Cry for the Strangers

12

The Reverend Lucas Pembroke peered over the tops of his half-glasses at the sparse crowd that had gathered in the tiny Methodist church and tried to blame the poor attendance on the weather. It had been raining almost steadily for the last five days — ever since Miriam and Pete Shelling had been buried — and the Reverend Pembroke wanted to believe that it was the weather that was keeping people away. Only a few, the bored and the curious, had showed up at the burial. Lucas had hoped that more would turn out for this service. It seemed almost useless for him to have driven all the way up from Hoquiam just to hold a service for two people he hardly knew in front of an audience of less than ten. Perhaps, he reflected, if the bodies were here … He let the thought die and chastised himself for its uncharitability.

No, it was something else, something he had been acutely aware of ever since he had added Clark’s Harbor to his circuit. He had felt it from the first: a standoffishness among his congregation that he had never completely overcome. It was as if they felt that though they ought to have a pastor for their church, still, an outsider was an outsider and not to be completely accepted. Lucas Pembroke had thought he had come to grips with the situation in Clark’s Harbor, but the deaths of Pete and Miriam Shelling had hit him hard. Of all his congregation they had been the only ones who had ever really let him know they appreciated his weekly trips to the Harbor, perhaps because they, too, had never felt particularly welcome here. He missed the Shellings, so he had decided to hold a service to say farewell to them. Apparently not many people in Clark’s Harbor shared his feelings.

Merle Glind was there, of course, but Lucas was sure that Glind’s presence was due more to his innate snoopiness than to any feelings for Pete and Miriam. Glind sat in the fourth pew, about halfway between the door and the chancel, and his small, nearly bald head kept swiveling around as he noted who was there and who wasn’t.

Other than Glind, only three fishermen and Harney Whalen represented the town at the service. But in the front pew, off to one side, Rebecca and Glen Palmer sat with their children, strangely out of place. They had never been in the church before, and Lucas wondered what had brought them here today. He glanced at the clock he had placed above the door of the church to remind him of the time when his tendency to ramble on too long got the best of him, and decided he had delayed long enough.

He began the service.

An hour later the small assemblage filed out of the church. Harney Whalen was the first to leave, and Pembroke noticed that the police chief seemed to be in a hurry. He hadn’t stopped to chat, even for a minute or two. Merle Glind paused briefly to pump Lucas’s hand, then, mumbling that he had to get back to the inn, bustled off. As soon as he was gone, Rebecca Palmer stepped up to him.

“It was a very nice service, Mr. Pembroke,” she said shyly.

“I’m glad you came.” Pembroke’s response was warm. “So few did, and it always hurts me when people stay away from a funeral. I suppose I can understand it but it always makes me feel lonely. I didn’t know you knew the Shellings,” he added, making it almost a question.

“We didn’t, really,” Glen answered. “Actually, I don’t think I ever spoke to Mr. Shelling. But I talked to Mrs. Shelling the night she died, and we just felt that we should come.”

Lucas Pembroke shook his head sympathetically. “It must have been very difficult for you,” he said to Rebecca. “If there’s anything I can do …”

“I’m fine now,” Rebecca assured him. “Really I am. Your service helped. I know it sounds strange, but I thought if we came it might help me stop thinking about it. And I think it will.”

“Come back again,” Lucas urged. “I mean for the regular services, of course. We don’t have a large congregation and I hate to preach to an empty church. Makes me feel unimportant, I suppose,” he joked.

The Palmers assured him that they would, but the minister was sure they wouldn’t. He couldn’t really say he blamed them. They were undoubtedly feeling the same chill he had felt when he first came to the Harbor, and he suspected they would continue to keep pretty much to themselves. He watched them leave the church, then turned his attention to the three fishermen.

The youngest of them, Tad Corey, was one of Pembroke’s regular parishioners. “Tad,” Lucas said warmly. “It was good of you to come. Although I must say I’m surprised.”

“It wasn’t my idea, Reverend,” Tad Corey said genially. “I told Mac Riley here, that there were better things to do than spend the day in church, but he wouldn’t listen.” There was no malice in Corey’s voice, and he winked at the pastor as he said it Lucas Pembroke chuckled appreciatively and turned his attention to the oldest of the three fishermen.

“I don’t see you very often, Mr. Riley,” he observed.

The old man, his eyes almost lost in the wrinkles of his weathered face, didn’t seem to hear Pembroke. Instead, his attention was centered on Missy and Robby Palmer, who stood a few feet away staring curiously at the fisherman. Pembroke sensed a silent interchange taking place between the ancient fisherman and the two children, a shared experience that they were now remembering, and keeping to themselves.

Riley broke the moment and smiled at the minister.

“Not likely to see me here often either,” he rasped. “After seventy years of fishing these waters I know too much of too many things. There are things going on here. Things you don’t know anything about.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you made it today,” Lucas Pembroke said uneasily, wondering what Riley was trying to tell him.

“Pete Shelling was a good fisherman,” the old man continued, and Pembroke was grateful to be back on familiar ground. “Never knew his wife very well but I knew Pete. It’s a shame, that’s what it is. A crying shame.”

“Well, accidents do happen,” Lucas said consolingly.

“Yes,” Riley agreed tartly. “But not often.” He turned away from the pastor and started to leave the church. When he was a few paces away he called, without turning around: “You boys planning to waste the whole day?”

Tad Corey and the third fisherman, Clem Ledbetter, exchanged a quick glance, back the pastor good-bye, and hurried after Riley. Lucas Pembroke watched them go, then went back into the church. He began tidying up the few hymnals that had been used during the service and wondered what to do with the flowers he had brought with him for the occasion. He considered using them again on Sunday, then quickly, almost spitefully, rejected the idea — he didn’t think the people of Clark’s Harbor would appreciate the gesture. But if he took them home to Hoquiam, his landlady would be thrilled. She might even fix a decent dinner.

Harney Whalen walked into his office and settled into the chair behind his desk. He shuffled through some papers, but Chip Connor wasn’t fooled. Something was on Ham’s mind.

“Kind of quiet, aren’t you?” Whalen finally asked.

“Nothing to say. All quiet.” He paused a moment, then decided to goad his chief. “Quiet as a funeral,” he added.

Harney looked up at him then, and leaned back in the chair. “Is that supposed to be a hint?”

“I guess so,” Chip said mildly. “How was it?”

“A funeral’s a funeral,” Whalen said. “First time I’ve ever been to a double one with no bodies, though.”

“Lots of people?”

“Not really. Old Man Riley.”

“Granddad? That doesn’t surprise me.” Chip grinned. “Sometimes I think he has a fixation about funerals. Like if he skips one the next one will be his. I suppose Tad and Clem were with him?”

“Yup. Those three and me, and four other people. Bet you can’t guess who the other four were.”

Chip turned it over in his mind. From the way Whalen had said it, it must not have been anyone he was likely to think of. Then it came to him.

“Not the Palmers?” he asked.

“Right on the money,” Harney said. “Now you tell me. Why would the Palmers be at that funeral? Hell, hardly anybody was there and everybody in town knew the Shellings better than the Palmers did. So why’d they turn up?”

“How should I know?” Chip asked. “Why did they?”

“Good question,” Whalen said sarcastically. “Guess who’s going to find out the answer?”

“I see,” Chip said heavily, standing up. “You want me to go on over there and have a little talk with Palmer?”

“Right,” Whalen replied. “No rush, though. Anytime before tomorrow will be fine.”

He watched his deputy leave and wondered how Chip would handle the situation; wondered, indeed, why he even wanted Glen Palmer questioned. Doc Phelps had said Miriam Shelling killed herself. But Harney Whalen didn’t believe it. There was something more — something else happening, and Harney was sure that it involved the Palmers. It was just a hunch, but Harney Whalen trusted his hunches.

The Palmers walked the few blocks to the service station, paid an inflated repair bill without comment, and drove back to Sod Beach in silence. The silence was respected even by the children, who seemed to know that for the moment they should be quiet Glen turned the Chevy off the main road and they bumped over the last hundred yards into the clearing where their cabin stood.

“Can we go out on the beach now?” Robby begged as he and Missy scrambled out of the back seat.

“Don’t you think you ought to go to school?” Rebecca suggested.

“Aw, it’s after lunchtime already.” Robby’s face crumbled and Rebecca softened immediately.

“Well, I don’t suppose one day will hurt you,” she said. “Why don’t you let Scooter out before he ruins the house completely?” Before she had finished the words Missy and Robby were racing to the door of the cabin. A moment later the tiny puppy tumbled happily out to chase the children. Glen and Rebecca watched the scene until the trio disappeared around a corner toward the beach, then went inside.

“Damn that dog,” Rebecca said as she saw the pile in the middle of the rug. They had given up trying to confine the puppy to a box after the first day, when he had earned his name by chewing a hole through every box they had put him in, then scooting under the nearest piece of furniture, waiting for someone to chase him. Also, the name was close enough to that of the disappeared Snooker that the puppy would respond even when the children slipped and called him by their previous pet’s name. All in all, the puppy had worked out very well, and the Palmers had been spared the task of telling the children what had happened to the spaniel: since Scooter’s arrival, they both seemed to have forgotten the black-and-white mutt. The only problem was Scooter’s recalcitrance at learning the basics of being housebroken. Rebecca found a scrap of newspaper and gingerly picked up the pile, took it outside, and dumped it into the garbage can.

“Want to go out on the beach?” she asked Glen when she came back in. “The sun’s about to break through and you know how I feel about the children being out there by themselves.”

Glen looked at his wife speculatively. This was the first time she had let them play on the beach at all since the day Miriam Shelling had died. He decided to approach the subject obliquely.

“Are you glad we went to the service?” he asked.

Rebecca seemed surprised by the question. “Well, of course I’m glad we went. I was the one who insisted we go, remember?” Then she suddenly realized what he was getting at. Instinctively, she started for the door, then stopped herself.

“It really is over, isn’t it?” she said.

“It was over as soon as it happened, darling,” Glen said gently. “But you needed that service just to tell you so.”

“I know,” Rebecca replied. “And I don’t mind telling you that I feel pretty silly about it now, but it really shook me up.”

“Well, at least the kids have the beach again. I don’t know about you, but I was beginning to go a little crazy with them and that puppy underfoot all the time.” He opened the ice box. “Tell you what. Let’s make some sandwiches and have a picnic on the beach. I’ll forget about going back to the gallery and you forget about whatever you were going to do this afternoon, and we’ll have a little wake for the Shellings, just the four of us.”

“We’re not Irish,” Rebecca protested.

“We can pretend.” Glen grinned. “Besides, you know as well as I do that those kids are going to have a million questions. So we might as well make a party out of answering them.”

For the first time in days Rebecca’s depression suddenly lifted and she realized she was once again happy to be at the beach. She hugged Glen and kissed him firmly.

“What’s that about?” he said after he returned the kiss.

“Nothing in particular. Just to let you know that I appreciate having such a wonderful husband.” She looked out the window just in time to see the clouds break and the sun pour through. The leaden-gray sea suddenly turned a deep blue, and the green of the forest sprang to life. “The storm’s over,” she said. “I can hardly believe it.”

“I wouldn’t believe it if I were you,” Glen said. “According to the old-timers I’ve heard talking around town, the last few days have just been a prelude. The real storm’s been sitting out there waiting to come in.”

Rebecca made a face at her husband. “Well, aren’t you just the prophet of doom?”

“Only repeating what I heard.”

“And do you believe everything you hear?” Rebecca teased. “Come on, let’s make hay while the sun shines!”

Clem Ledbetter set aside the net he was working on and shook a cigarette from a crumpled package he fished from his pants pocket.

“What do you think?” he said to no one in particular as he lit the cigarette and took a deep drag on it.

“You gonna work or smoke?” Tad Corey asked. “I know you can’t do both.”

“I was thinking about Miriam Shelling,” Clem said, ignoring Tad. “It just don’t make any sense to me.”

“Lots of things don’t make sense.” Mac Riley set aside his work and pulled out his pipe. As he carefully packed it from an ancient sealskin tobacco pouch, he peered at Clem. “What is it in particular?”

“Miriam Shelling. It just don’t make sense, her killing herself. She just wasn’t the kind of woman to do something like that.”

“What makes you such an expert?” Corey asked. “You and her closer than you let on?”

“Shit, no. It’s just that she didn’t seem like the type, that’s all. Me and Alice knew Pete and Miriam as well as anybody around here and if you ask me, the whole thing doesn’t make any sense.”

“Pete Shelling was a fool,” Tad Corey said vehemently. “Anybody who stays out alone like that is a fool.”

“That may be,” Clem said. “But Pete was a good fisherman and you know it. He ran a good boat — I never once saw Sea Spray but what everything wasn’t in order. Not like some people I could name whose boats look like pigsties.”

Tad refused to rise to the bait. “Kept his boat too neat if you ask me,” he said.

“Maybe so,” Clem said doggedly. “But someone who kept his boat as neat as Pete Shelling did just isn’t likely to let himself get caught in bis own nets. And Miriam — well, she knew what she was getting into when she married Pete. Any woman who marries a fisherman knows. So when something like that happens they don’t go out and kill themselves.”

“Well, what’s done is over with,” Tad replied. “I don’t know why we’re wasting time talking about it. Pete Shelling never did fit in around here, and I for one don’t give a damn about it one way or another. As for Miriam, well, Harn Whalen says she killed herself, and that’s that.”

“Is it?” Mac Riley’s quavering voice inquired. “I wonder.”

He’d set his pipe down as he listened to the two younger men talk, but now he picked it up and relit it. He puffed on it for a few minutes. Clem and Tad had begun to suspect that the old man had drifted off in his own mind when he suddenly started speaking again.

“I remember something that happened a long time ago, not so very long after you two were born. There were a couple of people here, a man and his wife. Don’t know where they came from — fact is, I might never have known — but anyway, he was a fisherman. And one day I found his boat drifting off Sod Beach, just about where that feller found Pete Shelling’s boat. He was caught in his nets, just like Pete Shelling.”

“So?” Tad Corey asked. “I don’t see what’s so strange about that. The currents off that beach get pretty wild sometimes, and it isn’t that hard to lose control of your nets if you don’t know what you’re doing. So two people die there the same way in forty years. I don’t see how that means anything. If it were two people in a month, say, or maybe even a year, that’d be one thing. But forty years? Shit, Riley, the only thing that surprises me is that there haven’t been more.”

“You didn’t let me finish my story,” the old man said patiently. “A couple of days after I found that man his wife died.”

“Died?” Tad asked. “What happened to her?”

“Hanged herself,” Riley said quietly. “I ain’t going to say it was from the same tree as Miriam Shelling used, but you can believe me when I tell you it wasn’t far from it.”

The two younger men stared at the old man, and there was a long silence. Finally Clem spoke.

“Were they sure it was suicide?”

“Nobody had any reason to doubt it,” Riley said. “But if you ask me, what happened to them and what happened to the Shellings is a little bit too close for comfort.”

“But it doesn’t make any sense,” Clem Ledbetter said softly.

“Doesn’t it?” Riley mused. “I wonder. I just wonder.”

Tad and Clem exchanged a worried glance, but Riley caught it.

“You think I’m a senile old man, don’t you?” he asked them. “Well, I may be, and then again, I may not be. But I can tell you one thing. That sea out there, she’s like a living thing, she is. And she has a personality all her own. The Indians knew that and they respected her. The Indians believed that a spirit lives in the sea and that she has to be appeased.”

“That’s bullshit,” Corey said.

“You think so? Well, maybe you’re right. But what the Indians said mates a lot of sense when you think about it. We get a lot from the sea, but what do we ever put back? Not much of anything. It’s not that way with, say, farming. Farmers take a lot out of the soil, but they put a lot back in too. Well, the Indians thought the same thing was true of the sea. You had to offer it something in return for all it gave you. And they did. Out there on what they used to call the Sands of Death.”

“I’ve heard the stories,” Clem said.

“About what they used to do to strangers out there? Sure, everyone’s heard those stories. But there are other stories, stories that aren’t talked about so much.”

“For instance?” Clem asked.

“When I was a little boy, I remember my father telling me the old Klickashaw customs. One of ’em had to do with fishermen that died at sea. The Indians didn’t believe in accidents. Not a’tall. If somebody died there was always a reason, likely an offended spirit. The story was that if a fisherman died, it meant the spirit of the sea was angry.”

“What did they do?”

“They made a sacrifice,” Riley said quietly. “They took the wife of the fisherman out to the Sands of Death and offered her to the sea. Usually they hanged her in the woods out there, but sometimes they just strangled her or broke her neck and left her on the beach.”

“Jesus,” Clem breathed softly.

The old man smoked his pipe for a while and stared out at the calm sea. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” he said finally. “I hadn’t thought about that story for years, not until Miriam Shelling died. But I wonder. I just wonder if maybe the Indians didn’t know some things we don’t know. We live off the sea here, and what do we do in return? Dump our garbage in. I suppose we can’t blame the sea if she wants something more every now and then.”

“You mean you believe those old Indian stories?” Tad gasped.

Riley looked sharply at the younger man. “Got no reason not to,” he said. “And a lot of reasons to believe them. I’ve been living with the sea for most of a century now and one thing I’ve learned. Never underestimate her. You may think you’ve got her by the tail but you haven’t. Any time she wants to, that ocean can pick herself up and smash you down.

“At night, usually,” he went on, more softly now. “You have to be particularly careful of her at night. She can be smooth as glass, and you almost fall asleep. But that’s what she wants. She wants you to relax. Then all it takes is one good wave and it’s over. She’s got you. Just like she got Pete Shelling, and that other fisherman so long ago.”

“And their wives too?” Tad scoffed.

“That’s the beach,” Riley replied. “And it’s just as dangerous as the ocean, particularly at night when the tide’s high and the wind’s blowing. The Indians used to call them the night waves. It was when the night waves were coming in that they made their sacrifices. …”

He trailed off and there was a long silence while Corey and Ledbetter digested what Riley had told him.

“Do you really believe all that?” Ledbetter finally asked.

“I do,” Riley said. “And if you live long enough, you’ll believe in it too.” As if to signal an end to the conversation, Riley tamped out his pipe, put it back in his pocket, and stood up. “What do you say we call it a day?”

Clem and Tad stowed the nets and the three men left the wharf, heading for the tavern for an afternoon drink. When they had gotten their glasses and settled at a table, Tad Corey suddenly spotted Harney Whalen.

“Hey, Ham,” he called. “Come over here a minute.”

The chief approached their table and pulled up a chair.

“You’re part Indian, aren’t you?” Tad asked him. Whalen nodded.

“Well, Riley here has just been telling us some old Indian legends.”

Whalen studied the old man and seemed to consider his words carefully. “What were you telling them about?” he asked.

“The night waves,” Riley replied. “And how dangerous they are.”

Harney Whalen fell silent and appeared to be thinking. Then he smiled at Corey and Ledbetter.

“I know about the night waves,” he said. “And you can relax. The night waves are only dangerous to strangers. And we’re not strangers, are we?”

13

Chip Connor was up early the next morning after a night of fitful sleep disturbed by dreams in which he saw the faces of the Shellings staring at him, their dead eyes accusing him. The dreams made no sense. Each time they woke him he had lain in bed breathing hard, watching the shadows play on the ceiling until he drifted off into another nightmare. Finally, as the sun came up he had left his bed and put on a pot of coffee, then sat by the window sipping his coffee and trying to figure out what his dreams had meant. But he came to no answers — they were simply dreams.

At nine, he decided it was time to start the day. He dressed slowly, almost reluctantly. He put on his uniform, knotting the necktie carefully, and surveyed himself in the mirror. He grinned self-consciously as he realized that his dark, almost brooding good looks combined perfectly with the uniform to make him look almost a caricature of a recruitment-poster cop.

He drove more slowly than usual as he made his way toward the village, but it wasn’t until he neared the Harbor Road turnoff and saw the Palmers’ gallery that he realized why he had been feeling strange all morning. He pulled off the highway and sat in his car for a few minutes thinking.

He had been relieved yesterday afternoon when he found the gallery locked and Glen Palmer apparently gone for the day. He had considered driving out to Sod Beach but had quickly dismissed the idea, telling himself that he had tried to follow Whalen’s orders but had been unable to locate Palmer. He had known, of course, the real reason he hadn’t driven on out to the beach. He wasn’t looking forward to questioning Palmer. In fact, he was dreading it. But now, seeing the door to the gallery standing open and an array of paintings propped neatly against the front of the building, he knew he could not put it off. Harn would be on him first thing this morning, wanting to know what Glen Palmer had had to say, and Chip wasn’t about to report that he had been unable to locate Palmer.

He got out of the car, slammed the door moodily, and started toward the gallery. Suddenly a picture caught his eye and he paused to look at it. It was an oil painting of the old Baron house out on Sod Beach, and at first Chip was unable to figure out exactly what it was that had caught his attention. Then he realized it was something about the house itself. A shadow behind one of the windows, a shadow that came from within the house, as if someone were standing just out of sight but the artist had somehow captured the essence of his presence. For a second Chip was almost sure that he could make out the figure, and felt a shudder of recognition, but when he looked more closely, it was just a shadow.

He examined the rest of the paintings. They were good. Unconsciously he loosened his tie as he went into the gallery.

Glen Palmer glanced up from the display case he was staining and felt a wave of hostility pass through him as he recognized Chip Connor. He stood up and tried to smile.

“Don’t tell me I’ve broken the law now,” he said.

“Not as far as I know,” Chip replied. “I was just looking at the pictures. Are they yours?”

“Every single one of them, unless you’d like to buy one. In that case it would be yours.”

“I meant did you paint them?” Chip said self-consciously.

“Yes, I did.”

“That one of the old Baron house …” Chip began. He wasn’t sure how to put his question, so he let it drop.

“It’s two hundred dollars,” Glen said. “Including the frame.”

“Too much for me,” Chip said ruefully. “But there’s something about it. This might sound dumb, but who’s in the house?”

Glen suddenly smiled and felt some of his initial hostility drain away. “You noticed that? You’ve got a sharp eye.”

Chip ignored the compliment and repeated the question. “When I first glanced at the picture I thought I recognized the person in it, but when I looked more closely, there isn’t anybody. Only a shadow. I was just wondering who you had in mind when you put the shadow in.”

Glen looked appraisingly at Chip and wondered what had prompted the question. He remembered painting the picture several weeks earlier, remembered thinking it was almost finished when suddenly he had, almost without thinking, put the shadow in the window. After he’d done it he’d realized that it belonged there. He still wasn’t sure why.

“What makes you ask?” he countered.

Chip shrugged uncomfortably. He was making a fool of himself. “I don’t know. It’s just that I thought — well, for a second I thought it was Harn. Harney Whalen.”

Glen frowned slightly, then his expression cleared. “Well, that seems natural enough. It’s his house, isn’t it? But I didn’t have anyone in mind. I guess it’s whoever you want it to be.”

Chip shifted his weight and wondered how to come to the point of his visit — the point that Harney Whalen had ordered. He decided to stall for a while.

“Are you selling much?”

“Nothing so far. But this is the first day I’ve displayed anything and it’s still early. I should think hordes of customers will be stampeding in any minute now.”

“Not much traffic this time of year,” Chip commented. “And most people don’t stop here anyway.”

“It should pick up next month. I just thought I’d put some things out in case someone drove by. And it worked,” he said, brightening. “You stopped.”

Chip nodded and again shifted his weight. Glen was suddenly very sure that Chip had not stopped because of the pictures — there was something else. He decided to wait it out and let Chip make the first move.

“Well, if there’s nothing else I can do for you I’ll get back to work.” He turned his back on the deputy and picked up his brush, acutely aware that Chip didn’t move.

“Mr. Palmer,” Chip said, “I have to ask you some questions.”

Glen put his brush down again. “About what?”

“You were at the service for the Shellings yesterday,” Chip said.

“So?”

“I didn’t know you were that close to than.”

“I don’t think that makes any difference. Is it against the law to go to a funeral?”

“No, of course not,” Chip said hastily. “I just … Oh, shit!”

Glen Palmer’s eyes narrowed, and Chip could feel the hostility coming from them almost as if it were a physical force. “Look, Mr. Palmer, I’m only following orders. Harn asked me to come over here and talk to you, so here I am. But I’m not even sure what I should be asking you.”

“Maybe you should tell Whalen that if he wants to talk to me he should do it himself.”

“Now wait a minute,” Connor said. “If Harney Whalen wants some questions answered, it doesn’t matter if he asks them or if I ask them.” Suddenly he was angry at Palmer. “So why don’t you just tell me why you and your family were at that funeral, and we can get this over with.”

Glen felt his own anger swell. “Because there’s no reason on earth why I should,” he said. “As long as my family and I obey the law, what we do and where we go is none of your affair, none of Harney Whalen’s affair, none of Clark’s Harbor’s affair, understand?”

“I understand, Mr. Palmer,” Chip said levelly, controlling his rage. “But there are a few things you should understand. You moved here. We didn’t come to you. You don’t fit in here, and I think everyone in town, you included, knows it. Now if you want to cooperate with us, I’m sure we’ll cooperate with you. But it seems like you’ve got a bad attitude. All I did was come in to ask a few questions and you’re acting like you’re on trial or something!”

“How do I know I’m not?” Glen shot back. “You want to know how I feel? I feel like ever since my family and I got here we’ve been on trial for something. No, that’s wrong. We’ve been found guilty and there hasn’t even been any trial. I didn’t come here with a chip on my shoulder, Connor, but I’m sure getting one. I don’t appreciate having my wife accused of breaking up the merchandise down at Blake’s, or having my son ganged up on at school. I don’t appreciate the fact that every time I order something at the lumberyard it takes weeks to get it, and when I do get it it’s usually damaged. And I sure don’t appreciate having the police come to see me simply because I attended a memorial service for a woman who killed herself on my property! Now maybe if this town had been taking a different attitude toward me over the last few months, I might feel a little different. But frankly, Connor, unless you can give me a damned good reason why I should answer your questions, you can take your damn questions and shove them up Harney Whalen’s ass.”

Chip Connor turned a deep scarlet. His hand began clenching into a fist. Glen thought for a moment that the deputy was going to hit him, and he prepared himself to fight back. But then Connor’s hand relaxed and the blood began draining from his face. He was breathing hard, though his moment of fury had passed.

“I’m only trying to do my job,” he said softly. “If Harn asks me to do something, I do it.”

“Did he ask you to talk to everybody who was at the Shellings’ funeral?”

“No, of course not,” Chip said. “Only you.”

“Why? What am I suspected of? My God, Connor, he died in a fishing accident and she killed herself! I just can’t see why Whalen’s so interested in my motives.”

“It’s just Harney,” Connor said patiently. “You have to understand. He takes everything that happens in this town very personally. He wants to know why things happen, and the only way he can know that is by blowing everybody.”

“Then he should come and talk to me himself,” Glen insisted.

Chip Connor shook his head and wondered why Glen Palmer couldn’t seem to grasp what he was saying. He decided to try one more time. “Look, Harney doesn’t like strangers — he doesn’t like to talk to them, he doesn’t like to deal with them, he doesn’t even want to be around them. So he sent me. All he wants to know is why you were at the Shellings’ funeral. Is it really so much to ask?” He held up his hand against Glen’s imminent protest and kept talking. “And don’t start in about what right I have to ask you the questions. I’m sure I don’t have a legal leg to stand on. But please, try to remember where you are and who I am. I’m just the deputy in a small town, and I really don’t want to make any trouble for you or anybody else. Is it such a big secret, anyway?”

Glen Palmer was quiet for a minute. Finally, he decided that Chip Connor was right. He didn’t have anything to hide, and he was beginning to sound paranoid. He grinned sheepishly.

“Well, if you really want to know, it wasn’t even my idea. It was my wife’s — Rebecca’s. Ever since she saw Mrs. Shelling — you know—”

“I know,” Chip said. “I took her home, remember?”

“Yes, of course.” Glen threw him a small smile, then went on. “Well, anyway, Rebecca was very upset. She couldn’t seem to get it out of her mind. And she thought if we went to the funeral it might put an end to the whole thing for her, if you know what I mean.”

“I think so,” Chip said, nodding. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Glen said. He chuckled softly. “I sure kicked up a hell of a fuss over nothing, didn’t I?”

“Seems like it,” Chip agreed. The two men remained silent for a while, then Chip spoke again. “Mind if I ask a question?”

“Do I have to answer it?”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“Shoot.”

“Would you mind telling me why you kicked up such a fuss? Why don’t you try giving us a chance?”

“It seems to me the town could give us a chance too.”

“I think we are,” Connor said. “We aren’t the friendliest people in the world, but we’re not so bad either. It’s sort of a trade-off. We get used to you and you get used to us.” He turned to go. “I’d better get on down and report to Harn. But he’s never going to believe that I spent nearly an hour here and all I have to report is that you went to the service because your wife wanted to.”

“Tell him you beat the information out of me with a rubber hose,” Glen said. “Or wouldn’t he believe that either?”

“Not a chance. He always says that when they passed out the meanness in the family I was standing behind the door.”

“The family?” Glen asked. “Are you and Whalen related?”

“Sure. He’s sort of an uncle. His mother was my grandmother’s sister on my father’s side. That’s where we get our Indian blood. The sisters were half-breeds. Of course nobody would call them that now, but that’s what they were always called around here.”

“They must have had it rough,” Glen commented.

“I imagine they did,” Chip mused. “For that matter, I guess it wasn’t always easy for Harney, either. You see? You and your family aren’t the only ones who have it rough around here.”

They walked to the front of the gallery together. Outside, Chip paused once more to look at the painting.

“I like the picture, but I sure wouldn’t want to live in that house,” he said.

“Don’t tell me it’s haunted,” Glen laughed.

“No, it’s broken-down,” Chip replied. “Are those people really going to live out there?”

“The Randalls? They sure are. He’s going to write a book, and we’re looking forward to having some neighbors. We won’t be the only strangers in town for a change.”

Chip got into his car, slammed the door, and rolled the window down. He stack his hand out the open window.

“Well, good luck. Frankly, I don’t think you’re ever going to make a nickel on your gallery, but I hope I’m wrong. I think you made a big mistake in choosing Clark’s Harbor to try something like this.”

“Well, we didn’t really have much choice in the matter,” Glen said, taking Chip’s hand and shaking it firmly. “Sorry I gave you such a rough time.”

“If it’s the worst time we ever have we’re both in good shape,” Chip replied. Then he started the engine and a moment later pulled onto the highway, made a neat U-turn, and headed for town. Glen watched until he’d disappeared, then went back into the gallery.

As he continued staining the display case he’d been working on, he thought over the conversation with Connor and decided that maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe he was paranoid and the town wasn’t really out to get him. But then Miriam Shelling’s words came back to him, ringing in his ears.

“They’re going to get you! Just like they got Pete.… They’ll get you too!”

14

The folder on the deaths of Pete and Miriam Shelling lay open on the desk in front of him, but Harney Whalen wasn’t reading. By now he knew the contents of the folder — could repeat them verbatim, if necessary. Still, none of it made sense. Despite Miriam’s insistence to the contrary, Whalen was still sure Pete’s death had been an accident. But Miriam Shelling’s was something else.

Somebody strangled her.

The words crawled up from the depths of Whalen’s mind, tormenting his sense of order. Suicide fit for Miriam Shelling; murder didn’t. Even so, those three words kept coming to him. Somebody strangled her. But Whalen could find no reasonable motive for someone to want to kill Miriam Shelling. So he went back once more, as he had periodically over the last several days, to considering unreasonable motives. And, as always, the name Glen Palmer popped into his head.

He glanced at the clock, then at his watch, annoyed that Chip Connor had not yet come in this morning. He was about to phone him when Chip suddenly appeared in the doorway.

“You keep banking hours?” Harney growled.

“Sorry,” Chip said quickly. Something was eating at Whalen this morning. “Talking to Palmer took longer than I expected.”

Whalen’s brows rose skeptically. “I thought you were going to take care of that yesterday.”

“I tried,” Chip explained. “But the gallery was closed, and when I drove out to the Palmers’ nobody was home.” Chip excused himself for the small lie: after all, there was a good possibility the Palmers hadn’t been home the previous afternoon. Whalen seemed satisfied. He looked at Chip expectantly.

“You want to tell me what you found out?”

“Not much of anything. His wife wanted to go to the funeral, so they went. That’s all there was to it.”

Whalen stared at Chip. “How long did you talk to him?”

“An hour, maybe a little longer,” Chip said uncomfortably.

“And all you found out was that his wife wanted to go to the funeral, so they went?” Whalen’s voice dripped sarcasm and Chip winced.

“I found out some other things, too, but they don’t have anything to do with the funeral.” He decided to try to shift the conversation a little. “Frankly, Harn, I don’t see what’s so important about that funeral. Why are you so concerned about who was there?”

“Because I don’t think Miriam Shelling committed suicide,” Whalen said flatly. Chip gaped at him, and Whalen grinned, pleased that he had disturbed his deputy’s normal calm.

“I don’t understand—” Chip began, then fell silent as Whalen made an impatient gesture.

“There’s nothing to understand,” the chief snapped. “It’s nothing but a hunch. But over the years I’ve learned to pay attention to my hunches, and right now my hunch tells me that there’s more to Miriam Shelling’s death than a simple suicide.”

“And you think Glen Palmer had something to do with it?”

Whalen leaned back in his chair and swiveled it around to gaze out the window as he talked. “When you live in a town all your life you get so you know the people. You know what they’ll do and what they won’t do. As far as I know, nobody in town would kill Miriam Shelling. So it has to be a stranger. Palmer’s a stranger.”

Chip felt baffled: it didn’t make sense — none of it made sense. As if he had heard Chip’s unspoken thought, Whalen began explaining:

“He was the last person to talk to her. She was saying strange things. Probably acting crazy, like she was when she came in here the day before, and she scared him. Hell, maybe she even attacked him. How the hell do I know? But it happened on his property, and he was the last person to talk to her, and I can’t see that anybody else in town would do something like that.”

“But that certainly doesn’t mean Glen Palmer did it,” Chip protested. “It doesn’t even mean that anybody did it!” Now he spoke his earlier thought out loud. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“No, and if you’ll notice, I haven’t charged him with anything, have I? I didn’t say it makes sense, Chip. Hell, I didn’t even say he did it. All I said is that if Miriam was murdered, a stranger did it. Palmer’s a stranger, and he could have done it.”

“So what are you going to do?” Chip asked, confused by Whalen’s logic, but curious.

“Same thing you’re going to do. Keep my ears open, my mouth shut, and my eye on Glen Palmer.”

“I don’t know,” Chip said, shaking his head doubtfully. “I just don’t think Palmer could have done it. He just doesn’t seem to me like the type who would do a thing like that.”

“But you don’t know,” Whalen replied. “And until we do know I think Palmer’s a damned good suspect.”

Chip wanted to protest that there was no need for any suspect at all, but Whalen was too caught up in his “hunch” to be dissuaded now. So instead of protesting he tried to defend Glen Palmer.

“I think we ought to be a little bit careful of him,” Chip said reluctantly.

“Careful? What do you mean?”

“He’s pretty upset right now. In fact, he almost refused to answer my questions. Claimed I didn’t have any right to ask them.”

Harney Whalen’s face paled and his hands twitched slightly. “Did he now?” he growled. “And what did you have to say to that?”

“I told him I didn’t have any right to question him but that I thought he ought to cooperate with me. With us,” he corrected himself. Then his face twisted into a wry grimace. “That’s when he suggested maybe the town could cooperate with him. His gallery hasn’t been going very well.”

“Nobody ever thought it would. He’s mad because nobody’s buying his junk?”

“No,” Chip said mildly. “He just thinks that everybody in town’s been trying to make it difficult for him. Thinks people are holding up on deliveries and delivering bad goods — that sort of thing.”

“Tough,” Whalen replied. “Everything takes time out here, and everybody gets damaged goods now and then. What makes him think he’s special?”

“He doesn’t think he’s special,” Chip said. He could feel his patience wearing thin and wondered why Harn was so hostile toward Palmer. “Anyway, he’s almost got the place finished. In fact, he’s displaying some of his stuff outside the building this morning. You ought to go take a look. Some of it isn’t half-bad. In fact, there’s a picture of the old Baron place that I bet you’d like.”

But Harney Whalen was no longer listening. He was glaring at Chip. “Did I say something wrong?” Chip asked.

“He’s displaying his merchandise outside?” Whalen said.

“Yeah,” Chip replied, wondering what could be wrong. “He’s got maybe fifteen or twenty canvases lined up against the building so you can see them as you drive by.”

“And you didn’t cite him?” Whalen demanded.

“Cite him?” Chip was totally baffled now. “For what, for Christ’s sake?”

“Peddling,” Whalen snapped. “We have an ordinance here against peddling without a license. If he’s displaying stuff outside he’s peddling.”

“Oh, come on,” Chip said. “That’s ridiculous. Even if there is such an ordinance, when did we ever enforce it?”

“That’s not the point,” Whalen said stubbornly.

“Well, it seems to me that if you’re going to enforce it against Glen Palmer, you’d better be ready to enforce it against anybody in town who violates it, because I’ll bet Palmer will start watching.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet he just would at that,” Whalen agreed. Then a slow smile came over his face. “So I won’t cite him. But I’ll get those pictures off the highway, just the same.”

Chip frowned and stared suspiciously at the chief. “What are you going to do?”

“Come along and find out.”

Something inside Chip told him that whatever Whalen was planning, it wasn’t something he wanted any part of. He shook his head. “No thanks. I’ll hang around here.”

“Suit yourself,” Whalen said. “But if you change your mind, drive on up to the highway in about ten minutes. Just pull off the road and wait.” He put on his hat, glanced at himself in the mirror on the inside of the door, and left. A moment later Chip saw him leave the building and get into the police car.

Chip picked up the file on Whalen’s desk, glanced at it, then closed it and put it in the file cabinet, locking the drawer after he slid it shut. He wandered around the office for several minutes, looking for something to do.

“Ah, shit,” he muttered to himself finally. He put his own hat on, closed the office door behind him, and went to his car. A few seconds later he was on his way up Harbor Road. When he got to the intersection with the highway, he pulled off the road, parked where he would have a good view of the Palmers’ gallery, and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. In the distance behind him, Chip heard the faint wailing of the siren on Harn Whalen’s car. As it grew louder he began to think that Whalen must be pursuing a speeder. The car would be coming into sight any minute.

But no speeding car appeared. Instead, the wail only increased, and suddenly Chip saw the police car roar around the bend, lights flashing, siren screaming. As the car charged into the stretch of straight roadway, it seemed to accelerate, and Chip tore his eyes away from it to look ahead, almost expecting to see Whalen’s prey disappear around the next curve. But all he saw was Glen Palmer coming out of the gallery, a puzzled look on his face.

Chip realized then what was about to happen. He leaned on his own horn, hoping to warn Glen, but it was too late. Whalen, in the speeding black-and-white, roared by him, and the sound of Chip’s horn was drowned in the shriek of the siren. Then, just as he was about to pass the gallery, Whalen swerved to the right, slightly off the pavement.

Glen Palmer jumped back before he realized that the car had not been aimed at him. Indeed, he wasn’t even sure that it had been aimed at all, the swerve had been so slight and so quick. But the right tires of the police car hit a long, narrow puddle, and the muddy water cascaded over Glen, soaking him to the skin. Almost before he realized what had happened he thought of the pictures.

They lay in the mud, most of them knocked over by the force of the cascading water. Without even looking at them, Glen was sure they were ruined. He stared at them, rooted to the spot, seeing weeks of work destroyed in an instant.

He was still standing there when Chip Connor raced by him and began grabbing the paintings, snatching them out of the mud, taking them inside the gallery, then coming back for more.

“Well, for Christ’s sake, don’t just stand there,” Chip cried. “Help me get these things inside.”

* * *

Harney Whalen glanced in the rearview mirror just in time to see the last of the cascading water pour over the pictures, then put his eyes back on the road. He moved his foot from the accelerator to the brake, slowing the speeding squad car enough to keep it on the road as he went into the curve that would cut the gallery off from his view. He left the siren on for a moment, enjoying the wailing sound that poured from the roof of the car, then reached up to snap it off: Palmer had gotten the message. Not, Whalen reflected, that he really cared — if he hadn’t, Whalen could always repeat the performance.

Close to Sod Beach, he decided to stop and have a look at the Baron house. He turned the police car into the nearly invisible lane that cut through the woods toward the beach and parked it when he could drive no farther.

From outside the house looked no different than it had ever looked, and Whalen didn’t bother to inspect the porch that ran almost all the way around it. Instead he let himself in through the kitchen door, closing the door behind him.

He made a mental note to hire a couple of the local kids to clean the place up. It wouldn’t cost much to have the rotting garbage removed and the dishes washed and put away. If the sink wasn’t scoured, the ancient wood stove not cleaned, and the floor still badly stained, it wouldn’t matter — nobody was living there, and Whalen had no intention of having anybody live there.

A faint memory stirred at the back of his mind. Something about the Randalls. They had wanted to rent the place but he had refused.

Again the faint stirring. Whalen shook his head, trying to catch the elusive memory, then dismissed it. He had refused to rent the house to them. He was sure of it.

He wandered through the lower floor and picked up a stray sweater that lay haphazardly on one of the worn-looking chairs. Then he saw a fire neatly laid in the fireplace and felt vaguely annoyed. Before he could define his annoyance a chill suddenly came over him and he impulsively lit the fire. The chill stayed with him. He pulled one of the old chairs close to the hearth and sat in it, huddling his bulk far back in the chair. As the fire blazed into life and began to spread its warmth through the room, a light rain began to fall, streaking the windows of the old house and blurring the view of the ocean.

Harney Whalen sat alone, watching the flames and listening to the rain. He could feel a storm building.

Glen Palmer stood up, tossed the muddy rag into a corner, and surveyed the painting carefully.

“Well, it isn’t ruined anyway,” he said. The seventeen canvases were scattered over the floor of the gallery, and Chip Connor knelt by one — the one of the Baron house on Sod Beach — carefully wiping away the flecks of mud that clung to its frame. There were streaks of brown across the surface where he had clumsily tried to blot up the muddy water. “Let me do that,” Glen said. “It isn’t nearly as fragile as it looks.”

“Sorry,” Chip mumbled. “I was only trying to help …”

“You already helped,” Glen said. “If you hadn’t been there I probably would have stood there like a dummy all day.” He glanced up at Chip and thought he saw a flash of embarrassment on the young deputy’s face. He concentrated his attention on the picture in front of him then, and tried to keep his voice level. “What the hell was that all about, Connor?”

“I guess Harney must have lost control of the car for a second,” Chip offered. He knew it wasn’t true, knew he should tell Palmer what had happened: that Harney Whalen had deliberately tried to destroy the paintings. And yet, he knew he wouldn’t. Harney Whalen was his boss and his uncle. He’d grown up with Whalen, and trusted him. He didn’t understand why Harn had done what he’d done, but Chip knew he wouldn’t tell Palmer the truth about it. Yet even as he told Glen Palmer the lie he was sure that Palmer knew. He wondered what would happen if the artist pushed him.

For his own part, Glen Palmer forced himself to keep working steadily on the canvas. Connor was lying. He had an urge to turn on the deputy and force the truth out of him, but he had, that morning, established some kind of truce with Connor and he didn’t want to disturb it. So he concentrated on cleaning away the ugly stains on the painting, and forced himself to calm down. When he was sure he could face Chip Connor with a steady expression he stood up, turned, and offered his hand.

“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter exactly what happened, does it? It’s over and there isn’t much either one of us can do now.”

Chip felt a knot of tension in his stomach suddenly relax, a knot he hadn’t even realized was there. He had a sudden urge to tell Palmer the truth and opened his mouth. But he couldn’t say the words. Instead his mouth worked a moment, then dosed again. He took Palmer’s extended hand and shook it.

“Are they all ruined?” he asked.

Glen farced a smile and tried to reassure the deputy with a lie of his own. “I don’t think it’s so bad. Oil paints are pretty waterproof. The damage would have been a lot worse if I’d had the pictures facing the wall. The water would have hit the bare canvas, and it would have been a hell of a mess.” He glanced at his watch. “Jesus, did you know we’ve been working for almost an hour? What do you say we have some lunch?”

“Lunch?” Chip repeated the word tonelessly, as if it had no meaning.

“Yes, lunch. You know, a sandwich and a beer? I have some in the back if you’re hungry.”

“I don’t think—” Chip began, but Glen cut him off.

“Look, it’s the least I can do. Unless there’s something you have to do.”

Chip chuckled. “Most of my job is just sitting around the station keeping Harn company. Except on weekends, when we usually have to break up a fight or two. Otherwise, not much ever happens around here.”

“So you might as well have a sandwich and a beer,” Glen urged. Then: “If you don’t stay I’ll just spend the rest of the day getting pissed off at your boss.”

“Well, I guess I couldn’t blame you,” Chip said, his smile fading into an expression of concern. “I know it was an accident, but still—”

“So do Whalen a favor and keep a citizen from getting mad at him. Besides, I could use the company.”

Chip started to refuse, then changed his mind. There was a quality to Glen’s voice that reached inside him, and he realized that it was the same quality he’d heard in Harn Whalen’s voice now and then — not often, but on nights when Whalen seemed to be lonely and wanted Chip to hang around late, not because he had anything on his mind, but because he needed company.

“Let me pull the car up,” he said. “So I’ll be able to hear the radio if Harn calls me.”

Chip spent most of the afternoon at the gallery. He and Glen split the lunch that Rebecca had packed and polished off the best part of a six-pack.

As he ate, Chip wandered around the gallery asking questions about the remodeling.

“Deciding what to do was easy,” Glen said. They were standing under a large window that Glen was cutting. It was an odd shape, but it appeared to fit into the space Glen had allocated for it. “For instance, that window. It was just a matter of extending the line from that beam over there, carrying the ledge over the door on across, and then duplicating the pitch of the roof. Bingo — an interesting window that seems to have been part of the original design.” He grinned ruefully. “The only problem is, I can’t figure out how I’m going to keep the roof up. I cut a support post out to make the window.”

“No problem,” Chip said. “Cut another foot off the support, then build a lintel between the posts to support the one you cut. That way you have plenty of support for the roof and it doesn’t ruin the shape of the window.”

Glen studied the wall for a minute, then shook his head. “You’d better show me,” he said finally. “I can see what I want as an artist, but as a carpenter I’m pretty much of a loss.”

Chip found a ladder, dragged it over, and climbed up, explaining as he did so. Then, seeing the baffled look still on Glen’s face, he climbed down and stripped off the jacket of his uniform.

“Got a saw? It won’t take me more than an hour to put it in for you.”

For a while Glen tried to help, but soon realized the deputy didn’t need any help. He went back to the soiled pictures and began the tedious work of cleaning the stains from them. He moved slowly and methodically, using tiny brushes, picks, pieces of straw, anything he could find to lift off the bits of mud without disturbing the colors beneath. The cleaning went better than he had hoped; only a few of the canvases would even need a touch-up. By the time he had repaired the worst of the damage Chip had finished the lintel and was in the process of pulling down the shelves Glen had worked so hard to put up.

“What are you doing?” Glen cried. “Those things took me almost a week to build.”

Chip nonchalantly continued to pry the shelves loose from the wall. “Were you planning to use these shelves?”

“They’re display shelves for my wife’s pottery.”

“Didn’t you ever hear of a toggle bolt? These nails will hold the shelves up, but the shelves won’t hold anything. Look.”

He grabbed one of them with his left hand and pulled it off the wall. “What’s your wife going to say when all her pottery falls on the floor? Have you got any toggle bolts?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ll run down to Blake’s and pick some up. Do you have an account there?”

Glen gaped at the deputy. “An account? Are you serious? Didn’t I tell you this morning what happened to my wife down there?”

Chip suddenly looked embarrassed, and Glen wished he’d kept his mouth shut. He dug into his pocket and pulled out his wallet.

“Will this be enough?” he asked, handing Chip a five-dollar bill.

“That’ll be plenty,” Chip said. “Why don’t you finish pulling those shelves down while I’m gone.” He picked up his coat and started for the door, but Glen stopped him.

“Chip?”

The deputy stopped at the door and turned around.

“I don’t know exactly why you’re doing all this for me, but thanks.”

Again Chip looked embarrassed, but then he grinned. “Well, if we’re going to have an art gallery in town we might as well have one that won’t fall down the first week.” His face reddened slightly. “Besides, I guess I sort of owe it to you.” Before Glen could reply Chip pulled the door open and stepped out into the rain.

Neither Glen nor Chip noticed that all afternoon the police radio in Chip’s car had remained silent.

The light rain that had been falling all afternoon grew heavier as the storm moved relentlessly toward the coast; the wind picked up, and the tide turned. Sod Beach took on a foreboding gloom, and Robby and Missy, their slickers already dripping wet, started toward the forest.

“We should go home,” Missy complained. “It’s cold and the rain’s starting to come down my neck.”

“We’re going home,” Robby explained. “We’re going to take the path through the woods, so we won’t get soaked.”

“I’d rather go along the beach,” Missy sulked. “I don’t like the woods. Or we could go into the old house and wait for the rain to stop.”

“The rain isn’t going to stop.” Robby grabbed his sister by the hand and began leading her toward the woods. “Besides, we aren’t supposed to go anywhere near that house. Mommy says empty houses can be dangerous.”

“It isn’t empty,” Missy replied. “There’s someone there. There’s been someone there all afternoon.”

Robby stopped and turned to the little girl. “That’s dumb,” he said. “Nobody lives there. Besides, how would you know if someone was there?”

“I just know,” Missy insisted.

Robby glanced at the old house, bleak and forbidding in the failing light, then pulled at Missy once more.

“Come on. If we aren’t home pretty soon, Daddy will come looking for us.” He started picking his way over the driftwood, looking back every few seconds to make sure Missy was behind him. Missy, more afraid of being left behind than of the woods, scrambled after him.

15

Max Horton glanced at the threatening sky, then adjusted the helm a few degrees starboard, compensating for the drift of the wind that buffeted the trawler.

“Jeff!” He waited a few seconds, then called again, louder. “Jeff, get your ass up here!”

His brother’s head appeared from below. “What’s up?”

“This storm’s going to be a real son-of-a-bitch. Take over up here while I figure out where’s the best place to put in.”

Jeff took over the helm and Max went below to pore over a chart. He switched on the Loran unit he’d installed a month earlier, then pinpointed their exact location on the chart that was permanently mounted on the bulkhead. They could probably make it to Grays Harbor, but it would be tricky. If the storm built at the rate it had been going for the last hour there was a good chance they’d be trying to batter their way into port through a full gale. He looked for something closer and found it. A minute later he was back at the wheel.

“Ever heard of Clark’s Harbor?” he asked Jeff.

Jeff thought a minute, then nodded. “It’s a little place — just a village. They’ve got a wharf though.”

“Well, I think we’d better head there. We could probably make it on down to Grays Harbor, but I don’t like the feel of things.” He pulled Osprey around to port and felt the roll change into a pitch as the boat responded to the rudder. The pitch was long and slow with both the wind and the sea at their stern, and Max chewed his lip tensely as he tried to gauge how much time he had before he’d have to bring the boat around, throw out a sea anchor, and ride it out.

“I told you we shouldn’t have come this far south,” Jeff muttered.

“Huh?”

“I said, I told you we should have stayed up north. We’ve heard the stories about the freak storms down here. This isn’t any big surprise!”

“It isn’t any big disaster either,” Max replied. “We’ve got the wind and the tide working for us, and we can make Clark’s Harbor in thirty minutes. Is there any coffee down there?” He jerked one thumb toward the galley, then quickly replaced his hand on the wheel as Osprey began drifting off course. Jeff disappeared and returned with a steaming mug, which he placed in a gimbaled holder near Max’s right hand. Then he lit two cigarettes and handed one to his brother. Max took the cigarette and grinned.

“Scared, kid?”

Jeff grinned back at Max, feeling no resentment at being called “kid.” Max had always called him that, but he had always used the term fondly, not patronizingly, and Jeff had never objected, even though both of them were now nearing thirty.

The trawler, a commercial fisherman, was their joint property, but Jeff always thought of it as Max’s boat. Max was the captain — always had been and always would be — and Jeff was a contented mate.

There was a two-year difference in their ages, but they had always been more like friends than brothers, even when they were children. Wherever Max had gone he had taken Jeff with him, not because their parents made him do it, but because he liked Jeff. If Max’s friends objected to the “kid” tagging along, they were no longer his friends.

They had bought Osprey four years ago, when Max was twenty-five and Jeff twenty-three. Jeff had been very worried the first year, sure that the immense loan would sink them even if the sea didn’t. But the sea had been kind to them, and it looked as though the loan would be paid off by the end of the current season — all they really needed was four or five more really good catches, and Max seemed to have a nose for fish.

It was Max’s nose that had brought them here today. The rest of the fleet that worked out of Port Angeles had stayed safely in the Strait, but Max had gotten up that morning and announced that he “smelled” a school of tuna to the south. They would go after it and spend the night in Grays Harbor before heading back north the following day.

He had been right. The hold was filled with tuna, and all had gone according to plan. Except for the storm. It had come upon them suddenly, as if from nowhere, giving them no time to complete the run south.

Now they were moving steadily if sluggishly through the heaving sea. A constant stream of rain mixed with salt spray battered against the windows of the wheelhouse, but Max held his course by compass, only occasionally glancing out into the gathering darkness. After some twenty minutes had passed in silence, he spoke.

“I’m going to have to send you outside.”

Jeff checked the buttons on his slicker and put on his rain hat.

“What am I looking for?”

“Chart shows some rocks in the mouth of the harbor. They should be well off the port bow, but keep a lookout. No sense piling this thing up when it’s almost paid for.”

Jeff left the wheelhouse and felt the wind buffet him. He clung to the lifelines strung along the length of the boat and made his way slowly forward until he was in the bow pulpit. He strained to see through the fading afternoon light, and his stomach knotted as he thought of what might happen if he failed to see the rocks.

And then they were there, sticking jaggedly above the surface, fingers of granite reaching up to grasp the unwary. Jeff waved frantically, but even before he made the gesture, he felt Osprey swinging slightly to starboard: Max must have seen the rocks at almost the same instant he had. He watched the water swirling and eddying around the reef as they swept past; then, when the danger had disappeared beyond the stern, he returned to the wheelhouse.

Max was finishing his coffee, one hand relaxing on the wheel, grinning cheerfully.

“You could have given them a little more room,” Jeff commented.

“A miss is as good as a mile,” Max replied. “Want to take her in?”

“You’re doing fine. I’ll get ready to tie up.”

A few minutes later, as the trawler crept into a vacant slip, Jeff jumped from the deck to the wharf and began securing the lines. On board, Max cut the engines.

Jeff had just finished tying the boat up when he became conscious of someone standing nearby watching him. He straightened up and nodded a greeting. “Some storm,” he offered.

“You planning to spend the night here?” Mac Riley said.

“On board,” Jeff replied.

“Storm’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better,” Riley said dourly. “Don’t think you can do it.”

“Do it? Do what?”

“Spend the night on that boat. We got a regulation against that here. Too dangerous.”

Max came out of the wheelhouse in time to hear the last, and jumped from the deck to join Jeff on the wharf.

“What do you mean, too dangerous?” he challenged. “You’ve got a good harbor here.”

“Didn’t say you don’t,” Riley responded, unperturbed. “But in a storm like this anything can happen. So you won’t sleep on your boat.”

Max stared at the old man, annoyed. “I could take her out in the middle of the harbor and drop anchor.”

“You could just scuttle her right here too, but I don’t think you will.”

Max looked over his shoulder and saw the wind-whipped whitecaps that covered the small bay. All around him, securely moored though they were, the other boats rocked and groaned restlessly, complaining at their captivity.

“You got any suggestions?”

“The inn’s right up there,” Riley said, jerking a thumb shoreward.

Jeff and Max exchanged a look and nodded in unspoken agreement. While Max prepared the boat for the night, battening her down against the storm, Jeff and Riley started toward shore, the wind and spray whipping at their backs. As they hurried toward the Harbor Inn, a bolt of lightning flashed out of the sky and the roar of thunder rolled in from the angry sea.

The lobby of the inn was deserted, but when Jeff banged impatiently on the bell that sat on the counter Merle Glind appeared at the dining-room door. He blinked rapidly and stared at Jeff over the rims of his glasses.

“Something I can do for you?” he piped anxiously.

“A room,” Jeff said. “I need a room for the night.”

Merle bobbed his head, and scuttled around the end of the counter, flipped open the reservation book, and studied it intently. Then he peered up at the young man and frowned.

“I’ve got a room,” he announced victoriously, as if he had had to search for a highly unlikely cancellation. “Just one night?”

“Depends on how long the storm lasts,” Jeff explained. “My brother and I were heading for Grays Harbor, but it got so bad we put in here. If it blows over tonight we’ll head out tomorrow.”

Merle Glind pushed the register toward him, collected his money, and handed him a key.

“No baggage?”

“We’re not on vacation,” Jeff said. “All we need is a place to sleep.”

Glind nodded amiably and watched the fisherman go up the stairs. Then he returned to the dining room and climbed onto the barstool he had been occupying when the bell had interrupted him.

“Guests?” Chip Connor asked.

“Couple of fishermen coming in out of the rain,” Merle said. He peered out the window, seeing nothing but the reflected lights of the dining room wavering in the rivulets of water that ran down the glass. “Can’t say I blame them. Not fit for man nor beast out there tonight.” He frowned slightly. “One of them’s still out there.”

Chip slid off his own stool, and dropped two dollars onto the bar. “Order me another, will you? I’d better give Harn a call. You know how he is.”

“Use the phone behind the bar,” Glind said. “Save yourself a dime.”

Chip suppressed a grin and didn’t tell Merle that he had never intended to use any other phone. He went to the end of the bar and fished the phone off the shelf below it. First he dialed the police station. When there was no answer there, he called Harney Whalen at home. He let the phone ring ten times, then dropped it back on the hook.

“Well, I tried,” he said, picking up the fresh drink that waited for him. “At least I tried.” Then, remembering what Harn had had to say to him that morning when he reported not having gotten much information out of Glen Palmer, Chip made a mental note to try to reach the chief later.

“So that’s what happened,” Glen Palmer said. He had just finished telling Rebecca about the strange sequence of events that day — first Chip Connor’s questioning and the near fight, then Whalen’s deliberate attempt to ruin the paintings, and finally Chip’s help at the gallery all afternoon.

“First I thought he was just trying to cover Whalen’s ass,” he mused. “He wouldn’t admit Whalen did it on purpose, and I figured he hung around for a while just to calm me down, but now I don’t know. If I hadn’t called a halt I think he’d still be there, tearing apart everything I’ve done and doing it all over again.” He grinned, remembering. “You should have seen him. It was like what I’d done was a personal affront, but he never said a word. Just kept fixing things. I have a feeling I haven’t seen the last of him. Oh, and we now have a charge account at Blake’s.”

When Rebecca made no reply Glen came out of his reverie and studied his wife. Her brow was knitted into a frown. She seemed to be listening to something, but Glen was sure it wasn’t him.

“Rebecca?”

She jumped a little and smiled at him self-consciously. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t listening.” Then, with an apologetic smile, she murmured, “It’s the storm, I guess. I’m still a little nervous. It seems like whenever there’s a storm out here something terrible happens.”

“Now that isn’t true and you know it,” Glen protested. He was feeling very good and wasn’t about to let his wife spoil it.

“I know,” Rebecca agreed ruefully. “I suppose I’ll get over it. But there’s something else too.”

“Something else?” Glen’s voice took on an anxious tone, and he wondered what she hadn’t told him.

“It’s Missy. She says there was someone in the old house this afternoon. The Randalls’ house.”

“How did she know?”

“Search me,” Rebecca said, shrugging helplessly. “Robby says they weren’t anywhere near the place, but Missy insists that someone was inside the house.”

Glen frowned, then called the children. They came out of their bedroom, Robby carrying Scooter. The puppy squirmed in his arms, and when Robby finally set him down he hurled himself at Glen, scrambling clumsily into his lap and licking his face.

“What’s this I hear about someone being in the Randalls’ house?” Glen asked as he struggled to contain the puppy.

“I didn’t say anyone was there,” Robby said self-righteously. “Missy said someone was there, but she was wrong.”

“I wasn’t either,” Missy said hotly. Her tiny face screwed up and she looked as though she was about to cry. “I said Snooker wasn’t coming back too, and he didn’t, did he?” she demanded, as if it would provide proof of her honesty.

“No, he didn’t,” Glen said patiently. “And I’m not saying no one was in the Randalls’ house today. I only want to know how you knew someone was there.”

Missy, mollified by what her father had said, turned the matter over in her mind. When she finally spoke her face looked perplexed. “I don’t know how I know,” she said. “I just know.”

“You don’t know,” Robby said scornfully.

“Now, Robby, don’t say that,” Glen objected. “She might have seen something, or heard something, and has just forgotten about it.”

“Smoke,” Missy said suddenly. “I saw smoke coming out of the chimney.”

“You didn’t either,” Robby argued. “Smoke’s the same color as clouds, and you wouldn’t have seen it even if there was any.”

Missy started to argue but Rebecca cut them both off.

“That’s enough. Now take Scooter back into your room and get ready for bed.”

“Can he stay inside again tonight?” Robby demanded. It was a request he had made every night since the arrival of the puppy, and it had always been granted, partly because of what had happened to Snooker, and partly because Scooter was so tiny and appealing that neither Rebecca nor Glen had had the heart to make him stay outside. Now Rebecca nodded her head in resignation.

“Just make sure he stays in his box. I don’t want him messing up the blankets.”

“He’s almost housebroken,” Robby said eagerly, hoping he could gain a little ground in his campaign to make the dog a bedmate. Unfortunately Scooter chose that moment to squat in the middle of the floor and form a puddle under his belly. Neither Glen nor Rebecca could contain the urge to giggle, and Robby, realizing he and Scooter had lost the argument, snatched the puppy up and scolded it severely. Scooter lapped wetly at Robby’s face.

“Get him out of here,” Rebecca cried. Laughing, she shooed her children and their pet back to their room and wiped the mess off the floor. As she finished she realized Glen was putting on his raincoat.

“Where are you going?”

“I think I’ll take a walk down the beach and have a look at the Randalls’ place. If there is someone there, I’ll report it to Chip Connor.”

“In this rain?” Rebecca protested. “Honey, you’ll be soaked to the skin — it’s pouring out there, and the wind’s nearly tearing the roof off.”

“Does that mean you don’t want to come with me?” Glen asked innocently. Rebecca glared at him.

“That means I don’t want you to go at all.”

Glen gave her a quick hug and kissed her on the nose. “Well, I’m going and that’s that. If we’re ever away, I hope the Randalls will keep an eye on this place. It seems to me that the least I can do is keep an eye on theirs. And if Missy thinks she saw someone—”

“She didn’t say she saw anyone.”

“Well, she saw smoke.”

“She said that tonight,” Rebecca argued. “She didn’t say anything about it this afternoon. I think she was just trying to convince us that someone was there. I probably put the idea into her head myself when I said she might have seen something.”

“But she might have seen smoke,” Glen countered, “and if she did I want to know what’s going on.”

Rebecca sighed, knowing further argument was useless. “All right, but be careful. Please?”

“Nothing to worry about,” Glen reassured her. “I’ll be back in half an hour, probably sooner.”

A moment later he was gone. Rebecca strained to see him from the window as he went out into the night. But the storm swallowed him up, and she was left to wait alone and worry.

16

Max Horton surveyed the cabin of the trawler, making a final inspection before going ashore. He’d been working steadily for half an hour, though he could have finished the job of putting the boat to rights in ten minutes. He’d been dawdling, making the work last, enjoying his solitude, enjoying the boat. But now the job was done and he could no longer delay joining his brother at the inn. A slight smile crossed his face as he anticipated the warm glow that a hot brandy and water would bring.

Then he heard a sound. It was faint, nearly drowned out by the storm raging in from the sea, and indistinct. But it sounded like a hatch cover being dropped into place.

A sense of impending danger made Max’s spine tingle, and he moved quickly to the hatchway.

He was only seconds too late.

Osprey was adrift.

It was already too far from the wharf for Max to attempt a jump, and even if it had been closer, the water was too rough. Then, as a bolt of lightning lashed out of the sky, Max saw the figure on the wharf. It stood perfectly still, hands on hips, head thrown back as if in laughter. The screaming wind drowned out any sounds and the effect of the silent, maniacal laughter chilled Max.

The brilliance of the lightning faded away as the crash of thunder shook the pitching trawler. Max ducked back into the wheelhouse, fumbling in his pocket for his keys. He jammed the ignition key in its lock, twisted it violently, and pressed the starter of the port engine.

Nothing happened.

He pressed the other starter. Again nothing.

He glanced out the window in time to see the wharf disappear into the darkness, and realized the boat was riding the turning tide. He was being drawn toward the mouth of the harbor — and the waiting rocks.

He jabbed at the recalcitrant starter buttons once more, then threw the switch that would drop the main anchor. When it too failed to respond, he left the wheelhouse and moved as swiftly as he could to the stern. He kicked open the anchor locker on the deck and hurled the anchor over the side.

Then he watched as ten feet of line played out and the frayed end of the line disappeared into the blackness of the water.

Something had done its job well.

Max yanked open the hatch cover over the engine compartment and dropped nimbly into the space between the two big Chrysler engines. At first glance everything seemed to be normal, but as he flashed his light over the immense machines he noticed something.

The wiring.

The new wiring that he and Jeff had installed only a week ago had changed. The insulation was gone, burned off as if it had been hugely overloaded, or struck by lightning. The copper wiring, pitted and looking worn, gleamed dully in the glow of his flashlight.

He scrambled out of the engine compartment and replaced the hatch cover. He returned to the wheelhouse and tried to assess the situation. Only then did he realize he was trembling with frustration and rage. He groped in his pockets, pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes out, and lit one. He sat quietly at the helm and dragged deeply on his cigarette, forcing himself to calm down, analyze the situation, then do whatever had to be done to save the ship. Once more an image of the fingers of rock looming out of the mouth of the harbor came into his mind.…

Glen Palmer approached the old Baron house cautiously. He had intended to walk along the beach and arrive at the house from the seaward side, but the storm had quickly driven him into the comparative shelter of the woods. He had walked quickly, though the sodden ground had sucked at his shoes. The wind screaming in the treetops above him had chilled his spirit as the rain, funneling through the dense foliage, had chilled his body.

Finally he had found the path that would take him back to the beach — the same path his children had used that afternoon — and he had broken out of the woods only forty feet from the house. The house itself blended almost perfectly with the blackness of the night, and only occasional flashes of lightning revealed that it still stood, a silent sentinel on the beach, testimony to the long-disappeared people who had built it. No light seeped from its dark windows, no clue as to what might lie within escaped its walls. As he made his way around it, Glen shivered, less from the cold than from the deathly stillness that seemed to emanate from the house.

He paused when he found the kitchen door unlocked, sure that something was wrong. Then he entered the kitchen, flashing his light from one corner to another, illuminating first a wall, then the sink, next the icebox, and finally the door to the dining room. He didn’t call out, not out of a fear of alerting anyone who might be inside, but because of deep certainty that the house was empty.

He went confidently into the dining room, again flashed the light briefly around, then moved on to the living room. It was then he knew that someone had been there.

It was at least ten degrees warmer here, and the air was drier — the mustiness of the house had been dispelled in the living room, and the slightly sweet, yet acrid smell of a wood fire lingered. He went to the fireplace and snapped the flashlight off. In the sudden blackness the dull red of a banked fire glowed dimly. Glen put out a foot and kicked the remains of the fire. The thin layer of dead ash fell away and the fire leaped into life. Glen frowned at it and shook his head, wondering whether Missy really had seen the smoke that must have been curling from the chimney only a couple of hours ago. Or had it only been a lucky guess?

He moved slowly through the rest of the house, examining everything more carefully. There was no sign of vandalism, no sign that anything had been disturbed at all. Whoever had been here had apparently borne the house no ill will; even the fire seemed to have been tended to.

Glen returned to the living room. The fire had built itself up to a steady blaze. He looked around for a poker, intending to break it down again, but found nothing. He sank into the chair facing the hearth and wondered if it would be safe to leave. But as he listened to the raging storm, he decided to wait awhile, at least until the fire burned down. It would give the storm time to spend itself, and himself time to dry out and warm up. He got up and went to the window that faced north, flashed his light steadily five times, then returned to the chair in front of the fire. If Rebecca was watching she would know he was all right.

On the fishing trawler, Max Horton returned to the engine compartment for a more thorough investigation. There was an off chance that what damage had been done could be repaired and Max could get at least one of the engines going. A close examination dashed his hopes, and he returned to the deck. He cast the beam of the flashlight ahead and immediately realized that the boat had drifted around and was now proceeding stern first. He grabbed a large bucket and ran to the bow, where he tied the bucket to one of the mooring lines. He threw the primitive sea anchor overboard, hoping the current would catch it with enough strength to pull the trawler around. Then he began to consider the advisability of abandoning the boat.

The wind seemed not to be slackening at all — if anything, its intensity was increasing, and it was an onshore wind. If he could rig a sail on the dinghy he just might make it back to safety. But if the sail failed to work the ebbing tide would carry him out to sea. It was this possibility that made up his mind for him.

If he stayed on the trawler and the sea anchor held, there was a good chance he could ride out the storm, providing he missed the rocks at the mouth of the harbor. But in the dinghy he would have no chance. True, the wind might carry him shoreward, but the combination of wind and tide would surely capsize him. If that happened he would be unconscious in ten minutes, dead in twenty. In daylight he might have risked it, counting on someone to come to his rescue. But at night, in the storm, he would be on his own. He decided to stay with the boat.

As he came to his decision another flash of lightning rent the sky and he tried to get his bearings. The sea anchor had worked, and the trawler was now riding with the tide, her bow into the wind. Far ahead, Max thought he could barely make out the jagged points of the reef, and he told himself that with a little luck he would clear them on the starboard side. He returned to the wheelhouse and lit another cigarette. All he could do was wait.

Harney Whalen parked his car in front of his house and hurried up the steps to the front door, pushing it open, then closing it behind him before he turned on the lights. His uniform was soaking wet; he felt cold clear through to his bones. And his heart was pounding.

He stripped off his dripping clothes and put on a robe, then turned up the heat, lit a fire in the fireplace, and mixed himself a strong brandy and water. He slugged the drink down, mixed another, then went to the bathroom. As the hot water streamed over him and the chill slowly dissipated, his pulse slowed, and by the time he stepped out of the shower, dried himself, and settled down in front of the fire to sip his second drink he felt much better. But he still wasn’t entirely sure what had happened.

He remembered being out at Sod Beach, sitting in front of the fire, enjoying the rain and the solitude. He had listened to the storm bear down on the coast, even gotten up once to watch the thunderheads gather before moving in to lash out at Clark’s Harbor. He had built up the fire then and settled back into the chair, and begun to daydream. But he must have fallen asleep, or had one of his “spells,” for the next thing he remembered he was in his car, driving home. And try as he would, he couldn’t account for his uniform being soaked through: the car had been parked only ten or twenty yards from the Baron house. Surely his clothes wouldn’t have gotten that wet even if he had crawled the distance.

An image flickered in his mind for a split second, then disappeared: he thought he saw himself on the beach, walking in the storm, staring out to sea. And there was something else, something just beyond his vision. Shapes, familiar shapes, and they were calling to him. But everything was confused, and Whalen couldn’t decide whether he’d had a flash of an old memory or whether it was simply his imagination.

He mixed a third drink, weaker this time, and pondered the advisability of discussing the “spells” with Doc Phelps. But Phelps would insist on giving him a complete examination, and Harn wasn’t sure he wanted to go through that. You never knew what the doctors might find, and Harn was only a couple of years from retirement. No sense rocking the boat…

The ringing of the telephone broke his train of thought.

“Whalen,” he said automatically as he picked up the receiver.

“Harn? Where’ve you been?” Chip Connor’s voice sounded almost accusatory, and Whalen scowled.

“Out,” he said flatly. There was a slight pause, and Harney felt better as Chip’s sudden discomfort projected itself over the telephone line.

“I’ve been trying to get you all evening,” Chip said, his voice conciliatory now. “Thought you’d want to know a couple of fishermen checked into the inn.”

“Fishermen?” Whalen repeated.

“Couple guys from up to Port Angeles. Merle says they were heading to Grays Harbor but the storm drove them in here.”

Whalen shrugged indifferently. “They have any trouble?” he asked.

“Trouble? No, not that I know of. I just thought you’d want to know they were here.”

“Okay,” Harn said. “Thanks for calling.” He was about to hang up when he suddenly thought of something else. “Chip?”

“Yeah?”

“Anything happen today?”

“Nothing at all,” Chip told him. “Quiet as a tomb.”

“How’d you like what I did to Palmer?”

There was a silence, and for a moment Harn wasn’t sure Chip had heard him. He was about to repeat his question when his deputy spoke.

“I’m trying to act like it was an accident, Harn,” Chip said hesitantly.

“It wasn’t,” Harn growled.

“No, I guess it wasn’t.” There was another silence, longer than the previous one, as each man waited for the other to speak. Chip weakened first. “I told Palmer it was an accident, Chief.”

“I wish you hadn’t,” Whalen said. “I wish you’d just let him worry.”

Chip decided to let the matter drop. “Well, I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.

“Yeah,” Whalen said shortly. “See you in the morning.” He dropped the receiver back on its cradle, picked up his drink, and went to the window. He stared out at the storm, not quite seeing it, and his brow furrowed into a deep scowl. All in all, he decided, it had been a rotten day. And the worst of it was, there were parts of it he couldn’t even remember. Then he chuckled hollowly to himself, thinking that it didn’t much matter — the parts he couldn’t remember probably weren’t worth remembering anyway.

Jeff Horton glanced at his watch, then went to the window of his hotel room. He tried to make out the wharf a hundred yards away, but the storm was impenetrable. He looked once more at his watch. He had been in the room for nearly forty-five minutes; Max shouldn’t have taken more than ten to batten down the boat.

He turned from the window, pulled on his slicker, and left the room. He stopped downstairs and glanced at the bar, but Max wasn’t there. Only Merle Glind, perched on a stool, chattering amiably to a young policeman next to him. Jeff went out into the storm.

Even on the wharf the fury of the storm blinded him, and he moved slowly, peering up at each boat as he came abreast of it. Then he came to the empty slip.

The storm forgotten, Jeff stared at the gap which he was sure had been occupied by Osprey. He told himself he was wrong, that they had moored the trawler farther out. He broke into a run, struggling against the gale, and made his way to the end of the wharf. There were no other empty slips, and no sign of Osprey. He was about to turn back and walk the wharf once more when the night again came alive with lightning, a blue-white sheet that illuminated the whole horizon. The flash pulled his eyes seaward. Far out in the harbor, nearing its mouth, was the silhouette of a boat.

There was no question in Jeff’s mind. The boat was Osprey, and she was headed directly for the rocks. The white light faded back into blackness, but Jeff stayed rooted to the dock, his eyes straining to pierce the darkness, his mind crying out for another flash of lightning to let him see that the boat had swept past the beckoning fingers of stone. The seconds crept by.

Max Horton was staring numbly out the windshield of the wheelhouse when the sheet of lightning tore the curtain of darkness from his eyes and he realized instantly that the boat was going on the rocks. They loomed dead ahead, only yards away, the sea swirling around them, churning itself into foam as it battered at the ancient barrier.

The imminent peril jerked him out of the lethargy he had sunk into during the past thirty minutes, and he grabbed a life jacket, securing it around his waist. Then he left the wheelhouse and began preparing the dinghy for launching. He pulled its cover free and released the lines that secured it to the davits, then began lowering it into the turbulent sea as it swung free.

He was too late.

The tiny dinghy hit the water and was immediately caught in the eddying currents around the reef. It swamped, then settled into the water, only its gunwales still above the surface.

Finally Osprey too became entangled in the furious currents, and her stern swung around. Broadside, she hurled herself onto the rocks, shuddering as her planking split amidships. She settled in the water, groaning and complaining, as the sea pressed in upon her, grinding hear against the rocks, tearing her to pieces.

Beneath the surface one of the fuel tanks collapsed under the pressure, and suddenly the hull filled with fumes.

Seconds later, Osprey exploded.

Max Horton was blown overboard by the force of the explosion, briefly stunned by the icy water, but began swimming as soon as he came to the surface. It was only a gesture — the tide took him, pulled him away from the flaming wreckage, pulled him away from what might have been the security of the rocks. As soon as he realized what was happening he stopped swimming and rolled over on his back, to watch his trawler go up in flames. He felt the cold begin to grip him, felt the lethargy sink in.

And then the wreck began to fade from his vision. At first he thought it was because he was drifting out on the tide, but then he knew it was something else. Silently, he apologized to Jeff for what had happened, then gave in to the sea. His eyes closed and the storm suddenly was no longer threatening. Now it was lulling him, rocking him gently to sleep. He looked forward to the sleep, though he knew he would never wake up. …

The ball of fire rising from the sea didn’t register on Jeff immediately. It wasn’t until the roar of the explosion hit him seconds later that he realized what had happened. By then the flames had become a fiery beacon in the mouth of the harbor, an inferno of glowing red intertwined with veins of oily black smoke. Then the other fuel tank blew and a second ball of fire rose into the night sky. Jeff Horton, his mind numb with shock, began crying softly, his tears mixing with the rain and salt spray.

Glen Palmer didn’t see the first explosion, but when the shock wave hit the old house on the beach he leaped to his feet and ran to a window. He saw the red glow immediately and was staring at it when the second explosion ripped through the night. He grabbed his flashlight and charged out of the house, running along the beach toward the wharf. It wasn’t until he’d reached the small point that separated Sod Beach from the short stretch of rocky coast that he realized the explosion had not been at the wharf. It was out in the harbor, far out. And then he knew. A boat had gone on the rocks.

He dashed across the long sand spit that formed the northern arm of the bay and arrived at the wharf just as Merle Glind and Chip Connor stepped out onto the porch of the inn. He started toward them, but as he glanced out the length of the wharf to the fire far beyond, he realized someone was there.

Framed against the inferno, the black silhouette of a man stood quietly, almost sadly, staring out to sea. Glen Palmer changed his mind. Instead of going to the inn, he hurried out onto the wharf.

From his window Harney Whalen gazed out on the fire burning brightly in the harbor.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” he said softly to himself. “Somebody’s sure got themselves in a peck of trouble tonight.”

He went to his bedroom, shed his robe, and began dressing in a clean uniform. He didn’t hurry — he’d lived in Clark’s Harbor long enough to know that no matter what had happened out there, there wasn’t much he could do about it tonight. Not tonight, and not tomorrow.

Not until the storm broke.

Sometimes it seemed to Harney Whalen that in Clark’s Harbor the storms never broke.

He was about to leave the house when the telephone rang. He didn’t bother to go back. He already knew why it was ringing.

17

Glen Palmer reached out and touched Jeff Horton on the shoulder. Jeff turned, and Glen recoiled slightly from the vacant look in the young man’s eyes and the dazed expression that had wiped all traces of emotion from his face.

“What happened?” he asked gently.

Jeff blinked twice and his mouth worked spasmodically. “My brother—” he said. “Max — the boat …” The reality of it seemed to hit him then like a physical force, and he sank slowly to his knees and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook with the sobs that wracked his body.

Glen bit his lip nervously, uncertain what to do. He thought he probably should go to the inn and ask Merle Glind to report what had happened, but he didn’t want to leave the grieving young man alone. Then he heard the sound of running feet pounding on the wharf. There was no need to go to the inn.

He knelt next to Jeff and squeezed his shoulder.

“Is it your boat out there?”

Jeff nodded, unable to speak.

“And your brother…?”

Jeff looked up then, and the slackness in his face had been replaced by a grimace of confusion and pain.

“He was only going to batten down and grab a couple of charts—” Jeff tried to explain. “He said he’d be right back. But he didn’t come back—” Sobs overtook him and he leaned heavily against Glen, his body heaving.

“Glen?” The voice was tentative, and Glen looked up to see Chip Connor standing over him. “I thought it was you. What the hell’s going on?”

Glen shook his head. “I don’t know. I just got here myself.”

“I told Merle to call Harn Whalen,” Chip said. Then he too knelt beside Jeff Horton. “That your boat out there, buddy?”

Jeff nodded miserably. Chip gazed out into the night. The fire was dying down; the driving rain and wind would put it out in a matter of minutes. “Let’s get over to the inn,” he said softly. “No point in staying here.”

Supporting Jeff Horton between them, Chip and Glen started back along the wharf. After a few steps Jeff seemed to come to his senses a little and was able to walk unaided. Every few steps he would stop, turn, and gaze out at the blaze for a few seconds. Then, finally, he turned to look and saw only the blackness of the night. The fire was out; Osprey had disappeared. Jeff didn’t look back again.

Merle Glind bustled up to the trio as they entered the inn. “I called Harney,” he chirped breathlessly. “There wasn’t any answer.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Chip told him. “He probably saw the fire from up on the hill and left by the time you called. Why don’t you give this guy a slug of brandy — he looks like he could use it.”

Jeff was slumped in a chair. The bright light of the inn revealed an ashen face, the stubble of a day-old beard, and red-rimmed eyes that made him seem old and broken. The vacant stare Glen had noticed when he first found Jeff had returned, and once more his face had gone slack.

“I think we’d better call a doctor,” Glen said. “I think he’s in shock.”

“Call Phelps,” Chip said.

Glen quickly made the call and was returning to the lobby when Harney Whalen lumbered through the door. Whalen glanced around, sizing up the situation, then approached his deputy.

“What the hell’s going on?” he asked, echoing Chip’s question of only a few minutes ago. “Is everybody all right?”

“We don’t know yet,” Chip replied. “I was in the bar with Merle, having a couple drinks, when we heard the explosion. I thought it was thunder but then we saw the fire. Merle called you and I went down to the wharf. Glen Palmer was there with this guy.” He nodded toward Jeff Horton, who sat staring at the floor, his hands clutching the glass of brandy Merle Glind had brought from the bar. If he was aware of the conversation between the chief and his deputy, he gave no sign. Whalen’s eyes narrowed slightly as he looked Jeff over, then he approached the young man.

“You want to tell me what happened?” he asked. His voice held neither hostility nor concern; it was his professional voice, the voice he habitually used before he had made up his mind.

“I don’t know what happened,” Jeff said absently. He still stared at the floor.

“My deputy tells me you were out on the wharf when that boat blew up.”

Jeff nodded and sipped his drink.

“Mind telling me what you were doing out there?”

Jeff frowned a little, as if trying to remember. “I was looking for my brother … I was looking for Max …” he trailed off, then suddenly took a long swallow of brandy, and set the empty glass down. Whalen sat down next to him.

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

“There isn’t anything to tell,” Jeff said slowly, making an effort to keep himself under control. “I was up in our room waiting for Max. He was going to secure the boat for the night — he shouldn’t have been more than ten minutes. After forty-five minutes I looked for him in the bar over there, then went down to the wharf. The boat was gone. I didn’t believe it at first, but then there was a bolt of sheet lightning and the whole harbor lit up. And I saw Osprey. She was heading out of the harbor, right toward the rocks—” He broke off, seeing the explosion once more, hearing the dull booming sound, watching the trawler burn. He struggled with himself and regained the composure that had nearly collapsed. “I have to go out there,” he said dully. “I have to go out and look for Max.”

“You aren’t going anywhere tonight, son, and neither is anyone else,” Whalen said emphatically. “No sense having two boats piled up on those rocks.”

Doc Phelps arrived then, and immediately began examining Jeff Horton. While he bent over the young man, Whalen turned his attention to Merle Glind.

“Who is he?” he asked Glind quietly.

“His name’s Jeff Horton,” Glind said. “He checked in about five thirty, six o’clock. He’s from Port Angeles.” Glind frowned, as if remembering something. “Didn’t Chip call you? I was sure he did.”

“He called me,” Whalen said patiently. “But that didn’t mean this was one of the same guys he told me about. Did you hear what Horton just told me?”

Glind bobbed his head. “Not that I was eavesdropping, mind you. You know me, Harney — I’d never try to listen in on something that’s none of my business. But he is a guest in my hotel and I figured—” Before he could continue, Whalen cut him off.

“Merle, it’s all right. All I want to know is if you can verify any of his story.”

Glind thought hard and finally nodded. “I can verify the time he went out. I was sitting with Chip and I was facing the door. I saw him stick his head in and look around. Then he went out and about five minutes later, maybe less, the explosion happened. He couldn’t have had anything to do with it, Harn. There wasn’t enough time. It’d take any boat a lot longer than that to get from the wharf to the rocks.”

“You don’t say,” Whalen said, scowling at the little man. Merle flushed and his glance darted toward the bar.

“I’d better be getting back to business,” Glind said anxiously. “Likely to be a lot of customers in here tonight. Not every night we have excitement like this.” Rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the cash he expected to see flowing over the bar this evening, he hurried away. Whalen watched him go and shook his head sadly, pitying the fussy little fellow who tried so hard to fit in — and failed so miserably. But Whalen forgave him his shortcomings: he and Merle Glind had grown up together.

He was about to ask Dr. Phelps about Jeff Horton’s condition when Chip Connor waved to him. He and Glen Palmer had been talking near the registration counter. Whalen looked inquiringly at Chip.

“Do you need me for anything?” Chip asked him. “If you don’t, I thought I’d run Glen home. He’s afraid his wife will be worrying about him.”

“Well, she’s just going to have to worry awhile longer, I’m afraid,” Whalen said, his voice hard, uncompromising. “I have a few questions to ask you, Palmer.”

Glen started to argue, then changed his mind. An argument would only make Whalen determined to keep him even longer. Instead, he turned to Chip.

“I know it’s a hell of a thing to ask, but do you think you could run out there anyway, just to let her know I’m all right?”

“No problem,” Chip said. “Unless Harn has something pressing he wants me to take care of.” He turned to the chief, and Whalen chewed his lip, thinking. Finally he nodded curtly.

“All right, but don’t be gone all night. I’m going to need you later.”

“I’ll be back in half an hour,” he promised. He went to the bar, and returned a minute later with his raincoat. “Anything special you want me to tell her?” he asked Glen. Glen shook his head.

“Just tell her what’s happened and not to worry. Tell her I’ll be home when I get there.”

Chip nodded and went out into the storm. Glen waited until he was gone, then went over to Whalen, who was talking to Dr. Phelps.

“Shall we get started?” he asked as amiably as he could. “I’d just as soon not be here all night. It’s been a long day.”

“I’ll bet it has,” Whalen replied. “It’s likely to be a lot longer before it’s over. Why don’t you have a seat. I’ll get to you when I get to you.”

“Is it all right if I wait in the bar?” Glen asked.

“Suit yourself. Just don’t try to leave the hotel.”

Glen chose to ignore the veiled threat, and nodded briefly. He ordered a beer and prepared to drink it slowly. He was going to have a long wait.

Rebecca Palmer sat by the fireplace and tried to concentrate on her knitting, but she was unable to complete more than a stitch or two before she set her work aside and went to the window once more, straining to see beyond the wet blackness of the rain and the wind.

It had been almost an hour and a half since Glen had left the cabin, and he should have been back at least an hour ago. She had stayed by the window after he left, and fifteen minutes later had seen his flashlight, dim but distinct, going steadily on and off. She had relaxed then and waited for him to return, sure she had read his signal correctly. But then — she wasn’t sure how much later — she had heard the explosion and run to the window to see the ball of fire far beyond the beach. There had been a second explosion, a second fireball, and a blaze out at sea.

Since then, nothing.

Innumerable trips to the window.

Impulses to go out on the beach and search for Glen.

Attempts to concentrate on her knitting.

And a continually growing fear.

Something had happened. She didn’t know why, but she was sure the explosions at sea had something to do with Glen’s protracted absence. But what?

It was the not knowing that was the worst. If only they had a telephone. If only the storm weren’t so bad. If only the children were old enough to stay by themselves. But there was no phone, the storm showed no signs of abating, and the children could not be left alone. Even the puppy was too young to serve as a guardian.

She was about to go to the window again when she thought she heard a car door slam. She froze where she was, listening intently. Then came the knock at the door.

Rebecca felt her heart begin to pound as she went to the door, but before she readied out to pull it open, something in her mind rang a warning bell.

“Who is it?” she called softly, not wanting to wake the children.

“Chip Connor,” came the reply. Rebecca threw open the door and stared up at the deputy, her fear growing.

“What is it?” she cried. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing’s happened, Mrs. Palmer. Well, nothing’s happened to Glen, anyway. May I come in?”

Rebecca felt the tension she had been under suddenly release; her knees felt weak. “Of course,” she said, stepping back to make room for the deputy. She closed the door after him, then went to the fire. She poked it, then turned to Chip.

“What’s happened? Where’s Glen?”

“He’s fine, Mrs. Palmer. He asked me to come out here and tell you he’s all right. He’ll be back as soon as he can.” He saw the look of bewilderment on Rebecca’s face and decided he’d better explain things. Fast. “There was an accident. We still don’t know exactly what happened,” he began, but Rebecca cut him off.

“An accident?” she said dazedly. “What kind of accident? Was it that fire? I saw a fire out in the water. Was that it?”

Chip nodded. “That’s it. A boat that was tied up in the harbor for the night wound up on the rocks in the mouth of the harbor. It blew up.”

“My God,” Rebecca breathed. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Someone may have been on the boat. We don’t know for sure yet. Anyway, when I got to the wharf Glen was already there. He saw as much of what happened as anybody. So Whalen asked him to stick around for a while.” Chip saw no point in telling Rebecca that her husband had been ordered to stay at the scene, not invited.

“Thank God,” Rebecca sighed. “You don’t have any idea of how worried I was. He should have been back, and then I saw those awful explosions, and—” she stopped talking when she saw the expression on Chip’s face.

“You mean he wasn’t here when the explosions happened?” he asked.

“No, of course not,” Rebecca said. “Didn’t he tell you?”

“He didn’t tell me much of anything,” Chip replied. “Where was he?”

“He’d gone down the beach to check on the old house — the one the Randalls are going to move into. Missy — our daughter — thought there was someone in the house this afternoon, so Glen went down to check on it. He must have seen the explosions from there and gone to the wharf.”

“How long was he gone? Before the explosions, I mean?”

“I’m not sure,” Rebecca began. Then she realized what Chip was getting at. “My God, you don’t think Glen had anything to do with those explosions, do you?”

“Of course not,” Chip said immediately. “But I want you to tell me exactly what happened.” He got out a notebook and a pencil, then saw the look of fear in Rebecca’s eyes, the same fear he had seen in Glen’s eyes earlier. He smiled at her reassuringly. “Mrs. Palmer, you don’t have to answer any of my questions if you don’t want to. But I hope you will. I want to put down in this notebook, right now, everything you can remember about what you and Glen talked about, why he went out, what time he went out — everything. I’m absolutely sure that everything you tell me will match up exactly with what Glen tells Harn Whalen. And then I’ll be able to back him up, because I’ll have the same story from you before you and Glen could possibly have talked to each other.”

Rebecca turned it over in her mind and tried to figure out what Glen would want her to do. She remembered Glen talking about this man, telling her he’d spent most of the day helping him — helping them. Now here he was, volunteering to help them again. Or was he? She gazed into his eyes, trying to read his motives.

His eyes were clear.

“My name’s Rebecca,” she said softly. “Glen told me about what you did today. I want to thank you.”

Chip flushed and kept his eyes on the pad. “It’s okay,” he said. “I had a good time doing it.” Then he looked up at her. “What about the questions? Will you answer them?”

“Of course,” Rebecca said. “Where shall we start?”

The third beer was sitting untouched in front of Glen when Harney Whalen stepped through the door to the bar and called him.

“Palmer, you want to come in here now?”

Glen slid off his stool, and went into the lobby. Dr. Phelps had left, after concluding that Jeff Horton was suffering from a mild case of shock that would pass before morning. The doctor had assured Whalen that there was nothing about the young fisherman’s condition that would make it inadvisable for Harn to question him, and Whalen was in the final stages of doing just that. As Glen appeared in the lobby he looked up.

“I want you and Horton here to come down to the station. We might just as well fill out the official reports tonight, while everything’s still fresh in your memories.”

Glen grinned wryly, and said, “I’m not sure anything’s still fresh in my memory. I’ve been drinking beer for almost an hour.” Then he glanced around the room and his grin faded. “Where’s Connor?”

“He hasn’t come back yet,” Whalen informed him. “You ready?”

Glen shrugged, as if to imply that he had no choice, then followed Jeff Horton and Harn Whalen to Whalen’s black-and-white. Minutes later they were in the police station.

“Okay, Palmer,” Whalen said without preamble, “let’s have it.”

“Have what?” Glen asked. “I’m afraid you’ve kept me around all night for nothing. I don’t have any idea what happened.”

“Maybe you’d like to tell me about how you happened to be on the wharf?”

“I saw the explosions and ran to the harbor. Then I saw this fellow at the end of the dock. I went out to see if he needed any help. That’s all there was to it.”

Whalen studied him through narrowed eyes for a few seconds. “You sure must run fast. The wharf’s a long way from your house.”

“I wasn’t at home,” Glen said, offering no more information.

“Why don’t you tell me Just where you were?” Whalen growled.

“Actually I was in your house, at the other end of Sod Beach from mine. From there it isn’t very far to the wharf. Just around the point, across the rocky beach and the sandbar.”

Whalen’s fingers drummed on the desk. He seemed to be turning something over in his mind.

“How did you happen to be the only one who went out on the wharf? Merle and Chip were both outside, but they didn’t go out on the dock.”

“They probably didn’t see any reason to go. From where they were standing they wouldn’t have been able to see Jeff. I only saw him because he happened to be between me and the fire. If I hadn’t, I would have gone to the inn. But I saw him, so I went out on the wharf.”

“What the hell were you doing in my house?” Whalen said suddenly, changing the subject of the conversation so violently that for a second Glen drew a blank. Then he recovered himself.

“You might say I was doing you a favor,” he said, controlling his anger. Who the hell did Whalen think he was? “My daughter thought someone was in the house this afternoon, and I thought I ought to check up. Or don’t you care who goes in and out of your own property?”

“What I care about or don’t care about is my own damned business, mister. Understand? Next time you think someone might have been in that house you tell me about it. Don’t go snooping around on your own.”

Glen felt his fury almost choking him but he held it back. “Fine,” he said tightly. “But in case you’re interested, which apparently you’re not, someone was in that house today. And he hadn’t been gone long when I arrived. There was a fire still burning in the fireplace. It had been banked, but not for long.”

“You’re right,” Whalen said easily. “I was in the house this afternoon.” Then he jerked a thumb at Jeff Horton. “You ever see him before tonight?”

“No.”

“What about you, Horton? You ever see this guy before?”

“I already told you, Chief, I’ve never seen anybody around here before tonight. Not you, not him, not anybody. Now, for God’s sake, aren’t you going to do anything about my brother?”

“And I’ve already told you,” Whalen mimicked him, “there’s nothing we can do about your brother. If he was on that boat he died when it blew. If he went overboard he didn’t last more than twenty minutes in the water. In ten minutes a man passes out, out there. In ten more minutes he’s dead. So you’d better hope that your brother was never on that boat. And that seems pretty unlikely, since you claim the boat was headed directly for the rocks.”

“What the hell are you saying?” Jeff cried.

“I’m saying that unless one of you two is lying, it looks to me like your brother got on that boat and deliberately piled himself up.”

“That’s a fucking lie!” Jeff yelled. “He was securing the boat for the night. Max would never do anything like that. Never!”

A slow smile came over Whalen’s face. “What are you saying then? That someone killed him? Cut the boat loose? Steered it out onto that reef?”

“Something like that,” Jeff replied. “I don’t know why, and I don’t know who, but it was something like that. But we won’t know anything about it until we go out there, will we?”

“No,” Whalen agreed, “we won’t. Meantime, Horton, I think maybe you’d better plan on sticking around to answer some more questions. You too, Palmer.”

Glen’s fury finally exploded. “Are you out of your mind?” he yelled at the police chief. “You tell me right now, Whalen, am I under arrest or not?”

“You’re not,” Whalen said mildly, almost enjoying the other man’s rage. “Not yet.”

“And I damned well won’t be,” Palmer declared. “I had no motive, I wasn’t there. Hell, I don’t even know what kind of a boat it was. Dammit, Whalen, all I did was try to help out.” He stalked out of the police station, half-expecting Whalen to stop him. But he didn’t.

Instead, when they were alone, Whalen turned to Jeff Horton.

“I don’t like what happened here tonight,” he said softly, almost menacingly. “I don’t like it at all. I intend to find out what happened though, and I intend to see to it that it never happens again. And once I’ve found out I’ll expect you to get out of Clark’s Harbor. I don’t like strangers. They bring trouble. You’ve brought trouble, and your friend Palmer’s brought trouble. So hang around only as long as I tell you to. Then get out. Understand?”

Jeff Horton, still numbed from the shock of what had happened, nodded mutely and told himself he wasn’t hearing what he thought he had just heard. As he walked slowly back to the hotel, Jeff cursed the storm that had brought him to Clark’s Harbor, cursed Clark’s Harbor, and cursed Harney Whalen.

His impulse was to leave. He had no baggage, nothing. He could simply check out of the inn, walk up to the main highway, and thumb a ride north. But he knew he couldn’t.

He had to stay in Clark’s Harbor.

He had to find Max.

As the storm slashed rain in his face, Jeff tried to tell himself that he would find his brother, that Max would be all right.

His guts told him he was wrong. His guts told him Max was not all right; nothing would ever be all right again.

Glen Palmer was still almost shaking with rage when he left the police station. He began walking toward the harbor before he stopped to think it out. He wondered if Rebecca might drive in to pick him up, but decided she wouldn’t — she didn’t like leaving the children by themselves. Then he remembered Chip Connor. The deputy still hadn’t returned, but if Glen followed the road Chip might pass him and give him a lift. He turned around and began walking up Harbor Road. He had just reached the intersection with the main highway when a pair of headlights appeared from the north. Glen stepped out into the road and waved. The car pulled up beside him.

“Climb in,” Chip called. “I’m so late now a few more minutes won’t matter. Is Harn mad at me?”

Gratefully Glen got into the car, and as Chip made the U-turn that would take them back north, he asked the deputy for a cigarette.

“I quit a couple of years ago,” he said as he lit it. “But after what just happened, I think I’m going to start again.”

Chip glanced at him, then his eyes went back to the road.

“If you want to cuss Whalen out,” he said, “could you wait until you’re home and I’m gone?”

“What does that mean?” Glen asked.

“Ah, shit, I don’t know,” Chip said. Then he grinned crookedly at Glen. “You know, it would have been a lot easier for you tonight if you hadn’t gone out playing good citizen.”

“Rebecca told you where I was?”

“I asked her. And don’t worry, I told her she didn’t have to answer any questions.”

“But why did you even ask any?”

“Just in case,” Chip said. He turned off the highway into the narrow drive that led to the Palmers’ cabin. He pulled up as close to the little house as he could but didn’t turn off the engine. “I’m not coming in. I’d better get back to town and see what Harn’s got.” He paused. Glen had started to get out of the car when Chip spoke again. “Glen?” Glen turned back to the deputy. “I’m not sure how to say this, but I like you and I like your wife. That’s why I didn’t want to hear you cuss Harney out I know what must have happened down there, and I have a feeling it isn’t over yet.” He paused, suddenly unsure of himself, then plunged on. “That’s why I wanted to get Rebecca’s story before you talked to her. Look, try to keep cool, okay? Harney can be hard to deal with, particularly if he doesn’t know you. But he’s fair. I know you don’t think so, but he is. Or anyway, he tries to be,” Chip added, remembering the spattered paintings that morning.

Glen took a deep breath, then let it out in an even deeper sigh. “I don’t know,” he said finally. Then he chuckled hollowly. “But I guess I have no choice.” He extended his hand to the deputy. “I’ll sit tight and we’ll see what happens. Thanks for the ride. And everything else too.”

The two men shook hands and Glen got out of the car. The rain had let up a little, and Glen waited until Chip had disappeared into the night before he went in.

Rebecca was waiting for him. She threw her arms around him, and hugged him tightly.

“What’s happening? Dear God, Glen, what’s happening here?”

“I don’t know,” Glen whispered gently. “But whatever it is, it doesn’t have anything to do with us. Nothing at all.”

He wished he was as certain of that as he had tried to sound. But something was happening, and he could feel himself and his family getting caught up in it. Without telling Rebecca, he decided to call Brad Randall in the morning.

In the tiny bedroom adjoining the main room of the cabin, Missy and Robby lay in their bunks, neither of them asleep. Robby’s eyes were closed, but Missy was wide-eyed, staring at the bed above her. When she spoke her voice sounded hollow in the darkness.

“Are you all right?” she whispered.

There was a moment’s silence, then Robby’s voice drifted back to her. “I think so. But I’ve been feeling funny for a long time.”

“I know,” Missy said. “I had a dream.” Her voice faltered, then went on. “It was scary. And I don’t think I was asleep.”

Robby crept down from the upper bunk and crouched by his sister. “What was it?”

“I’m not sure,” the little girl said shyly. “I thought you were in it, but you seemed big. Real big. And not like you.”

Robby frowned and waited for Missy to continue. When she remained silent he asked a question.

“Was I … all right? Or was I sick again?”

“You were …” Missy began, but broke off when she couldn’t find the right words. She started again. “You were making things happen. You made a boat sink and you laughed. At least I think it was you. Maybe it wasn’t,” she added hopefully.

Robby shook his head in the darkness. “I don’t remember anything,” he said vaguely. “I couldn’t sleep and I wanted to go outside.”

“Why didn’t you?” Missy asked.

“You would have told Mom and Dad,” Robby said matter-of-factly. He climbed back up into the top bunk.

Again there was a silence, and the two children listened to the storm howling outside.

“I wish it would stop,” Missy said quietly.

“I do too,” Robby agreed.

Suddenly, without any warning, the rain stopped and the wind died.

Silence fell over Sod Beach.