though expecting the instrument itself to reveal some secret. Finally, he returned to the kitchen and hung up, then stood staring out at the teeming rain. A moment later, she followed him in.

  "Who was that?"

  He watched her reflection in the window, saw the imploring way she stared at his back, the way the palm of her hand wiped invisible dust from the tabletop. "It has to end," he said at last.

  Outside, the storm wailed, and an atmosphere of leaden exhaustion seemed to fill the apartment. She cleared away the dishes, and he wandered back into the parlor. Later, she brought him a blanket, but neither of them spoke as she retired to the bedroom and closed the door.

  He lay on the sofa and listened to the wind. The rain droned, and he could hear the cat padding around the kitchen. He would have no choice now. He knew it, and the thought filled him with dread. Very soon, he would have to kill.

  "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

  "Tell you what?"

  Kit wrestled with the steering wheel. "What's different? What's changed you?"

  "Nothing's different." Rain sloshed at the vinyl windows.

  "Right," she said through clenched teeth.

  "So dark." With a sharp movement, he turned to face her, and she almost flinched. "More like ten at night than ten in the morning."

  She sighed. "Are you going to stake out the apartme
nt tonight?"

  "Look at it come down." He stared at the rain again.

  "Steve?"

  "Like it's never going to stop."

  "Answer me. Do you want me along or don't you?"

  Shaking his head, he stared through the windshield. "I'm tired."

  She pulled the jeep up in front of the hotel. "You sure you're all right?" The light held a thick, dull quality that made the bricks of the hotel seem luminous.

  "I need to rest for a while." He leaned toward her. "Rest and think." He tried to make his voice warmer, less distant, and the effort cost him. "How's your shoulder, Kitten? Will you be okay?" As he spoke, his hand slipped to her arm, then to her shoulder, kneading. "You're exhausted too."

  "Right." She stared straight ahead.

  The noise of the rain intensified as he pushed the door open.

  "What are you planning, Steve?"

  He paused, rain drumming on his back. "Nothing." As he turned away, the rain shot in at her almost horizontally.

  "Right. Call me." She gunned the engine to keep from saying anything further, to keep from demanding or pleading.

  He slammed the door, and the tires splashed away along the shiny asphalt. He watched the red glimmer of the taillights disappear. She was too smart, and she'd guessed too much, he knew. There had to be a way to keep her out of it now. The wind struck, raw and wet, and falling water drove against him in steady waves. Streaks of ice glittered on the bricks of the hotel. Slush sheeted off the roof, most of it blowing away down the street, and in gurgling puddles at the curb clots of snow floated like miniature icebergs. Hunching against a sodden gust, he pushed up the few steps, water shimmering copiously around him. Rain smoked down in rolling clouds now, and it blurred the light in the hotel window, hammered at his face to slide dripping fingers down the nape of his neck. Another gust struck just as he reached the top of the stairs, and for an instant, he could barely move against it.

  The wet doorknob yanked out of his hand, and the door slammed in his face. He clutched at it again. His jacket slapping around him, he yanked the door with both hands. A sudden billow drenched the foyer, pushing after him. The inner door also flew open, and he caught the street door before it could pound the wall again. As the turbulent downpour slanted through, he struggled with the door, finally slamming his shoulder against it. At last, he stood, gasping and dripping on the carpet.

  "Sir?" In his bathrobe, D'Amato quavered behind the desk. He beckoned, looking worried.

  The rain stirred along the beach like a pulsing liquid entity. Lightning mottled the sky, and the rocks glittered.

  Every particle of the sea heaved. A single strip of foam lashed continually across the surface, and thick currents undulated like gigantic snakes.

  Fierce wind gnawed at the land. The beach vanished in flying plumes, and debris gorged the air. Freezing water scoured the rooftops of the beach houses, wave after wave shattering down as though the sea had left its bed in great convulsions. Cataracts spouted from the boardwalk.

  Blocks from the beach, teeming pools already shivered between the houses, spreading, merging in the streets, until streams swirled into intersections and surged over curbs to engulf the sidewalks. Frothy currents gushed, lapping at cars, trees, houses.

  Behind Decatur Street, rain lanced and ricocheted into the courtyard, and thunder rattled the windows along the back of the apartment building. Steady torrents cascaded from the fire escape, plunging from ruptured drainpipes as the cellar stairwell filled.

  The infant made terrible noises, the small angry face clenching like a fist.

  Near the crib, photographs and plastic religious figures crowded the low shelves, and Steve hovered uncomfortably, his clothing dark with damp in long ovals down his arms and legs. He gasped at the steamy warmth of the room, and for an instant, D'Amato looked embarrassed: apparently, the landlord's family never suffered from the lack of heat. Flashing movement dragged Steve's attention back to the picture tube. "That's farther down the coast, isn't it?" he asked, edging closer.

  Film clips of devastated towns rolled behind the commentator. Tensely, D'Amato muttered something in Italian, clearly urging his wife to hush the baby so he could hear, and Steve glanced at her. She'd pulled a coat on over her long nightgown but still looked mortified at his presence. Lifting the infant from the crib, she crooned almost inaudibly while making a slight jiggling movement, but she never stopped staring at the set.

  Still more photographs of dark-complexioned smiling faces covered the top of the television; beneath them the storm raged. Steve glimpsed houses twisting in the flood, bedraggled people snatched from rooftops, a brief shot of children pulled from a bogged car. "Cresthaven, Blackwater," the voice droned on, "Ebb Cove and..."

  "Eh? Near here?" She stopped rocking the baby, her face and lips the color of one of the sheets she'd been folding when he'd entered. "Eh?"

  "Mrs. D'Amato, please, sit down."

  "We got to," her husband murmured.

  "Did they say it?"

  "...Stone Harbor, Rock Shore, Edge Water..."

  "Did they say?"

  "Got to."

  Could waves be that high? Steve watched, paralyzed. Static and glimpses of gray violence pulverized his nerves. "What?" At once, they all realized that the desk phone had been ringing. D'Amato teetered vaguely into the doorway, but the baby began to wail, and he paused, his glance flicking back to the television as Steve squeezed around him.

  "Steve? Is that you?" Her voice sounded faint, rigid. "I'm at the station. Can you hear me? The connection's bad." An electric burr grated. "Can you get out on your own?"

  "What's happening?"

  "Didn't you hear? We have to evacuate."

  The very concept filled him with dread: months of searching, only to have the town itself ripped away.

  "Steve, can you hear me? There are still some older people I have to get. Will you be all right? Is anyone else at the hotel?"

  "Just the D'Amatos."

  "For crissakes, why are they still there? Tell them to get the hell out now. Go straight to Pinedale. And don't try to use the bridge--they closed it twenty minutes ago. Go straight out the old highway to--"

  A faint buzz emanated from the phone.

  "Kit? Hello?"

  "Ah, Dio, Dio!" The woman wailed in panic, and instantly the baby's shrieks intensified. Steve barely had time to put the phone down before D'Amato rushed at him. "They just said! We got to get out!" He dodged back inside, and his voice harmonized with the woman's harsh wails. "What are you do? Get that...!" Steve stood with his hand on the phone, listening to them argue in English and Italian, repeating over and over about the property and the National Guard and the evacuation center and the property and insurance, while beneath the cacophony of the baby's shrieks, the television muttered instructions on how to turn off gas and electricity and issued advice about emergency routes and pickup points as well as warnings about downed power lines.

  "That van out back is yours, right? Does it run?" Steve peered through the doorway.

  "Yes?" The man looked up, puzzled. "Yes, it runs, the van." The woman bit her lip.

  "That's it then. Better grab what you need for the baby and run. I'll just get my suitcase." He gave the woman what he hoped resembled an encouraging smile and headed for the stairs.

  "Sir? Sir! They say must leave at once."

  "Won't be a minute." He bounded up the staircase. Below him, the sounds of rapid movement--of drawers coughing open and the woman's urgent complaints--faded into the thin wails of the infant. Before he reached the top of the stairs, the lights flickered.

  The television exploded as it struck the wall. "Now, will you shut up?!"

  The girl cringed deep into the chair. "You heard it! We have to get out of here." She gave a small, hiccuping gasp. "Perry, please--we'll die if we stay!"

  His hand lashed out, open palmed, again and again, knocking her face from side to side and battering away her words.

  "We'll die," she gritted h
er teeth, tasting blood as he struck her again. "Stop it! We'll die. You have to listen to me!" She sobbed in terror. "Stop!"

  "Shut up!" It burst from him in a roar that racked his throat. "Will you leave me alone? I have to think!"

  Rain cracked at the window like a fist.

  XXIII

  While the sea twisted in countless anguished circuits, a gale howled ashore and dragged the ocean with it. Where beach had been, waves spewed in varied directions, explosions of muddy froth marking lines of collision. Darker currents surged across what choppy, sodden earth remained.

  Winds had already gouged away most of the gravel, exposing concrete foundations beneath the boardwalk. Not one of my better ideas. A single darkening lump of earth remained beneath the boards, and as Steve watched, dirt flew like smoke. Hiding till everyone else cleared out. He huddled behind the wheel of the Volkswagen. Well, nobody'll see me here, that's for sure.

  It had gotten bad so fast. Finding only static, he switched off the radio, giving his full attention to the liquid shapes that flattened on the windshield. Coming down even harder, just in the last few seconds. In random spurts, water struck through gaps in the boards overhead, like hammer blows against the Volks.

  The car shivered. What now? Vibrations trembled through the steering wheel into his bones, and suddenly he understood. He heard the rumble, felt the ocean pound away at the very shale and bedrock of the peninsula. My God. Again, the ground shuddered.

  I wonder if these things really are watertight. A gobbet of water hit the side window and he jerked his head away, expecting to see the glass cracked. Guess I'm about to find out. He clenched his fists around the steering wheel and willed his shoulders to relax. Some plan. It had been an easy thing to help the D'Amatos load the baby carriage into their van, then double back in his own car. I should give myself the "Suicidal Dope of the Year" award.

  He observed the whirling gray of the horizontal torrent, and his stomach clenched. Give it another minute. The sea had undergone some alchemical transformation, become an entirely new element, neither wholly wind nor water, an eruption of foaming vapor that streaked at him. Are you nuts? Mist struck the window. Get out of here!