Cry for the Strangers

18

Elaine Randall was staring disconsolately at the dishes stacked on the kitchen counter. There seemed to be so many of them, now that they had been taken out of the cupboard, that she couldn’t decide whether to pack them in a box to be taken to Clark’s Harbor or to haul them down to the large storeroom in the basement where most of their personal effects were going to be stored while they were gone. Finally she evaded the issue entirely by turning her attention to the pots and pans. Those were easy — the old, battered ones went with them, the good ones stayed behind. She was about to begin packing what seemed to her like the ninety-fifth box when the telephone rang. Gratefully, she straightened up and reached for the phone.

“I’ll get it,” Brad called from the living room, where he was filling cartons with books.

“Some people get all the breaks,” Elaine muttered loudly enough so she was sure Brad heard her.

“Hello?” Brad said automatically as he picked up the receiver.

“Brad? Is that you? It’s Glen Palmer.”

“Hi!” Brad exclaimed warmly. “What’s up?”

There was a slight hesitation, then Glen’s voice came over the line once more, but almost haltingly.

“Look, are you people still planning to move out here?”

“Imminently,” Brad replied. “I’m packing books and Elaine’s working on the kitchen. Sort of a last vestige of sexism, you might say.” When the joke elicited no response, not even the faintest chuckle, Brad frowned slightly. “Is something wrong out there?”

“I don’t know,” Glen replied slowly. “A boat cracked up on the rocks out here last night.”

“Last night? But it was calm and clear last night.”

“Not in Clark’s Harbor, it wasn’t. We had a hell of a storm.”

Brad’s brows rose in puzzlement, but then he shrugged. “Well, anybody who goes out in ‘a hell of a storm’ deserves to go on the rocks,” he said complacently.

“Except that nobody knows how the boat got there. Your landlord seems to think I had something to do with it.”

“You? What gave him that idea?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.” There was a silence, then Glen’s voice went on, hesitantly, almost apologetically. “That’s why I called you. Everything seems crazy out here and I didn’t have anyone else to talk to. How long before you’ll be coming out?”

“Not long,” Brad said. “Today, in fact.”

“Today?” There was an eagerness in Glen’s voice that Brad found disturbing.

“We’re packing up the last of our stuff. The truck should be here around noon. I’d say we should be there somewhere around four, maybe five o’clock.”

“Well, I guess I won’t crack up by then,” Glen said, but his voice shook slightly. “I hate to tell you this, Brad, but something horrible is going on out here.”

“You make it sound like some kind of conspiracy,” Brad said, his curiosity whetted. “You sure you’re not letting your imagination get the best of you?”

“I don’t know,” Glen said. “How many times have I said that? Look, do me a favor, will you? Come see me this afternoon or this evening? If I’m not at the gallery I’ll be at home.”

“I’d planned on it anyway,” Brad assured him. “And look, don’t get yourself too upset. Whatever’s happening, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re sure. All right, no sense running this call up any higher. See you later.”

As Brad said good-bye he realized Elaine was standing in the archway that separated the living room from the dining room, a curious expression on her face.

“What’s going on? Who was that?”

“Glen Palmer.”

“What did he want?”

“I’m not really sure,” Brad mused. “He’s all upset about something. A boat went on the rocks last night and Glen seems to think Harney Whalen wants to blame it on him.”

“I didn’t know Glen even had a boat.”

“It wasn’t his boat apparently.” He shrugged, and began packing books again. “I told him we’d be out there this afternoon, so he didn’t go into the details. But he sure sounded upset.”

Elaine stayed where she was and watched Brad work. Then she moved to the living-room window and stared out at Seward Park and the lake beyond. “I wonder if we’re making a mistake,” she said, not turning around.

“A mistake?” Brad’s voice sounded concerned. Elaine faced him, letting him see the worry on her face.

“It just seems to me that maybe we shouldn’t go out there. I mean, there really isn’t any reason why you can’t write here, is there? Certainly our view is as good as the view from the beach, and you don’t have to be bothered with interruptions. A lot of people manage to live like hermits in the middle of the city. Why can’t we?”

“I suppose we could,” Brad replied. “But I don’t want to. Besides, maybe something is going on out there.”

“If there is I don’t want any part of it,” Elaine said with a shudder.

“Well, I do. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get a best seller out of this whole deal.”

“Or maybe you’ll just get a lot of trouble,” Elaine said. But she realized that there was going to be no argument. Brad’s mind was made up, and that was that. So she winked at him, tried to put her trepidations out of her mind, and went back to her packing.

She finished in the kitchen at the same time Brad sealed the last carton of books. As if on cue the truck that would move them to Clark’s Harbor pulled into the driveway.

Jeff Horton stayed in bed as long as he could that morning, but by ten o’clock he decided it was futile and got up. It had been a night of fitful sleep disturbed by visions of the fire, and through most of the small hours he had lain awake, trying to accept what had happened, trying to find an explanation. But there was none.

Max had been securing the boat. That was all.

He wouldn’t have taken her out. Not alone, and certainly not in a storm.

But he must have been on the boat or he would have come to the inn.

If he was on the boat, why did it go on the rocks? Why didn’t he start the engines?

There was only one logical answer to that: the engines had been tampered with. But by whom? And why? They were strangers here; they knew no one. So no one here would have any reason to sabotage the boat.

None of it made any sense, but it had cost Jeff dearly. His brother was gone, his boat was gone, and he felt helpless.

Several times during the night he had gone to the window and tried to peer through the darkness, tried to make himself see Osprey still tied up at the wharf, floating peacefully in the now-calm harbor. But when morning came Jeff avoided the window, postponing the moment when he would have to face the bleak truth of the empty slip at the dock.

Merle Glind peered at him dolefully when he went downstairs, as if he were an unwelcome reminder of something better forgotten, and Jeff hurried out of the inn without speaking to the little man. He paused on the porch and forced himself to look out over the harbor.

Far in the distance the mass of rocks protruded from the calm surface of the sea, looking harmless in the morning sunlight.

There was no sign of the fishing trawler that had gutted itself on them only hours ago.

Seeing the naked rocks, Jeff felt a surge of hope. Then his eyes went to the wharf, and there was the empty slip, silent testimony to the disappearance of Osprey. Jeff walked slowly down to the pier, to the spot where the trawler should have been moored. He stood there for a long time, as if trying by the force of his will alone to make the trawler reappear. Then he heard a voice behind him.

“She’s gone, son,” Mac Riley said softly. Jeff turned around and faced the old man.

“I warned you,” Riley said, his voice gentle and without a trace of malice. “It’s not safe, not when the storms are up.”

“It wasn’t the storm,” Jeff said. “I don’t care how bad that storm was, those lines didn’t give way. Someone threw them.”

Riley didn’t argue. Instead, his eyes drifted away from Jeff, out to the mouth of the harbor. “Sort of seems like the wreck should still be there, doesn’t it?” he mused. Before Jeff could make any reply, the old man continued, “That’s the way she is, the sea. Sometimes she throws ships up on the rocks, then leaves them there for years, almost like she’s trying to warn you. But not here. Here she takes things, and she keeps them. Reckon that’ll be the way with your boat. Wouldn’t be surprised if nothing ever turns up.”

“There’s always wreckage,” Jeff said. “It’ll turn up somewhere.”

“If I were you I’d just go away and forget all about it,” Riley said. “Ain’t nothing you can do about it, son. Clark’s Harbor ain’t like other places. Things work different here.”

“That’s just what the police chief said last night,” Jeff said angrily. “What do you mean, things work different here?”

“Just that. It’s the sea, and the beach. The Indians knew all about it, and they thought this was a holy place. I suppose we do too. Strangers have to be careful here. If you don’t know what you’re doing, bad things happen. Well, I guess you know about that, don’t you?”

“All I know,” Jeff said doggedly, “is that my boat’s wrecked and my brother’s missing.”

“He’s dead, son. If he was on that boat he’s dead.” There was no malice in Riley’s voice; it was simply a statement of fact.

“If his body turns up then he’s dead,” Jeff replied. “As long as there’s no body he isn’t dead.”

“Suit yourself,” Riley said. “But if I were you I’d just head on back to wherever you came from and start over again. And stay away from Clark’s Harbor.”

He reached out and patted Jeff on the shoulder, but Jeff drew angrily away.

“I’m going to find out what happened,” he said.

“Maybe you will, son,” Riley said placidly. “But I wouldn’t count on that. Best thing to do is learn to live with it, like all the rest of us.”

“I can’t,” Jeff said almost inaudibly. “I have to know what happened to my brother.”

“Sometimes it’s better not to know,” Riley replied. “But I guess you can’t understand that, can you?”

“No, I can’t.”

“You will, son. Someday, maybe not very far down the road, you’ll understand.”

The old man patted him on the shoulder once more and started back toward shore. Then he turned, and Jeff thought he was going to say something else, but he seemed to change his mind. Wordlessly, he continued on his way.

Jeff stayed on the wharf awhile longer, then began walking south along the narrow strip of beach that bordered the harbor. Somewhere, parts of Osprey must have been washed ashore. If he was lucky, one of those parts might offer some clue.

The storm of the night before had left a layer of silt on the beach, washed down from the forest above. Wet and thick, it clung to Jeff’s boots as he trod slowly out to the end of the southern arm of the harbor. Nowhere did he find even a trace of wreckage. He hadn’t really expected to. If there was going to be anything it would probably be north, taken out by the ebbing tide, then carried up the coast on the current. But from the end of the point he would have a good view of the rocks. Perhaps something would be visible from there that couldn’t be seen from the wharf.

There was nothing, only the black and glistening crags of granite, clearly visible and unthreatening in the calm sea. Nowhere was there a sign of the damage they had wreaked the night before, nowhere a scrap of the boat that had broken up on them.

Jeff lingered on the point for a while, almost as if his proximity to the scene of the disaster would somehow help him to determine what had happened. But the reef merely mocked him, taunting him with its look of innocence.

After thirty minutes he turned away and started back along the beach.

He didn’t go out to the end of the sand spit at the north end of the harbor. Instead he followed the worn path that cut across it to the rock-strewn cove beyond. Jeff explored the small beach carefully, inspecting pieces of driftwood that appeared to have been brought to shore the night before, his eyes carefully searching for any familiar object, any broken piece of flotsam that might be part of the vanished trawler. Again there was nothing.

Finally he rounded the point and stood at the southernmost tip of Sod Beach. For the first time his eyes stopped searching the shore at his feet and took in the beauty of the spot. It seemed incongruous to him that something as magnificent as this could be here, in the middle of such deadly surroundings. The beach lay bathed in sunlight, and the surf, free to wash the shore here, had cleaned away the silt that covered the harbor sands. Only a haphazard scattering of driftwood gave evidence of the storm that had battered the coast the night before, and even that, strewn evenly over the beach, only enhanced the beauty and peace of the place.

Jeff began walking the beach, no longer really looking for wreckage from Osprey. The splendor of the white sands had overcome him, and for the moment he forgot about the previous night and let its serenity wash over him. He picked up a small stone and threw it expertly at one of the logs that lay along the tide line, then laughed out loud as the tiny brown shape of a baby otter sprang out from behind it, peered vacantly at him for a moment, and began scurrying toward the woods.

He began running, and the running felt good, felt free. He could feel the tension he had been under releasing itself as he ran and pushed himself harder. When he felt his breath grow short and his heart begin to pound, he slowed to a trot, then gave it up entirely and sat panting on a log, facing the surf.

He had been staring at the object floating in the water for several seconds before he even realized he was watching it. It was about thirty yards out and nearly submerged; all that showed above the surface was a grayish mass, gleaming wetly in the sunlight. At first Jeff thought it was a piece of driftwood, but as the surf carried it slowly shoreward he realized it was something else. It looked like canvas. Jeff stood and advanced toward the water, straining for a better view of it, sure that it was from Osprey.

The object washed back and forth, but finally a large breaker rolled in, caught it up, and threw it forward. Jeff dashed into the surf, his outstretched hands reaching to grasp it.

He had a firm grip on it before he realized it was Max.

The body, limp and grayish, was suspended under the sodden life preserver. Without thinking, Jeff grasped his brother under the arms and pulled him up onto the beach, far beyond the reach of the surf, and lay him gently on his back.

He wrestled with the straps of the life jacket, tugging at swollen strips of material, forcing them loose. Then he cast the preserver aside and pressed violently on Max’s chest. A stream of water gushed from between the lips of the corpse, and there was a faint gurgling sound as the water was replaced by air when Jeff released the pressure.

Feverishly, he worked over his brother’s body. He knew Max was dead, yet his mind refused to accept the fact. Over and over he applied pressure to the torso, but after the first efforts no more water appeared. Max lay limp and unresponding on the sand.

Jeff gave it up finally and crouched on his haunches next to his brother, staring down into the open, unseeing eyes. When he could stand it no longer he gently closed the eyelids. For the rest of his life he would live with the memory of Max’s eyes, staring up at him from the sand, almost reproachful.

Jeff began to cry, his sobs shaking him, his tears flowing freely. And then, a few minutes later, it was over.

Jeff Horton picked up his brother’s body, cradling it in his arms, and began to walk back down Sod Beach, back toward Clark’s Harbor.

A few minutes later the beach was empty once more, except for the gulls wheeling overhead and the baby otter playing in the driftwood. All was peaceful.

But far out to sea, beyond the horizon, the clouds began to gather and the wind began to blow. Another storm was coming to life.

19

“How much farther?” Elaine asked.

“Five miles? Ten? Something like that,” Brad answered. “Please note that it isn’t raining.”

“Noted,” Elaine said. By rights they should have run into the storm that had battered Clark’s Harbor the night before, and Elaine had made a bet with Brad that they would make the entire drive out to Clark’s Harbor in a downpour. But as they swung around Olympia and started west, they encountered nothing but clear skies, and for the last two hours they had been enjoying the warmth of a spring sun. A ground layer of mist lay in the valleys, intertwined with the ferns and salal that blanketed the area in a spectrum of greens, broken by the brown trunks of the giant cedars and the silvery whiteness of budding aspens. Here and there a rhododendron was bursting with color, the sunlight flashing in the raindrops caught in its petals.

“You want to pay off now or wait till we get there?”

“I’ll wait,” Elaine said complacently. “You never know when it might cloud up. If there’s even a drop of rain while we’re unloading, I win.”

Brad glanced up at the clear blue sky, and grinned. “I can’t lose.” He glanced in the rearview mirror, as he had every few minutes for the last three and a half hours, checking to make sure the truck was still following behind them. “I can’t believe how much stuff they jam in those trucks,” he commented.

“I can’t believe how much stuff we’re dragging with us,” Elaine replied archly. “The house out here is furnished as I recall.”

Brad shrugged indifferently but couldn’t keep himself from flushing slightly. As the movers had begun loading Brad had begun adding things to the load. His desk and chair had been first, followed by an ancient leather-upholstered club chair that Elaine had claimed would fit in perfectly since it was nearly as dilapidated as the furniture already in the house on Sod Beach.

When he had started to add the television and stereo console, Elaine had drawn the line, reminding him that there was no electricity in their new home.

Finally they had been ready to go; the truck was almost full and the storage room in the basement almost empty. But, as Brad kept insisting, at least they were getting their money’s worth out of the truck.

They swung around a bend in the road. They were almost in Clark’s Harbor. Ahead of them they could see the intersection with Harbor Road and, just beyond, Glen Palmer’s gallery.

“Are we stopping at the gallery?” Elaine asked as Brad began slowing the car.

“I thought I’d stop off at the police station first and pick up the key,” Brad replied. “Then you can ride on out to the house in the truck and supervise the unloading while I talk to Glen.”

“The hell you will,” Elaine protested. “If you think I’m going to try to get all that junk into the house by myself, you’re crazy! Besides, I want to see Glen too!”

“All right, all right,” Brad said. He completed the turn and they started down the gentle incline into the village. “Well, whatever’s going on, it certainly looks peaceful enough.”

Elaine couldn’t disagree; Clark’s Harbor, basking in the sunlight, lay clustered peacefully around the harbor, its brightly painted buildings sparkling against the backdrop of blue sky and water. Once again Elaine was reminded of a New England fishing village, an image enhanced by the small fleet that was neatly moored at the wharf.

They pulled up in front of the police station and Brad told the truck driver to find someplace to park the truck for a few minutes without blocking traffic. Then he and Elaine went inside.

They found Harney Whalen in his office talking on the telephone. He looked up, stared at them in apparent surprise, then returned to his telephone call. Elaine lit a cigarette and occupied herself by peering uncomfortably out the window. But Brad made no attempt to conceal the fact that he was listening to Whalen’s end of the conversation.

“I’m telling you,” Whalen was saying, “there isn’t any point in your coming up here. It was an accident, nothing more. There’s nothing to investigate. Not even a trace of wreckage has washed up. Only the body.”

He listened then, his eyes on the ceiling, almost closed, as if whatever he was hearing was hardly worth listening to.

“Listen,” he said finally, apparently interrupting whoever was on the other end of the line. “I looked the body over, and Doc Phelps looked the body over. Now, I’m no expert, but Phelps is. And we both agree the guy drowned. Looks like the guy went overboard when the boat cracked up. Hell, nobody can last long in the water this time of year.”

He seemed about to say more but fell silent again, and Brad assumed that whoever he was talking to was objecting to something Whalen had said.

“Well, anyway, I’m gonna ship the body up to Port Angeles tomorrow. The guy’s brother’s hanging around getting on everyone’s nerves, and I’ve just about had it with the whole thing. So if you want to do anything — look at the body or something — you’d better do it today.”

Just then the door to the police station opened and a young man Brad didn’t recognize came in. Whoever he was, he was not a native of Clark’s Harbor. He seemed very upset — his face was flushed and his eyes flashed with anger. He glanced at Brad and Elaine, then turned his attention to the police chief, who was still on the phone. As he listened, Harney Whalen watched the young man pace the small room impatiently. In his mind Brad put it all together and decided this was the brother of the dead man, and that he had stumbled into the “something horrible” Glen Palmer had been talking about on the phone that morning.

“All right, all right,” Whalen said at last. “I’ll wait till you get here.” He slammed the receiver down and stared balefully at the young man.

“What is it now, Horton?” he said levelly.

Jeff Horton stopped pacing and stood squarely in front of Whalen’s desk, glaring at the police chief.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” he demanded.

“I think I’m the police chief here,” Whalen said easily, enjoying the young man’s discomfiture. “What of it?”

“That gives you the right to decide what’s to be done with my brother’s body?”

“You heard?”

“I heard. And I’d like to know why you didn’t tell me you were releasing it. I can get it home myself.”

“Fine,” Whalen replied, getting to his feet. “I just thought I’d save you the trouble.”

“Save me the trouble!” Jeff exclaimed. His face turned scarlet and his fists began working spasmodically. “I don’t need anybody to save me any trouble. I need someone to help me find out what happened to Max.” Then, as suddenly as his face had turned scarlet, it drained of color and became an ashen gray. Brad stood up and moved to the young man’s side.

“Sit down,” he said gently but firmly. When Jeff started to resist, Brad took his arm. “If you don’t sit down, you’re going to pass out,” he said. He pushed Jeff into the chair he had just vacated and made him put his head between his knees. “If you start feeling like you’re going to be sick, lie down on the floor. You’ll feel foolish but it’s better than throwing up. Now breathe deeply.”

Brad turned his attention to Whalen. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“It’s between him and me,” Whalen declared. “It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

“I’m a doctor and this fellow’s not in the best shape. I’m just wondering why.”

“And I’m telling you it’s none of your concern,” Whalen snapped.

“Whose concern should it be?” Jeff said, sitting up again. He looked at Brad. “Who are you?”

“Brad Randall,” Brad said, extending his right hand. “I’m a doctor from Seattle. I take it it’s your brother who died?”

Jeff nodded. “This guy keeps claiming it was an accident but I don’t believe it. And now he’s made plans to ship Max home and he didn’t even tell me about it.”

“Max, I assume, is your brother. Mind telling me your name?”

“Jeff. Jeff Horton.”

“Fine, Jeff. Now, what happened?”

But before Jeff could tell him, Harney Whalen interrupted. “This your office all of a sudden, Dr. Randall?” he said unpleasantly. “ ’Cause you’re sure acting like it is.”

Brad bit his lip. “Sorry,” he said. “It isn’t any of my business, of course. But Jeff seems pretty upset, and dealing with people who are upset happens to be my specialty.” When Jeff looked at him quizzically, Brad winked. “I’m a psychiatrist.”

Elaine stood up suddenly, and the movement caught Brad’s attention, exactly as she had intended.

“Why don’t I take Jeff out for a cup of coffee while you settle our business with the chief?” she suggested. “All right?”

Brad knew immediately his wife was trying to defuse the situation. He smiled at her gratefully. “If you don’t mind,” he said, knowing she didn’t; knowing, in fact, that she had taken the situation in hand.

“Of course I don’t mind.” She turned to Whalen and smiled at him. “Is there anything I’ll need to know about the house right away?”

Whalen shook his head slowly, glancing from one of the Randalls to the other and back again. But before he could speak Elaine plunged on.

“Fine. Then we’ll see you in a few minutes,” she told Brad. She took Jeff Horton by the arm and pulled him to his feet. Jeff, looking baffled, offered no resistance as she led him from the office.

“Do you have the keys?” she heard Brad asking Whalen as she walked down the corridor. She silently congratulated herself. Maybe the wrong member of their family was the psychiatrist.

“It hasn’t been easy for you, has it?” Elaine asked Jeff. They were sitting in the café, drinking their second cup of coffee, and Jeff had told Elaine what had happened.

“That’s putting it mildly,” Jeff said bitterly. “The worst of it is, I’m not going to be able to hang around here any longer, and the minute I leave that police chief is going to drop the whole thing. Hell, he almost has already.”

“It might really have been an accident,” Elaine offered.

“If it were anyone but Max, I’d agree. But Max was one of those people who just doesn’t have accidents. He was always methodical, always careful. He always said there’s no such thing as an accident. Like the other night, when the storm caught up with us? Anyone else would have tried to make it down to Grays Harbor, and if they hadn’t made it, it would have been called an accident. But Max would have called it damned foolishness and blamed it on the skipper.”

“And he would have been right,” Elaine agreed.

“For all the good it did him. Anyway, Osprey couldn’t have slipped her moorings by accident. Somebody cast her lines off the dock, but I can’t get that police chief to do anything about it. It’s like he just doesn’t care.”

“I don’t think he does,” Elaine said softly. Before Jeff could ask what she meant she changed the subject. “What are you going to do now?”

“Go back up north, I guess, and start over. But without Max it isn’t going to be easy.”

“Can’t you stay here awhile?”

“I’m broke. I can pay for one more night at the hotel and that’s it. But I want to stay and find out what happened to Max.” He looked deeply into Elaine’s eyes and his voice took on an intensity that almost frightened her.

“Somebody killed Max, Mrs. Randall. I don’t know who, but somebody killed him. I have to find out why.”

Elaine studied the young man opposite her and tried to weigh what he had said. Still in shock, she thought, and badly shaken up. Yet what he had said made sense. If his brother had been as careful as Jeff claimed — and she had no reason to doubt it — then it seemed unlikely that the trawler’s getting loose had been an accident. And if it wasn’t an accident …

“Look,” she said suddenly. “If it’s that important for you to stay around here for a while, you can stay with us. It’s primitive, but it’s free.”

“With you?” Jeff seemed totally bewildered. “But you don’t even know me.”

Elaine smiled warmly at him. “If you hadn’t said that I might have been worried. Anyway, that makes us even: you don’t know us, either. Believe me, after a couple of days we’ll know each other very, very well. The house we rented isn’t big and it doesn’t have any electricity. I’m told the plumbing works but I’ll believe it when I see it. There’s a couple of bedrooms upstairs, guest rooms, and you might as well be the first guest.” Before Jeff could reply Elaine glanced at her watch and stood up. “Come on, we’ve been here long enough. If Brad isn’t through with Mr. Whalen yet, something’s gone wrong. And the movers must think we’ve died.”

“Movers?”

“I told you we were just moving in. That was a sort of a lie, really. We haven’t moved in yet. As a matter of fact, we just got to town half an hour ago.”

Taking Jeff by the arm, she led him out the door.

They almost bumped into Brad as they turned the corner onto Main Street, and Elaine knew by the look on his face that something was wrong. “What’s happened?” she asked.

Brad stared at her blankly for a moment, then chuckled hollowly. “You won’t believe it,” he said. “Whalen didn’t remember renting the house to us.”

“Didn’t remember? Are you serious?”

Brad nodded. “That’s why he looked so surprised when we walked into his office. He thought we were gone for good. I had to show him the lease before he’d give me the keys to the house. I guess we were right when we thought he was in some kind of trance the day he showed us the place.” He saw Elaine turn slightly pale and decided now was not the time to pursue the subject. Instead, he made himself smile genially at Jeff Horton. “I assume Elaine invited you to stay with us?”

“If it’s all right with you, Dr. Randall.”

“My name’s Brad, and of course it’s all right with me. If she hadn’t invited you I would have. We’d better get going though, or the movers are going to dump our stuff in the street. Whalen’ll lead us out there, just to make sure the place is all right.”

As if on cue, Harney Whalen emerged from the police station and stared balefully at the three of them. When he spoke his words were obviously directed at Jeff.

“I thought you’d be on your way by now.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jeff said softly. “Not till I find out what happened to my brother.”

Whalen’s tongue worked at his left cheek as he thought it over. “Still staying at the hotel?” he asked finally.

“He’ll be staying with us,” Elaine said flatly, as if to end the discussion.

“That so?” Whalen said. “Well, I guess it’s none of my business, is it. You want to follow me?”

“Sure,” Brad replied. He turned and signaled the movers, who were lounging against the fender of their truck half a block away. They ground their cigarettes out and climbed into the cab. “We’ll be right behind you,” Brad called to Whalen, who was already in his police car. Whalen’s hand, black-gloved, waved an acknowledgment, but he didn’t speak. Instead he simply started his engine and pulled away from the curb, his face expressionless as he passed them. The Randalls, with Jeff Horton, followed. Behind them, the moving truck closed the gap.

Harney Whalen drove the black-and-white slowly and kept his eyes steadily on the road. But he was driving automatically, guiding the car almost by instinct. His mind was in turmoil.

Jeff Horton wasn’t going to go home.

Instead he was going to stay in Clark’s Harbor, stirring up trouble.

And the Randalls. Where had they come from? He searched his mind, trying to remember having signed a lease.

His mind was blank. He remembered showing them the house, but as for a lease — nothing. Absolutely nothing.

More trouble.

Harney Whalen didn’t like trouble. He wondered what he should do about it.

And he wondered why strangers kept coming to Clark’s Harbor. It had never been a good place for strangers.

Never had been, and never would be.

20

The procession made an odd spectacle as it moved out of Clark’s Harbor, the black-and-white police car leading the way with Harney Whalen at the wheel, his eyes fixed firmly on the road in front of him, an odd look on his face: a look that would have told anyone who happened to see it that Whalen’s mind was far away. Behind him were the Randalls, with Jeff Horton in the back seat. Elaine made sporadic attempts at conversation, but all three of them were preoccupied with their own thoughts, and they soon fell silent. The small moving truck brought up the rear.

It’s almost like some bizarre funeral cortege, Elaine was thinking. She glanced out the side window of the car and saw several people standing on the sidewalk, having left whatever they had been doing to watch the newcomers make their arrival. Their faces seemed to Elaine to be impassive, as if the arrival of the Randalls would have no effect on them whatsoever — something to be observed that would not change their lives. And yet, as she absorbed their strange impassivity, Elaine began to feel as if there was something else, some fear that they were trying to cover up. She glanced quickly at Brad, but he was concentrating on the road, unaware of the watching faces on the sidewalks. Then they turned up Harbor Road, leaving the village behind.

The procession headed north on the highway, passed Glen Palmer’s gallery, and quickly disappeared around the bend that would take them close to the coastline. Harney Whalen increased his speed, and the car and truck behind him accelerated. They were cruising at the speed limit when Whalen suddenly noticed the two children in the road ahead. For a few seconds he kept up his speed, bearing down on Robby and Missy Palmer, the car hurtling forward straight toward them. Whalen felt himself freeze at the wheel, unable to move. Then, as the gap between himself and the children quickly closed, he forced his right foot off the accelerator, hit the brake, swerved, and leaned on the horn.

Missy scrambled off the pavement into the ditch almost before the sound of the horn split the air. But Robby remained in the road, turning slowly to stare at the oncoming car as if he didn’t recognize that he was in danger.

“Robby!” Missy screamed. And then the horn was followed by the shrieking of tires being ripped loose from their grip on the pavement as the police car began to fishtail. Finally Robby moved.

It was a lazy movement, slow and methodical.

He stepped casually out of the path of the speeding police car, then watched idly as it skidded in a full circle, left the pavement, and came to rest on the opposite side of the street. As soon as it stopped Harney Whalen leaped from the driver’s seat and started toward Robby.

Brad Randall was already bringing bis car to a halt almost on the spot where the children had been. He hadn’t seen anything until Whalen’s brake lights had flashed on, the sound of the horn had hit him, and the police car had gone into its skid. Only at the last instant had he seen Missy leap off the road, then Robby moved slowly away from the path of the car.

“My God,” he said as he brought his own car to a stop. “He damn near ran them down. Didn’t he see them?”

“He must have,” Elaine said. She paused a second and a strange note crept into her voice. “Those are the Palmers’ children! Are they all right?”

Before Brad could answer, Elaine had scrambled out of the car and knelt beside Missy. The little girl was sobbing, and Elaine gathered her into her arms.

“It’s all right. Everything’s okay. Nobody’s hurt.”

“He did it on purpose,” Missy sobbed. “He tried to run over us.”

“No,” Elaine purred soothingly. “Nobody did that. Nobody would want to run over you.”

Then Harney Whalen was there, standing over her, his face pale, his hands shaking. “What the hell were you kids doing?” he demanded.

Elaine pulled the sobbing Missy closer to her and stared up at Whalen, her brows knitted into a scowl of anger.

“Didn’t you see them?” she demanded. “They must have been right in front of you.” She looked quickly around, searching for Brad, needing his support. Then she saw him crouched down next to Robby, checking the boy over. “Is he all right?” she called.

“He’s fine,” Brad replied. “Not a scratch on him. Just scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Robby replied.

“If you aren’t you should be,” Brad said, tousling the boy’s hair. “Didn’t anybody ever tell you not to walk in the street?” Then he turned to Whalen.

“Didn’t you see them?” he asked, echoing Elaine’s question.

“It happened so fast,” Whalen said. “All of a sudden there they were.”

“You must have seen them in plenty of time,” Brad protested.

Whalen stiffened and glared at Brad. “Well, I didn’t,” he said. “But I saw them soon enough. Nobody got hurt; nobody except me even got shaken up. So that’s that, isn’t it?”

“Is your car okay?” Brad asked.

“It’s fine,” Whalen assured him. “The shoulder’s almost level on that side.” He started moving toward the car, but Brad stopped him.

“Don’t you think we should offer the kids a ride home?”

Whalen glanced from Missy to Robby, then back to Missy.

“How about it? You two want a ride in the police car?”

Robby’s face brightened immediately but Missy frowned.

“No,” she said with finality.

“We can take you home,” Elaine offered.

“That’s all right,” Missy said. “We can walk.”

“Are you sure?” Elaine looked anxiously at the little girl, almost as if she thought the child should be unable to walk. Missy unconsciously pulled away from her. “We’re not supposed to ride with strangers,” she said carefully.

“We’re not strangers,” Elaine countered. Missy looked at her thoughtfully, then shook her head.

“We don’t want to,” she said. Her lip began to quiver, as if she were about to begin crying again.

Elaine stood up, shrugged, and sighed. “Well, if you’re sure you’re all right …” she began. She looked helplessly at Brad, but he was staying out of the situation, faintly amused by his wife’s efforts with the children. Whalen, accepting Missy’s decision as final, returned to his car and began maneuvering the vehicle back onto the road.

Reluctantly, Elaine followed Brad back to their car, where Jeff Horton was still sitting in the back seat. Twice she looked back at the children, but they didn’t move. Robby was watching the police car, but Missy seemed not to be watching anything. It was almost as if she were waiting for something, but Elaine hadn’t a clue as to what it might be. She got into the passenger seat next to Brad just as Harney Whalen finished turning the police car around. A minute later the procession was once more under way.

“He wanted to run over us,” Missy said to Robby as the two cars and the truck disappeared from view.

“He didn’t either,” Robby replied. He glared at his sister, wishing she weren’t so stubborn. “How come you didn’t let us ride in the police car?”

“I don’t like that man. He wants to hurt us.”

“That’s dumb. Why would he want to hurt us?”

“I don’t know,” Missy said petulantly. “But he does.”

Robby decided not to argue the point. “Well, we could have ridden with the Randalls.”

“Mommy and Daddy don’t want us to ride with strangers.”

“They aren’t strangers. He used to be my doctor, and they’re moving into the house on the beach.”

“Well, I don’t know them,” Missy insisted. “So they’re strangers.” Then she looked at her brother quizzically. “How come you stayed in the street?”

“I didn’t,” Robby replied.

“Yes, you did. I yelled at you, and you just stood there.”

Robby scratched his head thoughtfully. “I don’t really remember it,” he said. “It happened too fast. Anyway, I got out of the way, didn’t I? I didn’t just jump like a scared rabbit like some people did. Let’s cut through the woods and go home by the beach,” he suggested.

“I don’t want to,” Missy objected. “I don’t like the beach.”

“You never want to do anything,” Robby said scornfully. “If you don’t want to go by the beach, you can stay on the road by yourself.”

Missy’s eyes widened with indignation. “You can’t leave me here. Mommy says we’re supposed to stay together.”

“But she didn’t say we’re always supposed to do what you want. Come on.” He started across the road, but Missy stayed where she was. When he got to the other side, Robby turned around and glared at his sister.

“Are you coming, or not?”

Missy felt torn. She didn’t want to go through the woods, didn’t want to walk on the beach. For some reason the beach scared her, even though she knew it didn’t scare Robby. Most of all, though, she didn’t want to walk home by herself.

She wondered what her mother’s reaction would be if she showed up by herself. Mommy might punish Robby for leaving her alone, but she also might punish Missy for not staying with her brother. She made up her mind, on the theory that being a little bit scared was better than being punished.

“Oh, all right,” she said, and hurried across the highway to catch up with Robby, who was already hunting for a path into the forest.

Harney Whalen pulled as far up the narrow driveway as he could and still leave room for the Randalls and the truck to get in ahead of him. He switched off the engine but didn’t leave the car immediately.

He was still bothered by what had happened. He had tried to act as if it had been the children who had been careless. But he knew they hadn’t been.

He knew that he had seen them in plenty of time.

He had frozen at the wheel.

He had nearly killed them both.

And he didn’t know why.

For a moment it had been very much like the few seconds before he went into one of his spells. Time seemed almost to stand still, and something happened to his muscles — he lost control of them, as if his body were a thing apart from himself, operating under its own volition.

But always before it had been all right: usually he was alone when something like that happened. Alone, where no one could get hurt.

This afternoon two children had almost been killed. He decided it was time to have the talk with Doc Phelps that he had been postponing for so long.

The decision made, he got out of the police car and walked over to the Randalls, who were waiting for him together with Jeff Horton.

“Something wrong?” Brad Randall asked him.

“I’m okay. Just thought I heard something in the engine.”

Without further words, he led the way along the path that took them out of the forest and through the tangle of driftwood. He opened the kitchen door, surprised that it wasn’t locked, then handed the key to Brad.

“There’s only the one key,” he said. “It fits both doors, and I have the only copy. If you want another one you’ll have to get Blake to cut it for you.”

“I doubt we’ll ever lock the place,” Brad said.

“Suit yourselves,” Whalen said noncommittally. “City people always seem to think they’re a lot safer in the country than in town. But there’s nuts all over the place.” His eyes went to Jeff Horton, and Jeff felt himself flush with anger, but he kept silent.

Whalen led them through the house, halfheartedly apologizing for the mess, but not offering to have it cleaned up. “Sometimes I think I ought to just tear the place down,” he muttered.

“Why don’t you?” Brad asked. Harney looked surprised, and Brad realized the chief hadn’t intended to speak out loud.

“I don’t know,” Whalen mused. “Just never get around to it, I guess. Or maybe I just don’t want to. I come out here every now and then. Gets me out of the house.” He started to leave, then stopped and turned back to face the Randalls once more.

“I’m going to tell you folks something,” he said heavily. “Clark’s Harbor is an inbred town. We’re all related to each other, and we don’t take kindly to strangers. And it isn’t just that we’re not friendly. It’s something else — whenever strangers come to town the whole place seems to get sort of out of whack, if you know what I mean. So don’t expect things to be any good for you here. They won’t be.”

“Well, if we don’t go looking for trouble, I can’t see that it’s going to come looking for us,” Brad said.

“Can’t you?” Whalen replied. “Better ask around, Randall. What about Horton here? He and his brother came and trouble found them in a few hours. With the Shellings it took fifteen years, but trouble found them too. And there’s your friends the Palmers. They damned near had a peck of trouble just about an hour ago. Well, nothing I can say will convince you.” He glanced at his watch. “Better be getting back to town. There isn’t any more I can do here. The place is all yours. Rent’s due on the first of every month.”

Then he was gone.

“That bastard,” Elaine said almost under her breath.

“Is that any way to talk about your landlord?” Brad asked. Then he chuckled. “I think he enjoys playing the voice of doom.”

Jeff Horton shook his head. “I agree with your wife,” he said. “He’s a bastard.”

Before the discussion could go any farther, a burly form appeared in the kitchen door.

“You people want this stuff unloaded, or do we take it back to Seattle?”

* * *

From their hiding place in the woods, Robby and Missy watched Brad leave the house. They had been watching everything, watching the movers haul carton after carton into the old house, watching them leave. Now Brad was leaving too.

“I thought he was going to live here,” Missy said plaintively. “That’s what you said.”

“Well, who says he’s not?” Robby asked. “He’s probably just going into town for something. Why don’t we go say hello to Mrs. Randall?”

“I don’t want to,” Missy complained. “I don’t like that house.”

“You always say that,” Robby pointed out. “What’s wrong with it?”

“I don’t know. Bad things happen there. They happen all over this beach. I want to go home.”

“So go home.”

“Come with me.”

“I don’t want to. I like the beach.”

“It’s late,” Missy pointed out. “Mommy’s going to be mad at us.”

“Oh, she isn’t either,” Robby replied. But despite his brave words, he wasn’t sure that Missy wasn’t right; his mother had been acting very strange lately and Robby couldn’t figure out why. Ever since that woman had killed herself, his mother had seemed worried. He gave in to his sister.

“All right,” he said. “Come on.”

He started out of the woods but again Missy stopped him.

“Let’s go through the woods for a while.”

“Why?”

“This is the part of the beach where that man washed up,” Missy said.

“How do you know?”

“I just know, that’s all!”

“You don’t either,” Robby said angrily.

“I do too!” Missy insisted. She began walking away from her brother. “You can go that way if you want, but I’m going through the forest.”

Robby decided his sister was a royal pain, but he followed her anyway, obeying his mother’s edict that the two of them should stick together. A few minutes later Missy clutched his hand.

“What’s wrong?” Robby asked wearily.

“I’m scared. Let’s run.” She tugged at Robby’s arm and almost involuntarily he began running with Missy. When they were near the cabin Missy suddenly stopped.

“It’s all right now,” she said. “I’m not scared anymore.”

“That’s because we’re almost home,” Robby pointed out. Missy looked up, and sure enough, there was the cabin, just visible through the trees. As they walked the last few yards to the house, Missy took Robby’s hand and squeezed it hard.

“Let’s not go on the beach anymore,” she pleaded softly.

Robby looked at her curiously, but said nothing.

Brad pulled up in front of the gallery and made sure he wasn’t parked on the pavement, remembering the ticket Harney Whalen had written him the last time be bad been here. Then he went to the gallery door and stuck his head in.

“Glen? You here?”

“In back,” Glen called.

As he made his way to the rear of the building Brad looked around, surprised at the progress that had been made. He was even more surprised to find that Glen wasn’t alone in the back room.

“You mean you finally got some help?” he asked.

Glen straightened up from the drafting table where he was working on some sketches and grinned.

“Did you meet Chip Connor when you were out here?” he asked.

The deputy put aside the saw he was holding and extended his hand to Brad. “Glad to meet you,” he said with a smile. “You must be Dr. Randall.”

“Brad,” Brad corrected him. He gazed quizzically at Chip. “Are you on duty?”

“Not for the last hour,” Chip said. “But if anybody in town wants to charge me with neglecting my duties, they could probably make it stick.”

Now Brad’s gaze shifted to Glen, and when he spoke he sounded genuinely puzzled.

“I don’t quite understand,” he said. “When you called this morning you sounded horrible. I expected to find you huddled in a corner or worse, not happily at work with the deputy sheriff.” He glanced at Chip. “You are Whalen’s deputy, aren’t you?”

“Also his nephew, more or less,” Chip said. As Brad shifted uncomfortably Chip’s smile faded. “You want to talk to Glen alone?”

“That’s up to Glen,” Brad countered.

“It’s all right,” Glen said. “Chip knows what’s been going on. As a matter of fact, he’s been helping me out with more than just this.”

Brad looked at the nearly finished gallery. “It certainly seems to be coming along,” he said. “Now why don’t you fill me in on whatever else has been going on?”

Glen opened three cans of beer and they sat down, making themselves as comfortable as possible on the makeshift furniture. Brad listened quietly as Glen and Chip explained what had happened over the last few days, and Harney Whalen’s unreasonable insinuations that Glen was somehow involved in the death of Max Horton, and possibly even Miriam Shelling’s. When he was done Brad shook his head sadly.

“I don’t understand that man,” he said. “At first I thought he simply didn’t like strangers. But I’m beginning to think it’s something else. Something much more complicated—”

“More complicated?” Chip asked. “What do you mean?”

Brad didn’t answer, didn’t even seem to hear what Chip had asked. Instead he asked Glen an apparently irrelevant question.

“What about Robby?”

“Robby? What’s he got to do with all this?”

“I don’t know,” Brad said, trying to sound casual. “But we know something’s happened to him out here, and now things are happening to other people too.”

Glen’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the implication. “Are you trying to say you think Robby’s involved in whatever’s happening?”

“I’m not trying to say anything,” Brad replied. “But things that seem to be unrelated often aren’t. I think I better have a look at Robby.”

The three men fell silent. Suddenly there was nothing to say.

21

Chip Connor sat at the bar of the Harbor Inn that evening sipping slowly on a beer, trying to sort out his thoughts. He was confused and upset; things seemed to him to be getting far too complicated. He drained the beer, slammed the empty glass down on the bar, and called for another one. Merle Glind appeared next to him.

“You want a little company?” he asked, rubbing his hands together. Chip smiled at the little man.

“Sure. Let me buy you a beer.”

Glind scrambled onto the stool next to Chip. He carefully added a dash of salt to the beer he had drawn, tasted it, and nodded happily.

“Nothing finishes off the day like a good salty beer,” he chirped. Then he looked at Chip inquisitively. “You want to tell me what’s on your mind?”

“I’m not sure anything is,” Chip replied evasively.

But Merle Glind was not to be put off. “It’s written all over your face. I know — I can tell. Now why don’t you tell me about it?”

“There’s not much to tell,” Chip said uncomfortably. “It’s just a bunch of things, all added together. I guess I’m worried about Harn.”

“Harn? Harn Whalen?” Merle Glind’s voice was filled with disbelief, as if it were incomprehensible to him that anyone could be worried about the police chief.

“That’s what I said,” Chip repeated sourly, but Glind seemed not to hear.

“Why, I just can’t imagine that,” he clucked. “There isn’t anything wrong with him, is there?”

Chip shrugged, almost indifferently. “Not that I know of,” he said slowly. “It’s just a lot of little things.”

“What kind of little things?” The innkeeper’s eyes glistened with anticipation, and Chip Connor suddenly decided he didn’t want to confide in Glind.

“Nothing I can put my finger on,” he said. He finished the beer that had just been put in front of him and stood up. “I think I’ll go for a walk. I’m probably just nervous.”

“It’s starting to rain out there,” Glind pointed out, his lips pursing and his brows knitting as he realized he wasn’t going to find out what was on Chip’s mind.

“It’s always starting to rain out here,” Chip replied. “Or if it isn’t starting, it’s stopping. See you later.” He tossed a couple of dollar bills on the bar and grinned as Merle scooped them up. Then he patted Glind on the shoulder and left.

It was a light rain, the misty kind of rain that makes the air smell fresh and doesn’t require an umbrella. It felt cold on Chip’s face, and he liked the feeling. It was almost like sea spray, but softer, gentler, almost caressing.

He started for the wharf, thinking he might check the moorings on the boats, but as he stepped out onto the pier he realized someone was already there: a small light bobbed in the darkness.

“Hello?” Chip called. The bobbing light swung around. Chip instinctively raised a hand to cover his eyes as the light blinded him.

“Chip? That you?” Chip recognized the reedy voice immediately.

“Granddad?”

“Well, it’s not the bogeyman, if that’s what you were expecting.”

Chip hurried out onto the wharf. “What are you doing out here in the rain? You’ll catch pneumonia.”

“If I were going to catch pneumonia I’d have caught it years ago,” Mac Riley groused. “I’m checking the boats.”

Chip chuckled. “That’s what I was going to do.”

“Well, it’s done. Everything’s secure, tight as a drum.” Then he frowned at Chip. “How come you were going to check? You don’t usually do that.”

“I was at the inn and I felt like taking a walk—”

“Something on your mind?” Riley interrupted.

“I’m not sure.”

“Of course you’re sure,” Riley snapped. “Give me a ride home and let’s talk about it. I’ve got some scotch that I’ve been saving just for a night like tonight.”

“What’s so special about tonight?” Chip asked.

“You. I don’t get to see you as much as I’d like. Well, that’s grandsons for you. Only come around when they have a problem. I can sit around jawing with Tad Corey and Clem Ledbetter all day and it doesn’t do me any good at all. They think I’m a senile old man.”

“You?” Chip laughed out loud. “The day you get senile will be the day you die.”

“Thanks a lot,” the old man said dryly. “You wanting to stand here in the rain all night, or do we get going?”

They returned to the inn, where Chip’s car was parked, and drove the few blocks to Mac Riley’s house in silence. “You ought to sell the house or buy a car,” Chip remarked as they went into the large Victorian house that Riley had built for his bride more than sixty years earlier.

“I’m too old,” Riley complained. “Can’t get a driver’s license, and can’t learn to live anyplace else. Besides, I don’t feel lonely here. Your grandmother’s in this house.”

As Chip’s brows rose in skepticism, Riley snorted at him.

“I don’t mean a ghost, or anything like that,” he said impatiently. “It’s just memories. When you get to be my age you’ll know what I’m talking about. Every room in this house has memories for me. Your grandmother, your mother, even you. But mostly your grandmother.”

They were in the tiny sitting room just off the entry hall, and Chip looked at the portrait of his grandmother that hung over the fireplace.

“She looks a lot like Harney Whalen,” he commented.

“Why shouldn’t she?” Riley countered. “She was his aunt.”

“I know. But for some reason I never think of it that way. I always think of Harn as kissing kin, rather than blood kin.”

“Around here there ain’t much difference,” Riley said. He found the bottle of scotch, poured two tumblers full — no ice, no water — and handed one of them to Chip.

“That who’s on your mind? Harn Whalen?”

Chip nodded and sipped at the scotch, feeling it burn as it trickled down his throat. “I’m worried about him,” he said. He was thoughtful for several minutes. Then he explained, “It’s a lot of little things. But mostly it’s the way he feels about strangers.”

“We all feel that way,” Riley said. “It goes back a long time.”

“But there doesn’t seem to be any reason for it.”

“Maybe not now,” Riley replied. “But there are reasons all right. Tell me what’s going on with Harney.”

“He’s been going after Glen Palmer.”

“Palmer? I didn’t know you even knew the man.”

“I didn’t up until a few days ago,” Chip said. “The day after Miriam and Pete Shelling’s funeral.”

Riley nodded briefly. “I was there, with Corey and Ledbetter. Other than us and Harn Whalen, the Palmers were the only ones who came.”

“That’s what Harney said. He made me go out and talk to Palmer. He wanted to know why Glen was there.”

“That doesn’t seem unreasonable,” the old man said. “Did you find out?”

“Sure. It wasn’t any secret really, except Glen didn’t think it was any of our business.”

“In a town this size everything is everybody’s business,” Riley chuckled.

“Anyway,” Chip went on, “Glen told me why he and his family went to the funeral, and I told Harney. Then he did something I just can’t account for at all. He tried to wreck most of Glen’s work.”

“Wreck it? What do you mean?”

Chip told his grandfather what had happened. “I felt rotten about it,” he finished. “I stayed around and gave Glen a hand, and he’s really a nice guy. I’ve been spending quite a bit of time with him. It’s funny — he can draw anything, but put a saw in his hand and it’s all over.” He smiled at his grandfather. “Wait’ll you see that gallery. With him designing it and me building it, it’s really going to be something.”

“You getting paid for it?” Riley inquired.

Chip squirmed. “Not exactly,” he said. “Glen doesn’t have any money right now. But I’m still getting paid. I’m finding out a lot of things I never knew about before. Nothing terribly important, I guess, but it’s the first time in my life I’ve ever really gotten to know anyone who wasn’t born right here. And the more I get to know Glen, the less I understand Harney’s attitude. If he’d just take the time to get to know him too, I don’t think he’d be so down on him.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Riley said.

“Well, I can understand him being suspicious of strangers, but it’s getting out of hand. He won’t do anything to find out what happened to that guy Horton, except that he seemed to think Glen had something to do with it — God only knows why — and the whole thing’s getting to me. I keep telling myself it’s only my imagination, but it seems to be getting worse. I’m thinking of quitting my job.”

Riley frowned and studied his grandson. Finally he appeared to make up his mind about something.

“Maybe I’d better tell you a little about Harney,” he said. “Life hasn’t been too easy for him, and most of the rough times were caused by strangers. It was a long time ago, but things like what happened to Harney when he was a boy stay with a man. And sometimes the old memories are stronger than the new ones, if you know what I mean.” He leaned forward confidentially. “Don’t tell anybody, but sometimes I can remember things that happened sixty, seventy years ago better than I can recollect things that happened last month.”

He handed his glass to Chip and asked him to refill it. While the younger man did, Riley’s gaze drifted away, focused somewhere beyond the room and the rainy night. When Chip gave him the full glass, his eyes seemed to be almost closed. But as he took the glass, he began talking.

“When Harney was a boy he lived with his grandparents. His mother — your grandmother’s sister — died birthing Harn, and his father took off a little after that He came back, but he was never quite the same. So it wound up that Harn’s grandparents took care of them both. Anyway, Harn’s granddaddy owned a whole lot of land around here, most of it forest. He never did much with it, just sort of sat on it, but eventually some of the big lumbering boys from Seattle came out here and tried to buy it.

“Old Man Whalen wouldn’t sell, so then they tried to get him to lease the timber rights to them. That didn’t work either, and it looked for a while like that would be the end of it. But then something happened.”

The old man stopped talking and his eyes closed once more. For a few seconds Chip thought his grandfather had fallen asleep, but then Riley’s eyes blinked open and he stared at Chip.

“I’m not sure I ought to tell you the story — it happened a long time ago and it isn’t very pleasant. But it might help you to understand why Harn feels the way he does about strangers.”

“Go on,” Chip urged him.

“Well, it was a night very much like this one,” Riley began. There was a storm brewing, but when Harney — he was only seven or eight at the time — went to bed, it hadn’t really hit the coast yet. Then, late at night, it came in, blowing like crazy.

“Nobody ever found out exactly what happened that night, but during the storm there were terrible things done. It was the next morning that all hell broke loose. Harney woke up and the house was empty. He looked around for his grandparents but they weren’t there. So he started searching for them.” Riley closed his eyes, visualizing the scene as he talked. “He found them on the beach. Sod Beach, about halfway between where the houses are now. Neither of them was there back then — the beach was just a beach. Anyway, Ham went out there and at first he didn’t see them. But they were there: buried in the sand up to their necks, drowned. It was just like the old Klickashaw stories, but that time it wasn’t a story. It was Harn’s grandparents. I saw them myself a little while later. The whole town went out there before they even dug the Whalens up. Awful. Their eyes were all bugged out, and their faces were blue. And the expressions — you wouldn’t have believed it.”

“Jesus,” Chip said softly. “Did they find out who did it?”

“Nah,” Riley said. Disgust edged his voice. “Everybody had suspicions, of course, and what happened after that didn’t help any.”

“Something else happened?”

“About a week after the funeral, Harney’s dad gave in and signed a lease with the lumber people. The old man wouldn’t, but Harney’s dad did. And then he leased the beach to that guy Baron, who built the house out there that Harney owns now.”

“How’d Harney get it?”

“He grew up,” Riley said flatly. “He Just waited around. The lease wasn’t a long one — only about ten or fifteen years — but by the time it was up his dad had died too and Harney owned the land. He just refused to renew the lease. Baron was mad — real mad. Claimed there’d been an unwritten agreement, some kinda option, I think. But Harn got some fancy lawyer from Olympia to go to work on that. Anyway, he ended the lease, and that was it for Baron. He stayed around for a while and tried to fish, but that didn’t work either. Got himself drowned, he did. Nobody around here gave a shit — they all thought he’d been in on killing Old Man Whalen and his wife.” The old man chuckled then. “Funny how I always think of him as Old Man Whalen — he must have been twenty years younger than I am now when he died.”

He stopped talking for a few minutes, then grinned at his grandson. “Funny thing. I was telling Tad and Clem about Baron the other day, but I couldn’t remember his name then. I know it as well as I know my own but it just slipped right on away. Anyway, like I told Tad and Clem, same thing happened to Baron’s wife as happened to Miriam Shelling. Hung herself in the woods. Might even have been the same tree for all I know.”

Chip stared at his grandfather. “She hanged herself? After her husband drowned?”

“Yup. Just like Pete and Miriam. Funny how things like that happen. I guess the guy who said history repeats itself wasn’t so far off, was he?”

“Funny Harney didn’t tell me about it,” Chip commented.

Riley made an impatient gesture. “Why would he? What happened to the Barons was thirty-five, forty years ago, long before you were even born. Anyway, that’s why Harney hates strangers so much. A couple of them killed his grandparents, even if no one ever proved it.”

Chip swirled the half-inch of scotch that still remained in his glass and stared thoughtfully up at the portrait of his grandmother. Her dark face had a stoic, almost impassive look, as if life had been hard for her but she had survived it. As he studied the portrait Chip realized that the resemblance between her and her nephew, Harney Whalen, was not so much a physical thing at all. It was the look. The look of impassivity.

Chip began to understand Harney Whalen, and his sense of worry deepened.

Missy Palmer lay in bed asleep, her hands clenched into small fists, her face twisted into an expression of fear. The rain pattered on the roof, and Missy began to toss in the bed. At the sound of a twig snapping outside, her eyes flew open.

She was suddenly wide awake, the memory of her nightmare still fresh in her mind.

“Robby?” she whispered.

No sound came from the bunk above.

Missy lay still, her heart thumping loudly in her ears. Then she thought she heard something. A snapping sound, like a branch breaking.

Her eyes went to the window and the thumping of her heart grew louder.

Was there something at the window? Something watching her?

Her dream came back to her. In it the … something at the window was chasing her. She was on the beach with Robby, and it was chasing both of them. They ran into the woods, trying to hide, but it followed them, looming closer and closer. Her legs wouldn’t move anymore. Try as she would, she couldn’t run. Her feet were stuck in something, something gooey, that sucked at her, trying to pull her down.

Then she fell, and suddenly the shape was above her, towering over her, reaching for her.

She screamed.

She felt her mother’s arms go around her and began sobbing, clinging to Rebecca.

“There, there,” Rebecca soothed her. “It’s all right. It was a dream, that’s all. You had a dream.”

“But there was someone here,” Missy sobbed. “He was trying to get us. Robby and I were running from him but he was after us. And then I fell …” She dissolved once more into her sobbing, and Rebecca stroked her hair softly.

Robby, awakened by the scream, hung over the top bunk, a look of curiosity on his sleepy face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked groggily.

“Nothing,” Rebecca assured him. “Missy had a nightmare, that’s all. Go back to sleep.”

Robby’s head disappeared as Glen came into the doorway.

“Is she all right?” he asked anxiously.

“She’s fine,” Rebecca told him. “Just a bad dream.”

Missy’s head stirred in her mother’s lap. “It wasn’t a dream,” she cried. “It was real. He was here. I saw him outside the window.”

“Who did you see, darling?” Glen asked.

“A man,” Missy said. “But I couldn’t see his face.”

“You were dreaming,” Rebecca said. “There isn’t anyone out there.”

“Yes there is,” Missy insisted.

“I’ll have a look,” Glen said.

He threw a raincoat on over his pajamas and opened the door of the cabin, shining his flashlight around the surrounding forest. There was nothing.

Then, as he was about to close the door, Scooter dashed between his feet, his tiny tail wagging furiously, barking as loudly as his puppy voice would allow. Glen reached down and scooped him up.

“It’s all right,” he said to the puppy, scratching its belly. “Nothing’s out there.”

Scooter, soothed by the scratching, stopped barking.

But Missy kept on crying.

Two miles away, while the wind rose to a vicious howl, the back door of Glen Palmer’s gallery flew open. The horror began.

22

Early the following morning Glen Palmer put on his slicker, opened the cabin door, and let Scooter out. The puppy scuttled around the corner, and when Glen followed, he found the dog sniffing under the window of the children’s room. He squatted down, picked up the wriggling puppy, and carefully examined the ground. There was a slight depression, obscured by the still-falling rain, that might have been a footprint.

Or it might not.

Glen frowned a little and tried to find another, similar depression, but the ground was rough, soggy, and covered with pine needles.

“Well, if anything was there, it isn’t now,” he muttered to Scooter, then set the puppy down again. Scooter, having lost interest in whatever he had been sniffing at, trotted happily off into the woods, looking back every few seconds to make sure he hadn’t lost sight of Glen. Clumsily he lifted a leg next to a bush, then ran back to the front door, where he began yapping to be let in.

As Glen followed the puppy into the house, Rebecca looked curiously at him from the stove, where she was frying eggs.

“Find anything?”

“What makes you think I was looking for anything?”

“You were. Was there anything to find?”

“Not without a liberal dose of imagination. There’s a dent in the ground outside the kids’ window, and I suppose I could claim it’s a footprint if I wanted to, but I don’t think anybody’d believe me. I certainly wouldn’t.”

Rebecca put down the spatula she was holding and began setting the table. “You want to get the kids going?” she asked.

“Let them sleep a few more minutes. I’ll take them in when I go and drop them at school.”

“What’s the rush this morning?”

“There isn’t any really. Except that Chip might show up and I don’t want to miss him.”

“I like him.”

“So do I,” Glen grinned. “I especially like the way he works. We’ll have the place open by the end of the week. And I’m going to give him that painting.”

“Painting? Which one?”

“The one of the old house where the Randalls live. He really likes it. It seems like the least I can do.”

They fell silent, but it wasn’t a comfortable silence.

“Something’s bothering you,” Glen said at last. Rebecca nodded.

“I keep having a feeling something’s happened, or is about to happen.”

Glen laughed. “Maybe you’d better go see Brad Randall along with Robby.”

“Robby?” Rebecca said blankly. “What about Robby?”

“Nothing, really,” Glen replied, trying to pass it off. “He just asked me if he could look Robby over. I think he wants to try to figure out what happened to him when we came up here. But if you ask me, he’s wasting his time.” Then his voice grew more serious. “What about you? This feeling you have?”

“Oh, it’s probably nothing,” Rebecca said, though her tone belied the statement. “Just nerves, I guess.” She paused a moment, then: “When was the last time Missy had a nightmare?”

Glen frowned, trying to remember. Then he saw what Rebecca was getting at. “Never, I guess. But that doesn’t prove anything.”

“Except that she said someone was outside last night and you found a footprint.”

“I found something that might have been a footprint,” Glen corrected her. “Let’s not make a mountain out of a molehill. One nightmare doesn’t mean anything.”

“But she thought she saw someone outside before, remember?”

“That happens to all kids. They have vivid imaginations. You know that as well as I do.”

Rebecca sighed. “I suppose so,” she said reluctantly. “But I still have this feeling.” Then she forced a smile. “I suppose I’ll get over it. Why don’t you get the kids out of bed?”

Glen dropped the children off at the tiny Clark’s Harbor school an hour later, then went on to the gallery. He knew something was wrong as soon as he opened the door.

The display cases, finished only the day before, had been smashed. All the glass was shattered, and the framing had been torn apart and scattered around the room. The shelves, securely anchored to the walls by Chip Connor only a few days before, had been ripped down.

The back room was even worse. The shelves on which Rebecca’s pottery had been stored were empty; the pottery itself was on the floor, heaped against one wall, every piece smashed beyond recognition.

And the paintings.

They were still in their frames, but they too had been destroyed, viciously slashed. Every canvas was in tatters, made even more grotesque by the undamaged frames.

Glen stared at the wreckage, first in disbelief, then in grief, and finally in rage. He felt the anger surge through him, felt a towering indignation take possession of him. He turned away from the wreckage, walked through the main gallery and out the front door. Without pausing at his car, he started walking into the village, staring straight ahead.

Fifteen minutes later he stalked into the police station.

Chip Connor looked up when he heard the door open. At the look on Glen’s face, his greeting died on his lips and he stood up.

“The gallery—” Glen began. Then he choked on his own words and stopped. He stood quivering in front of Chip, trying to control himself, trying to force himself neither to scream nor to cry. He breathed deeply, sucking air into his constricted lungs, then let it out in an immense sigh.

“Someone broke into the gallery last night,” he said at last. “They wrecked it.”

“Come on.” Chip grabbed his hat and started out of the office.

“Where are you going?” Glen demanded.

“I want to see it,” Chip said. There was an icy quality in his voice that Glen had never heard before.

“Not yet,” Glen said. “Let me sit down a minute.” He felt suddenly weak, and let himself sink into a chair. “Do you have any coffee around here? Or maybe even a drink?”

The coldness immediately left Chip’s manner. He closed the office door, poured Glen some coffee from the huge percolator that was always ready, and sat down at the desk again.

“Sorry,” he said. “I guess that wasn’t very professional of me. What happened?”

“I don’t know. I walked in and the place was wrecked. Both rooms. And Rebecca’s pottery. And my paintings.”

“Shit,” Chip cursed softly. “How bad is it?”

“The pottery and the paintings are completely ruined. As for the gallery, you’ll know better than I. Frankly, I didn’t take time to really look. I walked down here as soon as I saw what had happened.”

“You walked?”

“I was so mad I could hardly see straight, and I didn’t even think about getting into the car. If I had, I probably would have run it into a tree.” Then he frowned slightly. “Where’s Whalen?”

“Not here. He’s over to Doc Phelps’ this morning.”

“Well, I’m just as glad he isn’t here,” Glen said wearily. “I probably would have blown it completely if I’d had to talk to him. Is there more coffee there?”

“Help yourself.” He waited, chewing thoughtfully on his lips, while Glen refilled his cup. When Glen was seated once more, Chip spoke again. “Can I ask you a question?” he said.

“Sure,” Glen said tonelessly.

“Did you come over here to report what happened, or to yell at Harney Whalen?”

The question caught Glen by surprise and he had to think about it. “I don’t honestly know,” he said finally. “Both, I guess. I had to report it, of course, but I was going to to vent some anger on Whalen too.” He smiled weakly. “I guess it’s just as well he isn’t here.”

“I guess so,” Chip agreed. “You about ready to go over to the gallery? I’ll make out a report there, and we can decide what to do next.”

“Do? What’s there to do? Everything’s ruined.”

“Maybe,” Chip agreed. “Maybe not. Let’s go find out.”

“Holy Christ,” Chip said as the two of them entered the gallery. “It looks like someone let a bear loose in here.”

He pulled out his notebook and began writing down a description of the damage. When he was finished in the front room he went into the back and repeated the process.

“They came in here,” he said, starting at the back door. It hung grotesquely, one hinge completely torn loose from the frame.

He made a few more notes, then put the notebook away. Glen was staring at the shreds of the paintings, his face expressionless.

“Is there any way to repair them?” Chip asked.

Glen shook his head. “You can fix a small tear sometimes, but nothing like this,” he said tonelessly.

Chip couldn’t bear the look in Glen’s eyes. “I don’t know if it’ll do any good,” he said, “since there doesn’t seem to be anything to sell. But we can fix the gallery.”

“It’s all broken up,” Glen said dully.

“Not that bad. We’ll have to get new glass, but the cases can be put back together again.” He smiled briefly, then added, “It isn’t as if the shelves haven’t been torn off the walls before.”

“It will just happen again,” Glen pointed out.

“Not if we put in an alarm system. And not if we find out who did it.”

“Oh, come on, Chip. We’re not going to find out who did it, and you know it.”

“We might,” Chip said. Then he decided he might as well be honest. “No, you’re right, we probably won’t. Hell, we don’t even know why they did it.”

“I guess you know what I think,” Glen said.

“Can I make a suggestion?” Chip asked, deliberately ignoring Glen’s comment. Without waiting for an answer, he went on. “Take the day off. Go home and tell Rebecca what happened, then decide what the two of you want to do. We’ll start cleaning up tomorrow. I’m off duty.”

“Okay. The mess has to be cleaned up anyway.” Glen’s face clouded as a memory came back to him. “Rebecca said something was going to happen,” he said. “Just this morning, when we got up. She said something’s happened or is about to happen. I guess she was right.”

They had walked from the back room into the gallery, but suddenly Glen returned to the workroom. A minute later he was back.

“They didn’t get everything,” he said triumphantly. “There was one picture I put away and they didn’t find it.”

Chip looked curiously at him as Glen turned the picture he held. It was the canvas depicting Sod Beach and the weathered old house with the strange presence in the window.

“I’m glad it was this one,” Glen said. “I put it away because I was saving it. But you’d better take it now, Chip. It might not be around much longer.”

“Take it? What are you talking about?”

“I was going to give it to you the day we finished the gallery,” Glen explained. “So I put it away, just so I couldn’t be tempted to sell it. But I think you’d better take it now, just in case.”

“I can’t take it,” Chip protested. “My God, it’s all you’ve got left.”

But when they left the gallery a few minutes later, Chip was carrying the painting and planning where to hang it.

Harney Whalen sat in Dr. Phelps’ cluttered office, and described what had happened the previous afternoon. Phelps listened patiently. When Harney finished he shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t see why you came to me,” he said. “You froze at the wheel for a couple of seconds. Everybody does that now and then.”

“But it’s more than that, Doc.” Harney hesitated. “I have spells.”

“Spells? What do you mean, spells? Sounds like a little old lady’s symptom.”

“It’s the only way I can describe them. It’s almost like blacking out for a while, I guess. They don’t happen very often, or at least I don’t think they do, but when they start my hands start to twitch and I feel funny. Then there’s nothing until I wake up.”

Phelps frowned. “When was the last time you had one?”

“Last night,” Whalen admitted. “I was watching television and I felt it coming on. I don’t remember anything until this morning. I was in bed, but I don’t remember going to bed.”

“Hmm,” Phelps said noncommittally. “Well, we’d better look you over.” He took Whalen’s blood pressure and pulse, tested his reflexes, and went over him with a stethoscope. Then he took a blood sample and had Whalen produce a urine sample as well.

“I’ll have to send these down to a lab in Aberdeen, but we should find out if there’s anything there in a couple of days. Apart from the ‘spells’ how do you feel?”

“Fine. Same as ever. When have I ever been sick?”

Phelps nodded. “Well, everything looks normal so far. If nothing turns up in the samples, how would you feel about going into a hospital for a couple of days?”

“Forget it,” Whalen said. “I’ve got too much to do.”

Phelps rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Harn. You and I are the most underworked people in town. Or we were until recently.”

“It’s the strangers,” Whalen murmured. “Every time strangers come we have trouble.”

“You mean the Palmers?” Phelps asked.

“Them and the new ones. Randall’s the name. They moved into my old house out at the beach.”

Now Phelps’s interest was definitely piqued. “The Baron house? I thought you weren’t going to rent it anymore.”

Whalen smiled bitterly. “I wasn’t. But it seems I did.” He frowned, searching for the best way to explain what had happened. “I guess I had one of my spells while I was showing the place to Randall and his wife. Anyway, they showed up with a signed lease, and I don’t remember signing it.” He stood up, and began buttoning his shirt. “Well, what about it? Am I going to live?”

“As far as I can tell,” Phelps said slowly. “But what you just said bothers me. I have a good mind to send you to Aberdeen right now.”

Whalen shook his head. “Not a chance. If you can’t find anything wrong, that’s that. Never been in a hospital. I don’t intend to start now.”

“Suit yourself,” Phelps said. “But if you won’t follow my advice, don’t ask me what’s wrong with you.”

“Maybe nothing’s wrong with me,” Whalen said amiably. “Maybe I’m just getting old.”

“Maybe so,” Phelps replied tartly. “And maybe something is wrong with you and you just don’t want to know about it.”

“What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”

“Can’t help you either,” Phelps countered. “And what about other people? You might hurt someone — you almost did yesterday.”

“But I didn’t,” Whalen reminded him. “And I won’t.”

As Harney Whalen left his office Dr. Phelps wished he were as confident as Whalen seemed to be. But he wasn’t. The idea of Harney Whalen having “spells” worried him. It worried him very much.

* * *

Glen Palmer arrived home to find the cabin deserted. A note from Rebecca said she had gone down to the Randalls’ to see if she could give them a hand. He could fix his own lunch or come and get her. Since it was still early Glen decided to walk down the beach.

The leaden sky showed no signs of clearing; the sky to the west was almost black, and near the horizon storm clouds were scudding back and forth, swirling among themselves as if grouping for an attack on the coast. The light rain that had been coming down all night and all morning still fell softly, soaking into the beach immediately, leaving the sand close-packed and solid. The tide was for out, and the level beach, exposed far beyond its normal width, glistened wetly.

Glen walked out toward the surf line, then turned south, moving slowly, almost reluctantly. He was trying to decide how to break the news to Rebecca and what her response would be.

She would give up and demand that they leave Clark’s Harbor. Or she would be angry. Or prepared for a fight, ready to do anything to show that she could not be frightened off. The last, he thought, would be typical of Rebecca.

He was wrong. Rebecca saw him coming when he was still fifty yards from the old house on the beach and went out to meet him.

“It happened, didn’t it?” she asked softly.

Glen looked up, startled. He hadn’t seen her coming — he’d been staring at the sand at his feet, preoccupied. He nodded mutely.

“What was it?”

“The gallery’s been vandalized,” Glen told her.

“Vandalized? You mean someone broke in?”

“They broke in, they wrecked the gallery, they smashed all your pottery, and they shredded all but one of my canvases.”

“Which one?” Rebecca asked irrelevantly, and Glen realized that she was shutting out what he had said. Of all the possible reactions, this was one Glen hadn’t considered.

“The one I gave Chip,” he said softly. Rebecca turned slowly and gazed at the old house that was the subject of Glen’s only surviving canvas.

“Somehow that seems right,” she commented. Then she slipped her arm through Glen’s and stared up into his troubled eyes. “Let’s not worry about it now. Not this minute anyway. If I have to decide what to do right now I’ll make the wrong decision. So let’s wait, all right? We’ll talk it over with Brad and Elaine, then pretend nothing’s happened for the rest of the day. And tonight when we’re in bed we’ll make up our minds.”

Glen pulled her closer and kissed her softly. “If we decide in bed I know what we’ll do: we’ll stick it out here. When we’re in bed anything seems possible.”

“Then so be it,” Rebecca murmured. “But let’s not talk about it right now, all right?”

The chaos in the Randalls’ house was only slightly more orderly than that in the gallery, and Glen tried to sound cheerful as he made the comparison. But as he listened to Glen’s story of what had happened the night before Brad wondered if Robby had stayed in bed last night: Glen’s description of the gallery sounded all too much like the havoc the boy had been known to create in the past. So when Robby and Missy arrived, scrambling over the driftwood on their way home from school, Brad quickly found an excuse to take Robby for a long walk on the beach.

“Pretty out here, isn’t it?” he said casually when they were out of earshot of the house. Robby nodded noncommittally.

“Your dad tells me you love it out here,” Brad prodded gently.

“It’s all right. But I like it best when it rains.”

“Why’s that?”

Robby turned the question over in his mind. Nobody had ever asked him that before, and he hadn’t ever thought about it. Now, with the openness of childhood, he began thinking out loud. “I guess I feel excited when the storms come up,” he said slowly. “But it’s a funny land of excited. Not like Christmas, or my birthday, when I know something good’s going to happen. It’s more like a feeling in my body. I get sort of tingly, and sometimes it’s hard to move. But it’s not a bad feeling — it’s more like it’s what’s supposed to happen. It’s exciting and relaxing all at the same time. Sometimes when I’m out in the storms I feel like lying down on the ground and letting the rain fall all over me.”

“You go out in the storms?” Brad tried to keep his voice casual but there was a note of concern in it that Robby detected immediately. He stared up at Brad, his eyes large and frightened.

“Don’t tell Mom and Dad,” he begged. “They wouldn’t like it. They’d think I was still side, but I’m not. The storms make me well.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Brad reassured the boy. “But I’d like to know what happens when you go out in the storms.”

“Nothing, really. Missy thinks she sees things when we’re out together, but nothing ever happens. Sometimes I go by myself, but sometimes Missy comes with me,” he explained, though Brad hadn’t voiced the question that was in his mind. “But Missy never wants to go and I always have to talk her into it. She’s a scaredy-cat.”

“What about the night I met you on the beach? Missy wasn’t with you then.”

“I was looking for Snooker and Missy wouldn’t come. She said he was gone and wasn’t coming back and there wasn’t any use looking for him.” Robby looked dejected. “I guess she was right,” he said softly, as if the admission hurt him.

“Do you ever see anyone else when you’re out in the storms?”

Robby thought about it and decided that the only time he’d actually seen anyone was a few weeks earlier. “We met Old Man Riley once. He told us stories about the Indians, and how they used to kill people on the beach and hold ceremonies and all kinds of stuff. But that’s all.”

They walked in silence for a while as Brad tried to make sense out of what Robby had said. It seemed, on the surface, as if nothing particularly unusual was happening. And yet, Brad was sure there was something else just beneath the surface. He decided to ask one more question.

“Aren’t you ever frightened when you’re out by yourself and the storms are blowing?”

Robby Palmar looked bewildered. “No,” he finally said. “Why should I? I belong here.” Then, before Brad could absorb what he had said or question him about the previous night, Robby turned and began running back to the house. Brad watched him go and wondered what he had meant. Wasn’t Robby, like the rest of his family, a stranger here? How could he “belong”?

As soon as Brad returned to the house Glen drew him aside, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. “Well?” he asked expectantly.

“I don’t know,” Brad said slowly, wishing he could come up with an easy explanation for the events that were ensnaring Clark’s Harbor. “It has something to do with the storms. Robby says they ‘excite’ him. And if they excite him they must do the same to other people. Only they don’t calm the other people down. The storms must turn them into monsters instead.”

Brad didn’t tell Glen what Robby had said about Missy. For the moment, he decided, he would keep it to himself. At least until he had a chance to talk to Missy directly.

As the afternoon light began to fade Dr. Bradford Randall stared out over the Pacific Ocean and tried to keep the dogs of fear that were nibbling at the edges of his consciousness at bay.

There was an explanation for what was happening around him. He could find it.

But even if he found it he wasn’t sure he could do anything about it. He remembered the old adage: everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.

Maybe there was nothing that could be done about it.

23

Elaine Randall hadn’t slept well. She was uneasy in their new surroundings, but there was something more — what Brad had told them the night before. It hadn’t sounded logical. And yet she knew that weather could affect people. Ionization, the Santa Ana winds, that sort of thing. But here, in Clark’s Harbor? It may not have made sense, but it was frightening. So she had lain awake most of the night, listening to the steady roar of the surf. And thinking.

Twice she had gotten up, both times without disturbing Brad, and stared out at the beach. It was clear and she had seen the Big Dipper glowing brightly in the black sky. A half-moon had turned the beach a burnished pewter tone.

Near dawn she had finally drifted into a fitful sleep.

Now she was up, battling with the recalcitrant wood stove, poking at the remains of a dead fire. Rebecca had showed her how to bank the fire last night, but Elaine wasn’t sure it had worked. She grasped a poker in her right hand. A small bellows sat on top of the stove, ready for her to use in the unlikely event a spark should appear. She jabbed viciously at the largest chunk of wood remaining in the firebox, and was surprised when it broke in two and exposed its glowing interior.

She crammed a wad of newspaper into the firebox, picked up the bellows, and began frantically pumping. She heard Brad come into the kitchen but was too intent on getting the fire going to offer more than a muttered “good morning.”

Brad watched her for a few minutes, then took the bellows out of her hands.

“You’re working too hard,” he said. “You’ll blow the fire out as fast as you feed it. Do it slowly.” He worked the bellows easily and a moment later a tiny flame leaped to life, igniting the paper. Brad put the bellows aside and tossed some chips of wood onto the tiny blaze, then some kindling. The fire grew steadily.

“Nothing to it,” he announced.

“Beginner’s luck,” Elaine said. “It was all set to go when you took over. Hand me the coffee.”

She carefully measured out the coffee, then placed the basket inside the aluminum percolator that stood waiting on the stove. “I could learn to do without coffee at this rate,” she complained. “Any idea how long it’s supposed to perk, assuming it ever starts?”

“Till it’s done,” Brad replied just as there was a knock at the kitchen door, followed by a voice.

“Anybody home?” It was Rebecca Palmer, and she didn’t wait for a reply before coming in. She was carrying a thermos.

“I thought you might be able to use this,” she said cheerfully. “The first couple of days we were here I couldn’t get the coffee to perk at all.” She pulled the top off the thermos and the room filled with the aroma of fresh, strong coffee. Elaine poured three cups and immediately took a sip from one of them.

“I may live,” she sighed. Then she looked questioningly at Rebecca. “Did you see Jeff?”

“Jeff? Isn’t he here?”

“I thought I heard him go out just before I got up,” Elaine replied. “I think he was going out to look for wreckage.”

“He’s not on the beach,” Rebecca said.

“Probably went the other way,” Brad suggested. “But I don’t think he’ll find anything.”

Chip Connor found Harney at his desk, sourly going over the report Chip had left there the night before. The chief looked up at him and pushed the file aside.

“You expect me to do anything about that?” he asked.

“It’s our job,” Chip pointed out.

“Anything stolen?”

“Not as far as Glen could tell. But you should see the place,” Chip added. “It’s a mess.”

“Well, that’s the way things go sometimes,” Whalen said, unconcerned. “If nothing was stolen then what’s the big deal?”

“You mean you aren’t going to do anything?” Chip couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“No,” Whalen said heavily, “I’m not.”

Chip’s eyes narrowed angrily. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, Harn. It seems like lately you just don’t give a damn what goes on around here.”

“I don’t give a damn about what happens to outsiders,” Whalen corrected. “And I have my reasons.”

“I know about your reasons,” Chip replied. “Granddad told me all about it. But the past is the past, Harney. All that happened years ago. Things change.”

“Some things change. Some don’t.= Some things can be forgiven, and some can’t. I haven’t forgotten what happened to my grandparents. Never will. And as far as I’m concerned, I don’t want any outsiders hanging around this town. They’re dangerous.”

“It seems to me that this town’s more dangerous for them than they are for us,” Chip countered.

“That’s the way things are here.” A hatred came into Whalen’s voice, a tone that Chip had never heard before. “When my grandparents first came here it was dangerous for them. The Indians didn’t like what was going on and they did their damnedest to get rid of all the whites. But my grandparents hung on and they learned to live here. My daddy even married a girl who was part Indian, but I guess you know about that, don’t you?”

Chip nodded, wondering what Whalen was getting at.

“Well, the Indians went away after a while, up north, and left us alone. But they always said the place would be no good for strangers. And it hasn’t been. The lumbermen tried to come in here, but it wasn’t any good for them.”

“That was your doing,” Chip said. “First your grandfather’s, then yours.”

“I didn’t renew a lease, that’s all,” Whalen said mildly. “But they should have gone away then. They didn’t. They tried to stay and fish. And it didn’t work.”

“I heard,” Chip said dully.

“Well, it’s been that way ever since,” Whalen said. “Every now and then strangers come, and they always bring trouble. But it’s just like the Indians said. The trouble always flies back in their faces. And you know something, Chip? There’s not a damned thing we can do about it.”

“You don’t even try.”

“Not anymore, no,” Whalen agreed. “I used to but it never did any good. So I live with it. Can’t say it bothers me particularly.” He picked up the folder containing Chip’s report on the vandalism at Glen Palmer’s gallery. “So don’t expect me to do anything about this. I won’t find anything — anybody could have done it and there’s nothing to look for. If I were you I’d forget it. You just tell Palmer, if he wants to stay in Clark’s Harbor, he’d better expect things like this.”

Chip nodded his head absently and started to leave. But before he got to the door he remembered something and turned back.

“Did you see Doc Phelps yesterday?”

“Yeah.” Whalen said the word tonelessly, as if there were nothing more to add, but Chip pressed him.

“Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing he could find. I just didn’t feel very well the other night, so I decided to have him take a look. Must have been indigestion.”

Whalen wondered briefly why he was lying to Chip, why he didn’t want to tell Chip about his “spells,” then decided it was just none of Chip’s business. Besides, the spells weren’t serious. If Phelps couldn’t find out what was causing them there wasn’t any point in talking about them.

“Well, if you need me call me on the radio. I’m going to give Glen Palmer a hand today, but I’ll leave the radio open.”

Whalen scowled at his deputy. “I don’t suppose it’s any of my business what you do on your days off, but I think you’re wasting your time. You get involved with Palmer and you’ll get in trouble.”

“I don’t see how,” Chip said, annoyed at Whalen.

“That’s the way it happens, that’s all,” Harney said flatly. He pulled a file from the top drawer of his desk, and opened it, as if to dismiss Chip.

But as the door to his office closed behind his deputy, Harney Whalen looked up from the file he had been pretending to be reading. His eyes fastened vacantly on the closed door but he didn’t really see it. Instead he saw Chip’s face, but it was not quite the face he knew so well. There was something different about the face Harney Whalen visualized.

Something strange.

That was it, he thought to himself.

Chip’s become a stranger to me.

Then he put the thought aside and returned to the file in front of him.

“Want a beer?” Glen asked as Brad came through the front door. He and Chip were leaning against one of the display cases admiring their work. The mess was gone, the shelves were back up, and all but one of the display cases had been repaired.

“I thought you said it was destroyed,” Brad said, puzzled.

“I guess it wasn’t as bad as I thought,” Glen replied a little sheepishly. “Not that I could have fixed it myself, of course.”

“He’s been fussing around, getting in the way all day,” Chip said. “I told him to go out and paint a picture but he wouldn’t.”

“Well, if you can get along without him I’ll drag him down to the library with me.”

“The library?” Chip asked. “What’s at the library?”

Brad glanced at Glen and Glen nodded his head. “If he doesn’t think I’m crazy,” he said, “he’s not likely to think you are.” He turned to Chip. “Brad has a theory about what’s going on around here.”

“It has to do with the storms,” Brad said. “They seem to affect Glen’s son and I’m wondering if they might be affecting somebody else too.”

Chip frowned, puzzled. “I don’t get it.”

“I’m not sure I do either,” Brad said. “But it just seems as though too many ‘accidents’ have happened out here. I’m just trying to find out if they really are accidents.”

“You mean the drownings?” Chip asked.

“Not just the drownings,” Glen answered. “There’s also what happened here, and Miriam Shelling, and my dog. It all just seems like too much.”

“I don’t know what you think you’ll find out,” Chip said. “Harney Whalen sure doesn’t seem too interested.”

“What does he think is going on?” Glen asked carefully. He’d learned to be careful with Chip on the subject of Whalen.

“He seems to think it’s some kind of fate, or an old Klickashaw curse or something. He says whenever strangers come to Clark’s Harbor trouble comes with them, but that it always turns back on them.”

“Makes things simple anyway,” Brad commented.

“Yeah,” Chip said, a little uncomfortably. He glanced around the gallery and set his empty beer can down. “Tell you what,” he suggested to Glen. “If Brad wants you to help him, why don’t we call it a day? I’ll go down to Blake’s and pick up what we need to finish this off and we’ll do it tomorrow.”

The sky had turned black by the time they locked up the gallery, and Chip glanced at the western horizon. “Looks like a storm’s getting ready to hit.” The three men shuddered, keenly aware of what a storm could mean in Clark’s Harbor.

Jeff Horton had spent the entire day walking the beach, tramping north aimlessly, telling himself he was looking for wreckage from Osprey when in fact he was trying to sort out the pieces of what had happened.

He had been awake all night, and several times he had heard someone else downstairs, also awake. Twice he had been tempted to go down and tap at the Randalls’ bedroom door, just for the company. But it wasn’t company he needed. He needed to understand what was happening.

He had left the house early in the morning, telling no one where he was going — he was sure the Randalls would understand, and besides, he wasn’t sure where he was going. Or what he was looking for.

He knew that storms could kill people, but they did it simply, straightforwardly. They came down on you if you were at sea, tossed you around, terrified you, then, if the spirit moved them, hurled a gigantic wave at you and crushed you.

If you were on land you were safer, though a storm could still smash your house, drop an electrical line on you, or cut you down with a bolt of lightning. But could a storm make someone cast a boat adrift? Could it send someone into an art gallery to destroy its contents? Could it hang a woman from the branch of a tree in the middle of the woods? All Jeff Horton’s sensibilities told him it could not. And yet, as the wind began to blow and the dark clouds began to lower over the horizon, he turned south and started back toward Clark’s Harbor. The surf began to build and the tide began flooding in, the storm on its heels.

Missy and Robby were on Sod Beach when the storm struck the coast. As the first drops of rain fell Missy gave up her search for a perfect sand dollar and called out to her brother.

“It’s starting to rain.”

“So what?” Robby said, not looking up from the patch of sand he was carefully searching. So far he had found five undamaged shells, and Missy none, and he was sure she was just trying to spoil his fun. Besides, the beginnings of the storm made the beach exciting. He glanced up at the clouds, then grinned happily at the sight of the churning surf. He was only vaguely aware of Missy’s complaining voice.

“I want to go home,” she insisted. “I don’t want to stay out here and get soaked!”

“Nobody’s home,” Robby pointed out. “Dad’s still at work and Mom’s down at Dr. Randall’s.”

“Then let’s go there,” Missy begged. “We can go through the woods.” She started across the beach, determined not to look back, not to give her brother a chance to cajole her into staying on the unprotected sand. She wanted to turn around when she got to the reef of driftwood that lay at the high water line but was afraid to, afraid that if Bobby wasn’t coming along behind her she would give in and go back toward the angry sea and the growing storm. Not until she was safely into the forest did she risk a look.

Robby was no longer on the beach. Missy had a moment of panic, then decided that her brother was teasing her, trying to scare her. Well, she wouldn’t be frightened. And she wouldn’t go running around looking for him, the way he wanted her to. She would stay right where she was, in the safety of the forest, and watch. Sooner or later, Robby would come looking for her.…

Jeff Horton arrived at the north end of Sod Beach in a shadowy half-light, a dark gray dusk made heavy by the now-raging storm. The beach looked deserted, but as Jeff passed the Palmers’ cabin he paused, a curious sense of apprehension sweeping over him. When he began walking again he had an urge to run but fought it off, telling himself there was no danger, nothing to be afraid of; he only had a few hundred yards to go before he would be comfortably inside the Randalls’ house.

But as he moved through the storm Jeff began to feel an odd sensation: the lightning flashing around him seemed to slow him down, drain his energy. He wanted to run but found he could only walk, and with each step his stride became slower.

He tried to force himself to hurry but it did no good. And as his pace slowed he came to the realization that he was no longer alone on the beach. Something else was there, something terrifying. Something that had come out of the storm.…

From her vantage point in the meager shelter of the forest Missy could barely make out the shape moving steadily down the beach. At first she thought it must be Robby, but then she realized it was too big. It was too dark for her to recognize who it might be; indeed, as the light faded into darkness the figure began to disappear entirely. But as night closed around her the full force of the storm struck, and the beach was lit up by sudden flashes of lightning. Each time the beach became momentarily visible, Missy looked fearfully around for her brother. He was nowhere to be seen.

A few minutes later she lost her courage and crept away into the woods when the white flash of pent-up electricity suddenly revealed not one, but two figures on the beach. They were close together, and as she watched they suddenly merged.…

Jeff Horton felt the attack before it came. The hair on the back of his neck tingled and stood on end, and his feeling of apprehension changed suddenly into a sense of danger. He was turning to face whatever enemy was behind him when he felt the massive arm slide around his neck and a force on the back of his head pushing forward. He felt his windpipe close under the pressure of the opposing forces and began to struggle, his arms flailing in the rain. Once he got a grip on his unseen assailant, but his hands, slick with wetness, slid loose. Before he could break free he began to lose consciousness. His last memory was of a sound, a cracking noise from just below his head. He wondered what it might have been, but before he could find an answer the blackness closed in on him and he relaxed. Seconds later he lay alone on the beach, the rain pounding down on him, the surf licking at him like a beast sniffing at its fallen prey.

Missy ran along the trail through the woods, her heart pounding, her small voice crying out to her brother. And then he was there, standing on the trail ahead of her, waiting for her.

“I was looking for you,” Robby said softly. “How come you hid?”

Missy stopped running and stared at her brother, her breath coming in great heaves. She tried to speak through her gasps of exhaustion and fear but couldn’t. She sat heavily on a log and began crying. Perplexed, Robby sat beside her and put his arm around her.

“I–I saw something,” Missy stammered. “I was waiting for you, but you didn’t come, and I saw something. On the beach — there was someone on the beach, and then someone else — and I — oh, Robby, let’s go home,” she wailed.

Robby took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “You didn’t see anything,” he assured her. “It’s too dark.” He began leading her along the path, his step sure, his pace fast. The excitement of the storm swept over him. He wished it would never end.

At nine o’clock that evening the librarian at the tiny Clark’s Harbor public library — two rooms in the town hall — tapped Brad Randall on the shoulder. Brad stopped writing in the notebook he had nearly filled in the five hours he and Glen had been working and looked up.

“It’s closing time.” The gray-haired woman whispered, though there was no one else in the area. “You’ll have to come back on Monday.”

“That’s all right,” Brad said. “I’m almost finished.” He smiled at the woman ruefully. “I hope we haven’t put you through too much.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” the librarian assured him. “Most days I just sit here. It’s nice to have something to do now and then. Though what you want with all those papers is beyond me, I’m sure.”

“Just checking some things out,” Brad said mildly. “Sort of a research project on the history of the town.”

“Not much history,” the librarian sniffed. “We live and die and that’s about it.”

“That’s what I’m interested in,” Brad said mysteriously. The librarian’s eyes widened, but before she could ask any questions Glen Palmer came in from the other room.

“That does it,” he said. “We’ve gone as far back as the records go.”

“That’s all right. We’ve got enough information, I think.”

As Brad and Glen left, the librarian began putting away all the old newspapers they had gone through. She was puzzled. She made a mental note to talk to Merle Glind about it. If something was happening he would surely know what it was.

The storm had closed in and rain was coming down in sheets as Glen and Brad made a dash for Brad’s car. As they started toward the main highway the wind, blowing at close to gale force, pulled at the Volvo, and Brad had trouble keeping it on the road.

“Why don’t we leave your minibus at the gallery?” he suggested as they turned onto the highway. Glen shook his head.

“Not in weather like this. If there’s anything to your theory, this is the kind of night that something could happen to it.”

Brad chuckled appreciatively, and pulled as close to the ancient Volkswagen van as he could get. “You want to stop at our place on the way? I wouldn’t be surprised if Rebecca and the kids aren’t there, keeping Elaine company.”

“Fine,” Glen replied. “See you there.”

They found Rebecca and Elaine in the living room. The two women rose to greet them with worried faces.

“It’s all right,” Brad assured them. “We’re here and we’re safe. You don’t have to look like tragedy struck.”

His grin failed to wipe the frowns from their faces and they glanced at each other nervously. It was Elaine who spoke.

“The children came in a while ago,” she said quietly. “About half an hour after the storm struck. Missy thought she saw something on the beach, but she isn’t sure what.”

“Where are they?” Brad asked.

“We put them to bed,” Rebecca explained. “They were soaked and Missy was frightened.”

Missy thinks she sees things. Robby’s words echoed in Brad’s mind but he decided not to say anything. Not yet anyway.

“Did you find anything at the library?” Elaine asked softly, almost hesitantly.

Brad nodded. “Something’s going on all right,” he said. “We went through a lot of papers this evening. Every time something’s happened out here, there’s been a storm blowing. And it’s funny, it seems as though the worse the storm is, the worse the things that happen.” He was warming to his subject now, oblivious of the stricken look on his wife’s face. “For instance,” he went on, “did you know the Shellings weren’t the first case of a couple dying here?”

“What do you mean?” Rebecca asked, suddenly pale.

“The people who built this house died the same way,” Glen said quietly. “Baron fell off his fishing boat and got caught in his own nets. A few days later, Mrs. Baron hanged herself. It happened during a three-day storm.”

“I wish you hadn’t told me that,” Elaine said softly. “Things like that scare me.” Brad moved to put his arm around her shoulder but she pulled away suddenly as a thought struck her. “Where’s Jeff?”

Glen and Brad looked at each other blankly. “Jeff? He wasn’t with us. We haven’t seen him all day…” Glen’s voice trailed off as he realized what he had just said. Jeff must have been on the beach.

And a storm was blowing.

A bad storm.

He grabbed his coat and began putting it back on. “Let’s get going,” he said to Brad. He picked up a flashlight from the dining-room table and was gone. disappearing into the blackness. The wind-driven rain quickly blotted out even the faint glow from his light.

24

They almost stumbled over Jeff.

The young fisherman was lying in the sand, and if they hadn’t been walking at the water’s edge they would have missed him entirely.

“Oh, Jesus,” Glen whispered as Brad’s light played over Jeff’s face. The mouth was twisted in a grimace of pain. Dead, Glen thought. Oh, my God, he’s dead. But then his eyelids fluttered and Glen fell to his knees, touching Jeff’s arm. The eyes opened.

Jeff’s mouth began to work, but no sound came out. His eyes closed again, tightly this time, as he winced in pain.

Brad wanted to move him, to pull him further up the beach so the surf couldn’t get at him, but as he played the flashlight over Jeff’s body he realized something was terribly wrong.

Jeff’s head lay at a strange angle. His neck was broken.

That Jeff was alive at all was a miracle.

Then Jeff’s eyelids fluttered again and once more he tried to speak. Glen leaned down, dose to Jeff’s lips.

“What is it, Jeff? What happened?”

Jeff tried hard but no sound would come out of him. He used the last of his strength to take a deep breath, then made a desperate effort to speak. But before the words could be formed the breath turned into a soul-shaking rattle and was expelled in a long, slow sigh.

Jeff Horton, like his brother, lay dead on Sod Beach.

Elaine Randall paced between the kitchen and the living room, pausing every few seconds to stare futilely into the blackness of the night. Several times she forced herself to sit down in front of the fire, but it was useless. A moment later she was on her feet again, her nerves jangling, a knot of fear twisting her stomach.

Her eyes flicked around the room and she wondered briefly what she was looking for. Then she knew.

The float.

The glistening blue glass ball she had found on the beach — how long ago? It seemed like years, though it had been only weeks.

She picked the sphere up from its place on the mantel, and stared into its depths.

It was no longer beautiful.

What she had thought of as an omen for good now seemed evil to her. She turned it over in her hands, wondering what to do with it.

She decided to return it to the sea.

Without giving herself time to change her mind, Elaine put on her pea coat and hurried out of the house. She moved directly across the beach, and when she neared the surf line she stopped. She looked at the float once more, curiously, then raised her arm and hurled it into the pounding waves. As it left her hand Elaine felt a tingling — almost electric — in her arm. Suddenly terrified, she turned and fled back into the house.

Glen Palmer lurched unsteadily through the kitchen door, his face pale and his hands trembling.

Elaine stood at the stove stirring a pan of hot cider. As soon as she saw Glen she knew.

“You found him, didn’t you?” she whispered.

Glen nodded mutely and sank into a chair at the kitchen table, cradling his head in his hands.

Missy saw it, Elaine thought. She saw it happen. She touched Glen gently on the shoulder. “Just sit here. I’ll get Rebecca.” She frowned. “Where’s Brad?”

“He went to town,” Glen muttered. “He went to report what we found.” Elaine, not yet wanting to hear exactly what they had found, went to the living room and gestured Rebecca to the kitchen. “I’ll check on the kids,” she whispered. Rebecca hurried toward the kitchen as Elaine stepped into the room where Missy and Robby were occupying her bed.

Robby was sleeping quietly but Missy was wide awake.

“Where’s Daddy?” she asked.

“He’ll be in in a little while,” Elaine whispered. “He had to go out on the beach.”

The little girl seemed to shrink before her eyes. “He shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered. “The beach is a bad place.”

Missy’s words sent a shiver up Elaine’s spine but she said nothing. Instead she merely tucked Missy in and kissed her on the forehead. “Now go back to sleep. I want to be able to send your daddy in to kiss you, not scold you for staying awake. All right?”

Missy made no reply, but her eyes closed tightly and she squirmed further into the bed.

Did she really see it? Elaine asked herself. Dear God, I hope not.

She carefully checked the window, then pulled the door closed behind her. A moment later she was in the kitchen, listening as Glen tonelessly told them what had happened on the beach.

Merle Glind was pouring a third beer for Chip Connor when the telephone tucked away at the end of the bar suddenly began ringing.

“They never let you alone,” Merle clucked, setting the half-empty bottle on the bar next to Chip’s glass. “If it isn’t one thing it’s another.”

Chip grinned as Merle bustled down to the telephone, but his smile faded when the fussy little man held the receiver up and called out to him.

“It’s for you but I don’t know who it is.”

“Hello?” Chip said into the phone a moment later.

“Chip? It’s Brad Randall. Are you still sober?”

“I’m on my third beer,” Chip replied. “What’s happened?”

“Jeff Horton. Glen and I found him on the beach a little while ago. He’s dead.”

“Shit!” Chip said. Then: “Did you call Harn?”

There was a slight pause before Brad spoke again. “I decided to call you instead,” he said almost hesitantly.

“All right,” Chip said. “Where’s the body?”

“Still on the beach. We didn’t want to move it.”

“Okay, I’ll be right out.” Then he paused and frowned slightly. “Where are you?”

“Pruitt’s gas station. It was the nearest telephone. You want me to wait here for you?”

“No, I can meet you at your place. I’ll have to call Harney and tell him what’s happened.”

“I know,” Brad said. “If I hadn’t been able to find you I’d have called him myself.”

“Okay,” Chip grunted. “Go on back home. I’ll get there as soon as I can.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Is Glen all right?”

“A little shock but he should be out of it by the time you get there.”

“Will he be able to answer questions?”

Now there was a long silence, and when Brad finally answered his voice was guarded. “It depends on what kind of questions. That’s why I called you instead of Whalen, Chip.”

Chip bit his lip thoughtfully and wondered what would happen if he simply handled it himself and didn’t notify Harney until morning. He’d get his ass chewed, that’s what would happen, he decided. “I have to call him,” he told Brad. “He’s the chief.”

“I know,” Brad said tiredly. “All right. See you.”

Chip replaced the receiver on the phone under the bar and wasn’t surprised when he found Merle Glind hovering behind him, his eyes wide and curious.

“What is it?” he asked. “What’s happened?”

“Jeff Horton. He’s out on Sod Beach, dead.”

“Mercy!” Glind said. Then he clucked his tongue, his head wagging sympathetically. “I knew he should have gone. I just knew it.”

But Chip wasn’t listening. He had the phone in his hand once more, and was dialing Harney Whalen’s number. On the tenth ring, just as Chip was about to give up, Whalen’s voice came onto the line.

“Did I get you out of bed?” Chip asked.

“No,” Whalen replied, his voice sounding a little vague. “I was watching television. I guess I must have dozed off.”

“Well, you’d better get down to Sod Beach right away. Jeff Horton’s out there and he’s dead.” There was a silence and Chip wasn’t sure the chief had heard him. Then, as he was about to repeat himself, Whalen’s voice grated over the line.

“I warned the son-of-a-bitch,” he said. “Nobody can say I didn’t warn him. Take care of it, will you, Chip?”

The phone went dead in Chip’s hand. Harney had hung up on him.

By midnight it was all over. Chip Connor and Brad Randall had brought Jeff Horton’s body in out of the storm. It lay in the dining room, covered by a blanket, until an ambulance could be summoned to take it away. Rebecca and Elaine, chilled by the closeness of death, avoided the dining room as if whatever had killed Jeff might still be lurking there.

Chip hovered near while Brad examined the body, going over it quickly but expertly. When he was finished he drew the blanket over Jeff’s face and spoke quietly to Chip.

“His neck’s broken. That’s all I can find. Of course a full autopsy will have to be done, but that’s not my business. And I doubt they’ll find anything else. It’s almost incredible that he was still alive when Glen found him.”

“Why?”

“The way his neck was bent. He should have been dead just a minute or two after his neck was broken.”

“Then how did he stay alive?”

Brad shook his head doubtfully. “I’m not sure. Pure will, probably. His windpipe must have stayed open, but his spinal column is a mess.”

“Did Glen’s touching him have anything to do with him dying?”

“It might have but he’d have died anyway. If anything, all Glen did was put him out of his misery. There was no way he could have survived what happened.”

“What did happen?” Chip asked. “Can you tell?”

“From the bruises on the back of the neck, it looks like someone hit him with something — hard enough to crush the bones in his neck — then jerked on his head to make sure the job was done.”

“Christ,” Chip groaned, feeling a little sick at his stomach. “Why would anyone want to do that?”

“I wish I knew.” He looked curiously at Chip. “Isn’t Whalen coming out?”

“No. He told me to take care of it for him. I guess he still isn’t feeling well.”

“What do you mean?”

“He took yesterday off,” Chip said. “When I talked to him this morning he said something about indigestion. I guess it must have hit him again tonight.”

“Indigestion?” Brad repeated. “He doesn’t seem the type. He looks strong as an ox.”

“He is,” Chip agreed. “But he’s sixty-eight years old, even though he doesn’t look it.”

“Sixty-eight? I’d have thought he was in his late fifties.”

“Nope. He’ll be sixty-nine in August.”

Brad shook his head admiringly. “I should look that good when I’m his age,” he said, but his mind was no longer on Whalen’s appearance. It was his age that Brad had focused on. Something about his age that made some kind of connection. But before he could sort it out the ambulance arrived, and by the time they had finished attending to Jeff Horton’s body the elusive connection had slipped away.

Brad closed the kitchen door against the rain as the ambulance disappeared into the storm. “You still on duty, or can I offer you a drink?”

“I’d better not,” Chip replied. “I have to get down to the station and write up this report so Harney will have it in the morning.” He closed his notebook and prepared to leave. Then, just as he was about to open the door, he turned to Brad. He had one last question.

“Brad, do you have any idea what’s going on out here? What’s causing all this mess?”

Brad shook his head sorrowfully. “I wish I did. All I can tell you is that I think it has something to do with the storms.”

“The storms?” Chip repeated. “But we’ve always had storms.”

“I know,” Brad said softly. “And it seems like you’ve always had a mess too.”

Chip stared at him, then tried to laugh it off. “Maybe it’s the Indians. God knows they did terrible things out here.” Then he put on his hat and disappeared into the blackness outside.

25

The storm had not let up by morning.

As Brad and Glen drove into Clark’s Harbor the rain buffeted the car, flooding the windshield faster than the wipers could clear it away.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Glen commented. “I thought the worst storms hit during the winter.” “You never know,” Brad said as they pulled up in front of the town hall. “Sometimes I think they gave the Pacific the wrong name. This one looks as though it could blow for days.” Several people lounging in the lobby looked up as they came in, examining them with speculative expressions. Something new in Clark’s Harbor, Brad thought with some irony. Ignoring the inquisitive stares, they hurried down the hall to the police station.

Harney Whalen glared balefully at Glen as they came into his office. Before either of them could say anything, Whalen set the tone of the conversation.

“Seems like every time there’s trouble around here you’re right in the middle of it, doesn’t it, Palmer?” Glen felt the first pangs of anger form a knot in his stomach and silently reminded himself that losing his temper wouldn’t accomplish anything.

“It seems like every time there’s trouble it happens on Sod Beach,” he countered.

Harney Whalen snorted and tossed a folder toward Glen and Brad. “You want to look that over and tell me if it’s accurate?” Glen scanned the report, then handed it to Brad. When both of them had read it, Brad returned it to Whalen.

“That’s about it,” Brad said.

“You want to tell me about it?” Whalen asked Glen, ignoring Brad.

“There’s nothing to tell. We went out looking for Jeff and we found him. He died almost immediately.” “Why were you looking for him?” The curiosity in Whalen’s voice was almost lost in the hostility. “He’s a grown man—was a grown man.” “It was getting late — there was a storm blowing in. We just didn’t like the idea of him being out in it,” Glen replied.

“I think it was something else,” Whalen said coldly.

“Something else? What?”

“I think you killed him,” Whalen said. “Maybe one of you, maybe the other, maybe both. But I sure as hell don’t believe the two of you just went for a walk on the beach and found a dying man. Something makes men die and it’s usually other men.” Brad and Glen gaped at the police chief, unable to comprehend what they were hearing. Brad recovered first.

“I’d be careful what I said if I were you, Whalen.”

“Would you?” The sneer in Harney Whalen’s voice hung in the air, a challenge. But before either of them could take it up Whalen went on. “How about this? The two of you were at the library last night, right? Well, let’s suppose that while you were gone Horton wasn’t staying home taking care of your wives like a good guest. Let’s suppose he was just taking care of them. And you two walked in on it.” He eyed first Glen, then Brad, looking for a reaction.

Glen Palmer stood quivering with rage, staring out the window at the downpour, saying nothing. But Brad Randall returned Whalen’s icy look, and when he spoke it was with a calmness that Whalen hadn’t expected.

“Are you charging us?” he asked calmly.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Whalen growled.

“Then we’re leaving,” Brad said quietly. “Come on, Glen.” He turned and forced Glen to turn with him. Before they reached the door Whalen’s voice stopped them.

“I’m not through with you yet.”

Brad turned back to face the police chief. When he spoke his voice was every bit as cold as Whalen’s had been.

“Aren’t you? I think you are, Whalen. You aren’t questioning us at all. You’re accusing us. Now I’m not a lawyer, but I know damned well, and I suspect you know it too, that there’s no way you can talk to us if we don’t want to talk to you. Not without a lawyer here anyway.” Once more he started for the door with Glen behind him. This time Harney Whalen didn’t try to stop them. He simply watched them go, hating them, wishing they had never come to Clark’s Harbor, wishing they would leave him and his town in peace.

His fury and frustration mounting, Whalen put on his overcoat and rain hat and stalked out of his office. As he passed through the door of the police station, the loiterers quickly scattered, reading his ugly mood.

He started toward the wharf, unsure of where he was going or why. When he got to the wharf he turned north and began walking up the beach. The tide had peaked and was on its way out, and as he walked in the rain, the wind licking at him, his anger seemed to recede.

He walked the beach all morning and well into the afternoon.

He walked alone, silently.

As he walked, the storm swelled.

Bobby and Missy sat on the floor of their tiny bedroom, a checkerboard between them. Bobby stared sullenly at the board. No matter what he did, Missy was going to jump his last man and win the third straight game.

“I don’t want to play anymore,” he said.

“You have to move,” Missy replied.

“I don’t either. I can concede.”

“Move,” Missy insisted. “I want to jump you.”

“You win anyway,” Robby said. He stood up and went to look out the window. “Let’s go outside,” he said suddenly. From the floor Missy stared at him, her eyes wide with fear.

“We can’t do that. Mommy said we have to stay in today. It’s raining.” “I like it when it rains.”

“I don’t. Not when it rains like this. Bad things happen.” “Oh, come on,” Robby urged her. “It’s not even six o’clock. We can climb out the window, like I did last time. We’ll go down to the Randalls’ and come back with Daddy.” “I don’t think we should.”

“Scaredy-cat.”

“That’s right!” Missy exclaimed. “And you should be too!” Her mouth quivered, partly from fear but more from embarrassment at having admitted her fear.

“Well, I’m not afraid. I like it out there!” Robby pulled their raincoats out of the closet and began putting his on.

“I’m not going,” Missy insisted.

“Who cares?” Robby asked with a show of unconcern. “I’ll go by myself.” “I’m going to tell,” Missy challenged, her eyes narrowing.

“If you do I’ll beat you up,” Robby threatened.

“You won’t either.”

Robby pulled on his boots. “Are you coming or not?”

“No,” Missy said.

“All right for you then.” He opened the window and clambered out. As soon as he was gone Missy ran to the window, pulled it shut, and latched it. Then she went into the other room, where Rebecca was sitting in front of the fire, knitting.

“Robby went outside,” she said.

“Outside? What do you mean, he went outside?”

“He put on his raincoat and climbed out the window,” Missy explained.

Rebecca dropped her knitting and ran to the tiny bedroom, hoping her daughter was playing a joke on her.

“Robby? Robby, where are you?”

“I told you, he went outside,” Missy insisted.

Rebecca ran to the door, pulled it open, and started to step outside, but the storm drove her back in. She shielded her face and tried to see into the growing darkness.

“Robby? Robby!” she called. “Robby, come back here.” But the wind and the pounding surf of the cresting tide drowned her words.

She thought desperately, wondering what to do, and immediately knew she would have to go find him. If only Glen were here, she thought. If only he hadn’t gone down to the Randalls’. But he had. She would have to find Robby alone.

“I’ll go get him,” she told Missy. “You stay here.”

“By myself?” Missy asked. She looked terrified.

“I’ll only be gone a few minutes,” Rebecca assured her. “Only until I find Robby.” “I don’t want to stay by myself,” Missy wailed. “I want to go too.” Rebecca tried to think it out but she was too upset. Her instincts told her to make Missy stay by herself, but the thought of having both her children alone frightened her even more than the idea of taking Missy with her.

“All right,” she said. “Put on your raincoat and your boots, but hurry!” Missy darted into the bedroom and came back with the coat and boots that Robby had already pulled from the closet. Rebecca pulled her own coat on, then helped Missy. A minute later, clutching a flashlight with one hand and Missy with the other, Rebecca left the cabin. A sudden gusting of the storm snuffed out the lantern just before she closed the door.

The wind whipped at her and drove the pounding rain through every small gap in her raincoat. Before they were a hundred feet from the house, both Rebecca and Missy were soaked to the skin.

“I want to go home,” Missy wailed.

“We have to find Robby,” Rebecca shouted. “Which way did he go?”

“He said he was going out on the beach.” Missy was running now to keep up with Rebecca.

They stayed as close to the high-water line as they could, hurrying down the beach. The flashlight was almost useless, its beam refracting madly in the downpour, shattering into a thousand pinpoints of light that illuminated nothing, but made the darkness seem even blacker than it was.

Suddenly Missy stopped and yanked at her mother’s hand.

“Someone’s here,” she said.

Rebecca flashed the light around with a shaking hand. “Robby?” she called. “Roobbeeeee!” She turned so that her back was to the wind and called out again. There was no answer, but she suddenly felt the sharp sting of an electrical shock as a bolt of lightning flashed out of the sky and grounded itself in the nearby forest. And, she was sure, there was something behind her: an unfamiliar presence.

A presence she knew was not her son.

She dropped Missy’s hand.

“Run, Missy! Run as fast as you can.”

And then, as she watched Missy dash off into the darkness, she felt something slide around her neck.

It was an arm, a strong arm, and it was choking her. She tried to scream but her voice wouldn’t respond. She tried to batter at the arm with the flashlight, but the pressure on her neck only increased.

No, she thought. Not like this. Please, God, no …

Missy ran into the darkness, not knowing which way she was going. She only knew she was going away.

Away from her mother.

Away from whoever was with her mother.

Then she stumbled and fell into the sand, crying out into the darkness.

“Missy? Is that you?” She couldn’t see who was calling to her but she recognized the voice.

“Robby? Where are you?”

“Over here. Come on.”

She scrambled toward his voice and found herself blocked by a log.

“Climb over,” Robby urged.

Then she was beside him, crouched down behind the log, peering over the top of it into the darkness. In the distance the beam of the flashlight danced crazily, then suddenly fell to the ground and went out.

“What’s happening?” Robby asked.

“It’s Mommy,” Missy sobbed. “Someone’s out there—”

A bolt of lightning split the darkness, and the two children saw their mother. She was on her knees and there was a shape behind her, looming over her, holding her neck, forcing her head forward …

A shiver of excitement made Robby tremble, and he could feel every muscle in his body tense with anticipation.

The light faded from the sky and the roar of thunder rolled over them, drowning the scream that was welling from Missy’s throat. It was as if the storm was clutching at Robby, immobilizing him.

“Let’s go home, Missy,” Robby whispered. He forced himself to take his sobbing sister by the hand and lead her into the woods. Then, as the beach disappeared from their view, he began running, pulling Missy behind him.

Rebecca’s struggles grew weaker. She was blacking out. Time began to stretch for her, and she thought she could feel her blood desperately trying to suck oxygen from her strangled lungs.

Then she heard a crack, sharp, close to her ear, and she realized she could no longer move. It was as if she had lost all contact with her body.

My neck, she thought curiously. My neck is broken.

A second later Rebecca Palmer lay dead on Sod Beach.

26

The Coleman lantern on the dining-room table began to fade, and Glen Palmer reached out to pump it up just as the bolt of lightning that had illuminated Rebecca’s death a hundred yards away also flooded the Randalls’ house with light. Reflexively, Glen snatched his hand away from the lantern, then chuckled. Brad Randall looked up from the chart he was poring over.

“Maybe we should give it up for today,” Brad said. “I don’t know about you but my eyes are getting tired. I’m not used to lantern light.”

They had been at it all afternoon, charting the various events that had occurred in Clark’s Harbor, from the deaths of Pete and Miriam Shelling all the way back to the frighteningly similar demise of Frank and Myrtle Baron years earlier. Over the years there had been several fatalities in the area, usually in the vicinity of Sod Beach, always on stormy nights when the coast was battered by high winds. And as far as they could tell, most of the victims, if not all, had been strangers to Clark’s Harbor. Strangers who had come to the Harbor for various reasons and intended to settle there.

“It’s like the Indian legends,” Glen commented as they stared at the charts. “It’s almost as if the beach itself doesn’t want strangers here — as if it waits, gathers its forces, then strikes out at people.”

“Which makes a nice story,” Brad said archly. “But I don’t believe it for a minute. There’s another explanation but I’m damned if I know how to go about finding it.”

Glen thought a moment. “What about Robby?” he asked.

“Robby?”

“You said that the beach affects him. If that’s true, couldn’t it affect someone else too?”

Brad smiled wryly. “Sure. But it doesn’t help the problem. Until I know how the beach affects Robby, how can I figure out who else might be affected? So far I don’t have the slightest idea what the common denominator might be.”

Elaine appeared in the doorway. “Getting anywhere?” She looked drawn and tired.

“I wish we were,” Brad said. “But so far it’s nothing but dead ends. Apparently the storms are killing people, which is, of course, ridiculous.”

“What about Missy? Hasn’t anybody talked to her?”

The two men stared blankly at Elaine, wondering what she was talking about. A memory suddenly flashed into Brad’s mind, a memory of Robby, talking to him on the beach.

“Missy thinks she sees things.”

Did Elaine know something about that too?

“What about Missy?” he asked quietly. The tone of his voice, the seriousness with which he asked the question, frightened Glen, but Elaine’s answer frightened him even more.

“I think Missy saw Jeff Horton get killed,” she said. There was a flatness to her voice that somehow emphasized her words. “I haven’t talked to her but she said something last night. I–I told her that her daddy had gone out on the beach, and she said, ‘He shouldn’t have done that. Bad things happen there.’ That’s all she said, but I got the strangest feeling that she’d seen what happened to Jeff, or at least had seen something.”

Glen sat in stunned silence, but Brad was nodding thoughtfully. “Robby told me awhile ago that Missy thinks she sees things on the beach,” he murmured.

Glen suddenly found his voice. “Things?” he asked, his word edged with hysteria. “What kind of things?”

“He didn’t say,” Brad replied quietly. “I was going to talk to her about it but then everything started happening, and …” his voice trailed off, his words sounding hollow.

Glen stood up and pulled on his coat.

“Then we’ll talk to her now. I’ll go get Rebecca and bring her and the kids back here.”

Brad glanced out into the blackness of the storm. “You want me to drive you? It’s getting pretty dark out there.”

“No thanks,” Glen replied. “I’ll walk along the beach. It doesn’t look so bad out there now.” He finished buttoning his coat and opened the door. The wind caught it and slammed it back against the kitchen wall.

“Sure you don’t want me to drive you?”

Glen grinned crookedly. “You mean because of last night? They say if you fall off a horse the best thing to do is get right back up and ride him again. If I don’t walk the beach tonight I never will.”

He pulled the door closed behind him and disappeared into the rain.

Glen leaned forward into the wind, his right hand clutching the collar of his coat in a useless attempt to keep the rain out. His left hand, plunged deep in his coat pocket, was balled into a fist, and he kept his eyes squinted tightly against the stinging rain.

He made his way slowly, keeping close to the surf line, keeping his head down, watching the sand at his feet. Every few seconds he looked up, searching the darkness for the soft glow that should be coming from the cabin windows. Then, as the glow failed to appear out of the darkness, he began to worry and picked up his pace.

When he had walked nearly a hundred yards and felt the cabin should be dearly visible, he stopped and stared into the darkness, as if by concentrating hard enough he could force the dim light of the kerosene lanterns to appear in front of him. But still there was only blackness, and his concern turned to fear.

He began to run, no longer watching his steps, but straining his eyes to find the cabin, the cabin where Rebecca and the children would be waiting for him.

He tripped, sprawling headlong into the sand, his right hand only partially breaking his fall, his left hand, suddenly entangled in his pocket, useless.

He tasted brackish salt water in his mouth and felt the abrasive scraping of sand on his face. As he thrashed around, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and trying to get his left hand free, his foot hit something.

Something soft.

He felt the numbness begin in his mind — the same numbness that had fallen over him last night. He moved slowly, almost reluctantly.

He touched Rebecca gently, caressing her face. Even though she was still warm, he knew she was dead.

Her head, cradled in the sand, lay at the same unnatural angle as had Jeff Horton’s the night before.

It was as if his mind refused to accept it at first. Glen crouched beside her, rocking slowly back and forth, no longer feeling the wind, the rain funneling unheeded down his collar.

“Rebecca,” he said softly. Then he repeated her name. “Rebecca.”

The pain hit him, washing over him with all the unexpected intensity of a tidal wave, and he threw himself onto her, wrapping her in his arms, sobbing on her breast.

“Rebecca,” he moaned. “Oh, God, Rebecca, don’t leave me.”

She lay limply in his arms, her head rolling gently from side to side, her unseeing eyes staring up into the night sky.

Glen’s pain changed from the wracking misery of the moment of discovery into a dull ache, an ache he was sure he would bear for the rest of his life.

Why had Rebecca been on the beach at all?

He thought of the children.

Where were the children?

He should look for them. They must have left the cabin, and Rebecca must have gone to look for them; she would never have left them alone, not Rebecca.

He stood up and looked uncertainly toward the forest, a black shadow set deep in the darkness of the night. If they were out here they would be in the woods.

But he couldn’t leave Rebecca, couldn’t leave her lying cold in the rain and the wind, the surf lapping at her feet. Before he went looking for his children he would have to attend to his wife.

He picked her up and began carrying her toward the cabin, his fogged mind wondering with each step at his need to care for the dead before tending to the living.

Where Rebecca had lain, there was now nothing but sand — and the darkly glistening form of a blue glass fisherman’s float.

When he got to the cabin he paused, something preventing him from going inside. At first he wasn’t sure what it was, but after a moment he knew.

The cabin wasn’t empty.

There was nothing about it that told him it was occupied, only an intangible feeling. Though there was no sound, he was sure his children were there.

He laid Rebecca’s body gently on the porch, then opened the door.

“Robby? Missy? It’s Daddy.”

He heard a scrambling sound, and then the children threw themselves on him.

“Daddy, Daddy,” Missy sobbed. “Something awful happened.”

Glen sank to his knees and drew the children close. “I’m sorry, Daddy, I’m sorry,” Robby kept repeating, over and over.

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry about,” Glen told his son. “Nothing that happened is your fault. Nothing at all.”

“But I went out,” Robby insisted. “I wanted to go outside, so I did. And Mommy and Missy came to look for me, and then — then—” he choked on his words and began sobbing helplessly.

“We were on the beach,” Missy said. “Something grabbed Mommy, and Mommy told me to run, and I did, and — and—”

“Hush,” Glen whispered. “You don’t have to tell me about it now. I have to take care of Mommy, and I want you to do something for me.”

He disentangled himself from the children and lit the small lantern that should have been lighting Rebecca’s work as she waited for him to come home, but instead had remained cold and dark as night fell over the beach. As the flame flickered to life the room seemed to warm slightly, and Robby and Missy began to calm down.

“Robby, I want you to take Missy into your bedroom. Put some clean clothes in a bag. For both of you. Can you do that?”

Robby nodded gravely.

“All right. Then wait for me. In the bedroom. Don’t come out until I come for you, all right?”

“Are you going somewhere?” Missy asked, her eyes wide and her mouth quivering.

“No, darling, of course not. I’ll be right here.”

Missy started to ask another question, but Robby grabbed her hand and began pulling her toward their tiny bedroom. “Come on,” he said.

“Stop pulling,” Missy cried. “Daddy, make him stop.”

“Don’t pull her, Robby,” Glen said. “And you stay in there with your brother,” he instructed Missy.

As soon as the door separating their room from the main part of the cabin was closed, Glen opened the sofa bed he and Rebecca had shared and pulled one of the blankets off it. Then he carefully reclosed the bed and went back to the front porch.

He moved Rebecca to the end of the porch farthest from the door and carefully wrapped her in the blanket. When he was finished he went back to the front door, then turned to survey his work. If he got the children across the porch fast enough, they wouldn’t notice that something was lying there only a few feet away. Struggling to maintain his self-control, Glen went back into the cabin.

Robby and Missy were sitting quietly on the edge of the lower bunk, their faces serious, their hands folded in their laps. Between them was a brown bag stuffed with clothing.

“Mommy’s dead, isn’t she?” Robby asked.

“Yes, she is,” Glen said steadily.

“Why?” It was Missy, and her face looked more curious than anything else. Glen realized for the first time that Rebecca’s death had no meaning for them yet. While it was painful beyond bearing for him, for his children it was still an abstract event.

“I don’t know,” he said gently. “Sometimes things like this happen.”

“Do we have to go away?” Robby asked.

“Go away?”

“Is that why I put our clothes in the bag? Because we have to go away?”

“I’m going to take you down to stay with Brad and Elaine tonight,” Glen said. “I’ll stay there too, but I have to do some things tonight and I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“Are we going now?” Missy asked.

“Right now,” Glen replied, forcing himself to smile. “Now it’s pouring rain outside, so I want you two to see who can get to the car first, all right?”

The two children nodded eagerly.

“I’ll open the door, and you two race. The first one to the car gets a surprise.”

“What is it?” Robby demanded.

“If I told you it wouldn’t be a surprise anymore, would it?”

He led them into the other room and made them stay back from the door while he opened it. Tears were streaming down his face.

“On your mark. Get set. Go!” he cried, and the children, intent only on the race, streaked through the door and across the porch, vying to be the first to reach the ancient VW van. Glen picked up their bag of clothing, closed the door, and followed them.

“Oh, Jesus,” Brad Randall moaned as he opened the door for Glen Palmer and the children. The look in Glen’s eyes and the tear-streaked faces of the children told him something terrible had happened. He could guess what.

Hearing his words from the living room, Elaine hurried in to find out what had gone wrong.

“Glen? Is something wrong?” She looked first at Glen, then at the children, and she too knew immediately. She knelt down and gathered the children into her arms. They clung to her, almost tentatively, then Missy, followed by Robby, broke into tears and buried their faces against her. As she held the children she looked up into Glen Palmer’s drained face.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry …”

Glen swallowed and forced himself to stay coherent. “Can you … can you …?” He couldn’t finish the sentence, but Elaine understood.

“I’ll take care of them. Brad, go with him. Help him.”

Brad had been silently standing by but he suddenly came to life, grabbing for his coat. A moment later the two men disappeared into the night.

Elaine steered the children into the living room and settled them on the sofa. Then, before she did anything else, she quickly went through the house, checking all the windows, making sure they were closed and locked. Finally she bolted the doors, rattling each to be sure it was secure.

When she returned to the living room Missy was staring into the fire, lost in some small world of her own devising. But as Elaine sank down beside her the little girl took one of her hands, squeezed it, and smiled up at her.

“It’s going to be all right,” she said. “Really it is.”

For some reason that Elaine never understood, Missy’s words made her cry.

Glen and Brad carried Rebecca into the cabin and laid her on the floor. While Glen poked at the dying fire, wishing he could bring life back to Rebecca as easily as he could the coals, Brad began a quick examination.

It didn’t take him long. By the time the fire was blazing he had finished.

“She was strangled,” he said. “And her neck’s broken.”

“Oh, God,” Glen said, shuddering. “It must have been terrible for her.”

“That’s something we don’t know,” Brad replied quietly. “I like to think the body has ways of dealing with things like this. We know we go into shock immediately when something happens to us suddenly and unexpectedly. I should think it would be the same with dying. Some automatic mechanism takes over and makes us comfortable. Anyway, that’s the way it should be. But we’ll never know, will we?”

“How long has she been dead?” Glen asked.

“Not long. An hour. Maybe two at the most.”

“If only I hadn’t stayed so long,” Glen said. “If only I’d left a little earlier. Just a few minutes maybe—”

“Don’t,” Brad said. “Don’t start that or you’ll wind up blaming yourself for what happened. And you aren’t to blame.”

“I brought her here,” Glen said.

“And it could as easily have been you out there tonight,” Brad said roughly. “Now come on. We’d better get into town.”

Glen looked around the little room.

“I hate to leave her here, all alone …”

“No. You’re coming with me. I’m not leaving you with her. Not tonight, not here. Put on your coat.”

They were about to leave when they suddenly heard a sound from the children’s room.

A small sound, barely a whimper.

Then, as they were about to investigate, Scooter, his small tail tucked between his legs, crept out into the living room.

He stopped, peered vacantly up at the two of them; then his tail began to wag and he stumbled clumsily toward Glen. Glen stooped, picked the puppy up, and scratched its belly. By the time they were in the car Scooter was fast asleep.

Chip Connor was alone in the police station when Brad and Glen arrived.

“It’s Rebecca,” Brad said.

The muscles in Chip’s face tightened and he sank back into the chair behind Harney Whalen’s desk.

“Is she dead?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“On the beach.”

“Shit.” Then: “I’ll have to call Harn.”

“I know,” said Brad. “But before you do I should tell you that I’m not going to let Glen talk to him tonight. As a doctor I’m putting him under my care.”

“Of course,” Chip said. “I don’t think anyone would expect anything else.”

“Don’t you?” Brad said mildly, almost tiredly. “I wish I could share your thought.”

If Chip even heard what Brad said he gave no sign. Instead he called Harney Whalen and quickly reported what had happened.

“I’ll meet you out at the Palmers’,” he said as he finished. Then he hung up the phone and looked at Glen, who had not yet spoken.

“Glen, can I ask you something, as a friend?”

“Sure,” Glen said dully.

“Did you do it?”

Brad was about make an angry reply but Glen put a hand on his arm, stopping him.

“No, Chip, I didn’t.” The two men stared into each other’s eyes, and finally Chip stood up and came around the desk.

“Try to take it easy, Glen. I’ll find him for you, so help me.” Then he turned to Brad.

“Can you give him a pill? To make him sleep?”

Brad frowned slightly. “I’m not sure he needs one.”

“Well, if it won’t hurt him give him one, will you?” There was a pause, then Chip shook his head sadly. “You were right about what you said before. Harney does want to talk to him.”

“I’ve just changed my mind,” Brad said. “What this man needs more than anything else is a good night’s sleep.”

But it wasn’t a good night’s sleep. Before dawn Glen Palmer woke up and reached for Rebecca.

She wasn’t there. She would never be there again.

Quietly, Glen Palmer began to cry.

27

There was a quality in the air the following morning, a numbing chill that lay over Clark’s Harbor like an invisible fog, shrouding the town.

The people of the village went about their business, tending their shops and boats, greeting each other as they always had. When they spoke of Rebecca Palmer, and of Jeff Horton, it was not with the worried clucking of tongues and expressions of concern that might have been expected, but rather with the knowing looks, the almost lewdly arched eyebrows of people who have finally witnessed that which they had known would come to pass.

When Glen Palmer arrived at the police station in midmorning, he was not stared at, not subjected to the hostile glares he had been expecting. Nor were there any expressions of sympathy at the loss of his wife. Rather — and to Glen even more frightening — it was as if nothing had changed, as if what had happened to him was not a part of Clark’s Harbor at all, not an event that touched the lives of the Harborites.

Only when he was inside the police station, inside Harney Whalen’s office, did reality intrude on the sense of surrealism that surrounded him.

Harney Whalen sat impassively at his desk, staring at Glen.

“Are you ready to talk about it now?” The words were more a challenge than a question. Glen braced himself. He knew what was coming.

In the old house on Sod Beach Elaine Randall did her best to keep Missy and Robby occupied, to keep them from dwelling on the loss of their mother. After Glen left the house, insisting on going alone to see Whalen, the children had wanted to go out on the beach.

Elaine had refused, not so much out of fear that anything would happen to them, but out of her own inability to face the beach that day.

She was not sure she would ever again be able to enjoy the beauty of the crescent of sand. For her it was permanently soiled.

Around noon she set the children to work on a jig-saw puzzle, then went to the kitchen to fix lunch.

“Keep an eye on them, will you, honey?” she asked Brad as she passed through the dining room. Brad glanced up from the charts he was poring over.

“Hmm?”

“The kids,” Elaine replied. “Keep an eye on them for me while I put lunch together.”

“Sure,” Brad muttered, and went back to work. Elaine smiled softly to herself and continued into the kitchen. The house could fall down around him without his noticing. She poked halfheartedly at the fire in the ancient stove and decided a cold lunch would do just fine.

Fifteen minutes went by, then Robby appeared in the kitchen.

“When are we having lunch?”

“In about two minutes. Are your hands clean?”

Robby solemnly inspected his hands, then held them up to Elaine for approval. She looked them over carefully and nodded.

“Okay. Take these into the dining room and see if you can get Brad to make room for us.” She handed the little boy a tray of sandwiches, then followed him a few minutes later with napkins, silver, and a jar of pickles. The table, she noted, had miraculously been cleared, and Missy and Robby sat flanking Brad, all of them patiently awaiting her arrival.

“Isn’t Daddy coming?” Missy asked as Elaine sat down.

“He’ll be back as soon as he can get here,” Elaine explained.

“Can I save my sandwich for him?”

“What’ll you eat?”

“I’m not hungry,” Missy said softly. “I’ll just drink some milk.”

“I’m sure your—” Elaine began, then stopped short. She had been about to say “mother,” but quickly changed it. “—father would want you to eat your lunch,” she finished.

“No, he wouldn’t,” Missy assured her.

“He would too,” Robby said. “He’d say the same thing Mother would say—‘you eat what’s put in front of you!’ Even if it is liverwurst,” he added almost under his breath. He determinedly bit into his sandwich, and a moment later Missy did the same. The children munched in silence for a moment, then Robby put the remains of his sandwich down and looked quizzically at Elaine.

“Are we going to have to go away?”

“Go away? What do you mean?”

“Are we going to have to move away, after what happened to Mommy?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Elaine replied carefully. “That depends on your father, I suppose.”

“Do you want to move away?” Brad asked. Robby shook his head emphatically but it was Missy who spoke.

“Yes! I hate it here! Mr. Riley told us a long time ago that there are ghosts on the beach, and he’s right. I’ve seen them. They killed Mommy and they killed Mr. Horton and they’ll kill everybody else too.”

Elaine half-rose from her chair, intent on calming the child, but Brad signaled her to stay where she was. “Ghosts? What kind of ghosts.”

“Indians,” Missy said sulkily. “Mr. Riley told us they used to kill people on the beach, and sometimes they come back and do it some more. And I’ve seen them. I saw them the day Mr. Riley told us about them, and I saw them the night Mr. Horton got killed, and I saw them last right.” As she spoke the last words Missy fled sobbing from the table. Elaine immediately followed her.

Robby seemed unperturbed by Missy’s outburst. He picked his sandwich up again, took a big bite, and munched on it thoughtfully. Brad watched the boy eat, sure that he was turning something over in his mind. He was right, for Robby suddenly put the sandwich down again.

“Maybe she really does see things,” Robby suggested hesitantly.

“Could be,” Brad offered.

“I mean, the beach is a weird place during the storms.”

“Oh?” Brad could feel something coming and wanted it to come from Robby undisturbed, uninfluenced by his own feelings.

“I like the storms,” Robby went on, “but it’s funny. I can’t really remember what happens when I’m on the beach. It used to be fun, before all the bad things started happening. It was like I was all alone in the world, and it felt good. Even though it was raining real hard, I didn’t feel it. I didn’t feel anything, except inside myself.” His brows knotted in sudden puzzlement.

“What is it?” Brad prompted him.

“It’s funny,” Robby said. “I can remember how I felt but I can’t remember what I did. I mean, I can’t remember going anyplace or doing anything, but I guess I must have.” His voice dropped, and he seemed about to cry. “I wish I hadn’t gone out last night. If I hadn’t nothing would have happened.”

“Robby,” Brad assured him, “it isn’t your fault.”

But Robby looked unconvinced.

Glen Palmer came back to the Randalls’ in the middle of the afternoon, but when Brad asked him how the talk with Whalen had gone he was uncommunicative.

“I’m going to go up to the cabin,” he said. “Is it all right if I leave the kids here?”

“Of course,” Elaine agreed, watching him worriedly. “But wouldn’t you like one of us to go with you?”

“I’d rather go by myself. I have some thinking to do and I think I can do it best there.”

Brad nodded understandingly and accompanied Glen to the door. When he was sure they were out of range of the children he put his hand on Brad’s shoulder and spoke softly.

“If it’s any comfort, I don’t think that whoever killed Rebecca and Jeff knew what they were doing.”

Glen paled slightly and stared blankly at Brad.

“I had a talk with Robby a little while ago,” Brad explained. “He doesn’t remember what he did on the beach last night. He only remembers feeling good.”

“What does that mean?” Glen asked dully.

“Well, whatever happens to Robby must be happening to someone else. But with the opposite effect: Robby feels good, someone else goes crazy. He probably doesn’t even know what he’s doing. Jeff and Rebecca just happened to be there.” In his own mind Brad had dismissed Missy’s story as childish imagination, not worth mentioning.

“Oh, God,” Glen groaned. “It all seems so — so futile!”

“I know,” Brad replied sympathetically. “But we’ll find out what’s happening, and we’ll stop it.”

“I wonder,” Glen said. “I wonder if it really even matters anymore.” He started out onto the beach but Brad called him back.

“Try to get back before dark, will you? Let’s not have anything else happening.”

“Okay,” Glen agreed. Then he turned and started up the beach, his shoulders slumped, his steps slow, uncertain. A few moments later, he disappeared around the corner of the house, and Brad stopped watching. While Glen walked and thought, Brad would work.

Chip Connor arrived at the Randalls’ at five thirty that afternoon and hesitated nervously before knocking at the front door. When Elaine opened it a few seconds later she found Chip twisting his hat in his hands and looking very upset.

“Chip!” she said warmly. “Come in.”

“Thanks,” Chip replied automatically. “Is your husband here?”

“Yes, of course,” Elaine said, her smile fading. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m not sure. But I need to talk to Brad.”

“He’s in the dining room. Come on.”

Brad was at the dining-room table surrounded by stacks of books as he searched for an explanation for the madness around him. He looked up distractedly when he heard Elaine come into the room, then put his book aside when he realized who was with her.

“What brings you out here? If you’re looking for Glen I think he’s up at his place.”

“I need to talk to you.” Chip sank into one of the chairs around the table and Elaine quickly left the room, sensing that whatever Chip had to say, he wanted to say it only to Brad. When she was gone Brad gave Chip a searching look.

“What is it? Has something else happened?”

“I don’t know,” Chip said unhappily. “In fact, I’m not even sure I should be here. But I had to talk to someone and you were the only person I could think of.”

“What is it?” Brad urged him again. “Is it about Glen?”

“Only indirectly,” Chip replied. “I guess mostly it’s Harn — Harney Whalen.”

“What about him?”

“I’m not sure,” Chip said, squirming in the chair. Then, almost as if to change the subject, he said, “Did Glen tell you about what happened today?”

“No. He came in a couple of hours ago, but went right out again. He said he had some thinking to do.”

“I’ll bet he did,” Chip said. “I wish I knew what he was thinking.”

“Well, you might go ask him,” Brad suggested dryly. “You two seem to get along pretty well.”

“Maybe I will after a while,” Chip agreed. A silence fell over the two men.

“You said you wanted to talk about Whalen,” Brad said at last.

Chip nodded glumly. “I think something’s gone wrong with him.”

“How do you mean, wrong? You mean physically?”

“I wish it were that simple,” Chip hedged.

Brad’s fingers drummed on the table and he decided to wait Chip out, let him get to the point any way he wanted to. He wasn’t surprised when Chip suddenly stood up and started pacing the room.

“Something’s been nagging at me for quite a while now,” he said finally. “Harn’s attitude, I guess you might say.”

“You mean the way he feels about outsiders?”

“That’s it,” Chip agreed. “But up until today I’ve always been able to convince myself that it wasn’t anything particularly serious — that it was sort of a quirk in his personality.”

“But something happened today that changed your mind?”

“Glen Palmer. He came in to tell Harn what happened last night.”

“And—?”

“And Harn didn’t give him a chance. Instead he told Glen what happened.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“It was crazy,” Chip said. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since and the only word I come up with is crazy. Harn didn’t ask Glen any questions at all. Instead he accused Glen of killing Rebecca himself.”

“Just like that?” Brad asked.

“Close enough so that it doesn’t make any difference what the exact words were. He must’ve spent most of the night last night dreaming up a story about how Glen found Rebecca and Jeff Horton making love and killed Jeff, then Rebecca. Apparently you’re out of it,” he added, smiling humorlessly. Brad ignored the comment.

“What did Glen have to say?”

“What could he say? He said it was ridiculous but Harn wasn’t even interested in hearing what happened last night. He just kept after Glen, repeating his idea over and over, as if he were trying to convince Glen. I think he wanted Glen to confess.”

“I hope he didn’t.”

“Of course not,” Chip said. “And even if he had it wouldn’t have made any difference. The way Harney was acting, any court I’ve ever heard of would disqualify the whole thing.”

“But why? Why would he want to put the whole thing on Glen?”

“I don’t think it has anything to do with Glen personally,” Chip said. “For a while I thought it did, but I talked to my grandfather a few days ago, and he told me some things that made me wonder.”

“What sort of things?”

“Stories. Stories about things that happened around here a long time ago. Long before I was even born. For instance, he told me why Harn hates strangers so much.”

“You want to tell me?”

“It’s a pretty ugly story.” He paused a moment, then swallowed. When he spoke again, his voice was strained.

“Harney watched his grandparents being murdered when he was a little boy.”

Brad’s eyes widened. “Say that again, please?”

“When Harn was a little boy — maybe seven, eight years old — his grandparents were murdered on the beach. Harney watched it happen.”

“Holy Christ,” Brad muttered. “Who did it?”

“Nothing was ever proven but everyone seemed to think it was a group of people who were interested in lumbering the area. Maybe even the man who built this house.”

“Baron? I thought he was a fisherman. He died by getting caught in his own fishing nets.”

“Just like Pete Shelling,” Chip agreed. “But he only became a fisherman after Harn canceled his lumbering lease. Anyway, whoever killed Harn’s grandparents, they were strangers, and Harn’s hated strangers ever since. Only now it’s getting out of hand.”

“What can I do?” Brad asked.

“I was wondering if maybe you could talk to him,” Chip replied.

“Me? Haven’t you forgotten something? I’m a stranger here too, and yesterday he as much as accused me of murder. What makes you think Whalen would talk to me?”

“I don’t know,” Chip said nervously. “I just thought maybe if you could go down there — maybe to talk about something being wrong with the house — and sort of draw him out. Maybe you could tell if he’s all right or not.”

Brad turned the idea over in his mind, wondering if it could possibly work. If the chief were obsessive, as Chip seemed to think, Whalen certainly wouldn’t open up to him. But on the other hand, his refusal to talk just might tell him something too.

“Well, I suppose I could try,” he agreed without much conviction. “But I can’t promise you anything. Don’t expect me to go down and talk to him for five minutes, then be able to tell you if he’s sane or not. It just isn’t that simple. Besides, he’ll probably throw me out of his office.”

“But you’d be able to tell if he’s reasonable or not, wouldn’t you?”

“I can tell you that right now. I don’t think Whalen’s reasonable, and I never have. But what I think doesn’t constitute either a medical or a legal opinion. All it means is that as far as I can tell he’s a rigid person with some pretty strong prejudices. That doesn’t make him crazy. All it makes him is difficult.”

“But what about Glen? What about what Harney’s doing to him?”

“So far he hasn’t done anything except make a lot of wild accusations. And he hasn’t even done that on the record. I mean, he hasn’t charged Glen with anything. Or has he?”

Chip shook his head. “No. But I think he’s going to.”

“Do you? I don’t. I don’t think Whalen has the vaguest idea of what’s going on, and he certainly doesn’t have anything to use against Glen Palmer, or anybody else. And I’ll tell you something else — I don’t think he’s ever going to make sense out of this mess. I’m not sure there is any sense. All I know is that the storms around here do something to Robby Palmer, and my best guess is that they’re doing something to someone else as well.”

Something stirred in Chip’s mind — a connection only half-made, but he was sure it was an important connection.

“What happens to Robby?”

“I’m not sure exactly,” Brad confessed. He made a gesture encompassing the books around him. “I’ve been trying to find something similar, but so far there isn’t anything. Even Robby isn’t sure what happens to him. The storms excite him but he doesn’t remember what he does during them.”

The connection clicked home in Chip’s mind. Whalen’s visit to Doc Phelps. Was it really indigestion? And other things, little things. The day he had worked with Glen, undisturbed. It had been stormy that day and Whalen had never called him. And that night the Hortons’ boat had gone on the rocks. He searched his mind frantically, trying to remember where Harney Whalen had been each time something had gone wrong in Clark’s Harbor. And he couldn’t remember. All he knew was that usually Harney had been home. Except … who knew if he was at home or somewhere else?

Chip made up his mind to have a talk with Doc Phelps. Then, and only then, would he talk to Brad Randall. After all, Randall was a stranger, and Harney Whalen was his uncle.

In Clark’s Harbor the natives stuck together.

28

The leaden sides over the Olympic Peninsula were dropping a soft mist on the small graveyard that overlooked Clark’s Harbor, but there were no umbrellas raised above the heads of the tiny group of people who watched as Rebecca Palmer was laid to rest.

Lucas Pembroke closed his bible and began reciting the prayers for Rebecca’s soul from memory, his eyes closed not only in reverence, but so that no one would see the sorrow he was feeling for Rebecca.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust …”

As the words droned automatically from his lips the minister wondered how much longer he would continue to come to Clark’s Harbor, how much longer he would be able to tolerate the coldness that emanated from the village, how much longer, and how many more deaths, it would take before he turned his back on the little settlement nestled by the harbor.

Glen Palmer, holding Missy and Robby close, stood bare-headed in the rain, with Brad and Elaine Randall flanking him. They stood at the end of the open grave, and as the coffin was slowly lowered into the pit Missy began sobbing quietly. Elaine immediately knelt beside the child and gathered her into her arms. Robby, his face frozen in stoic acceptance, watched impassively, but as the coffin disappeared from his view a tear welled in his eye, overflowed, and ran unnoticed down his cheek.

A few yards away, his hands fingering his gloves nervously, Chip Connor stood with his grandfather, Mac Riley. Every few seconds Chip glanced at Glen, nodding slightly, as if to encourage his friend. The gesture went unheeded. Glen’s eyes remained fastened on his wife’s casket, his features a study in confusion and anguish.

At the fringe of the group, not really a part of it but observing everything, Merle Glind and the village librarian stood clucking together under the protection of a newspaper, their inquisitive eyes darting from face to face, filing away the reactions of everyone there for future discussion and reference.

As the Reverend Pembroke finished his prayers and picked up a clod of earth to sprinkle over the casket, he noticed a flash of movement in the trees beyond the graveyard. But when he looked more carefully, hoping to see who — or what — was there, there was nothing. Pembroke bit his lip, crushed the lump of earth, and dropped it into the grave.

It was like pulling a trigger. Missy Palmer, her quiet tears suddenly bursting forth into loud sobs, clung to Elaine Randall; and Robby, his hand tightening in his father’s, suddenly looked up.

“I–I—” he began, but his words were choked off as he began to tremble and sob. Glen quickly sank to the ground beside him and held him.

“It’s all right, son,” he whispered. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

Then he scooped up a handful of damp earth, put it in Robby’s hand, and led him to the edge of the grave. Together, father and son back farewell to Rebecca.

“I’m so sorry, Glen,” Chip said softly when it was over. “If there’s anything I can do — anything at all—”

“Find out who did it,” Glen pleaded. “Just find out who killed her.”

Chip glanced quickly at Brad, who just as quickly shook his head slightly. Neither of them had yet told Glen of Brad’s suspicion, and this was not the time to do it.

“We’re working on it,” Chip assured him.

“Thanks for coming,” Glen said then. “I can’t really say I expected you to be here. Not after what Whalen put me through yesterday.”

“What Harney thinks is up to Harney,” Chip replied. “I asked you what happened Sunday night and you told me. I haven’t had any reason to change my mind.”

There was a sudden silence and Elaine picked Missy up, then tried to smile cheerfully. “Why don’t we all go out to our place,” she suggested. “I’m not sure what we have but I’ll scrape up something.”

Mac Riley, his ancient sensibilities serving him well, took up the suggestion immediately.

“You figure out how to make that old stove go yet?”

“I’m working on it but it still gets to me.”

“Nothing to it,” Riley quavered. He began leading Elaine away from the graveside, sure that the others would follow. “I been using one of those things all my life, and the trick’s in the wood. You got to have small pieces, and lots of different kinds. Some of ’em burn hotter than others. Once you know what’s going to burn how, it’s a lead-pipe cinch.”

Moments later they had reached the cars. The cortege drove slowly away from the graveyard, leaving Rebecca Palmer at peace under the protection of the earth. Glen Palmer glanced back once and for a split second almost envied Rebecca. For her, the horror was truly over.

He wondered if it would ever be over for him.

The gathering at the Randalls’ was a quiet one. Chip had begged off almost immediately, pleading business in town. While Elaine wrestled with the stove, encouraged only a little by Mac Riley’s advice, Glen and Brad stood nervously in the kitchen, trying to explain to the old man what they thought might be happening.

Riley listened patiently as they told him about the strange effect the beach and the storms had on Robby, and how they had come to the conclusion that Robby was not the only one to be affected by the storms. When they finished Riley scratched his head thoughtfully and turned the whole matter over in his mind.

“Well, I just don’t know,” he said at last. “Sounds to me like craziness, but then this beach has always been full of craziness. Maybe that’s what all the old legends were about.” Then he shook his head. “Afraid I can’t buy it though. I’m too old for these newfangled ideas. If you ask me it’s the sea. The sea and the past. They always catch up with you in the end. No way to get around it.”

“You think the sea is breaking people’s necks?” Brad asked incredulously. Riley peered at him sadly.

“Could be,” he said. “Or it could be the Indians. Some say they’re still here, out on the beach.”

“If they were we’d have seen them,” Glen objected.

“Maybe you would, maybe you wouldn’t.” Riley’s ancient voice crackled. “Only a few people can see the spirits, and even them that can, can’t always.”

Brad decided to play along with the old man. “Missy seems to think she sees things on the beach.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me a bit,” Riley replied calmly. “Children have better eyes for things like that.”

“And better ears for old men’s stories?”

“Think what you like. Someday you’ll know the truth.” He glanced over the window. “Rain’s starting up again. Big storm coming,” he observed.

Involuntarily, the Randalls and Glen Palmer shuddered.

Chip Connor spent the afternoon with Harney Whalen. It was a difficult time for both of them: Chip tried to pretend that all was as it had always been between them, but Whalen was not fooled. Finally, in midafternoon, he accused Chip of staring at him and demanded to know what was wrong.

“Nothing,” Chip assured him. “Nothing at all. I’m just a little worried about you.”

“About me? I should think you’d be worried about your pal Glen Palmer. He’s the one who’s gotten himself in a peck of trouble.”

Chip ignored the gibe, wanting to steer the conversation as far from Glen Palmer as possible. “I was just wondering how you’re feeling,” he said solicitously. “You look a little off color.”

“I’m fine,” Whalen growled. “Nothing wrong with me that won’t be cured by a little peace and quiet around here.” There was a pause, then Whalen went on. “Tell you what — why don’t you take off for a couple of hours, then come back around dinnertime, and spell me for a while.”

Chip couldn’t think of a good reason not to, so he left the police station — reluctantly — and went looking for Doc Phelps. He found him at the inn, sitting on the stool Chip usually occupied, a half-empty beer in front of him. He started to get up when Chip came in, but Chip waved him back onto the stool.

“Order one for me and I’ll fill yours up,” he said cheerfully, sliding onto the stool next to Phelps.

“What about me?” Merle Glind piped eagerly from the stool on the other side of Phelps.

“You could buy your own just once,” Chip teased. “But what the hell. Might as well be a big spender.”

The beers were drawn and set up in front of them when Phelps asked about Harney Whalen.

“Whalen?” Chip said carefully. “What about him?”

“Well, I ordered him to come in for some tests, but he hasn’t showed up. I guess he must be feeling better.”

“What kind of tests?” Chip asked, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

“Oh, just some things I’d like checked out,” the doctor replied cautiously. “He hasn’t been feeling too well, you know.”

“Told me it’s just indigestion.”

“Indigestion?” Dr. Phelps gave the word a sarcastic twist that riveted Chip’s attention. “Damnedest kind of indigestion I ever heard of. Most people remember indigestion.”

Chip felt his heartbeat skip and a knot of anticipation form in his stomach.

“You mean he’s having memory problems? Like blackouts?”

“That’s what he told me,” Phelps said. “Wanted me to keep it to myself, and I suppose I ought to. But if he isn’t going to obey doctor’s orders, seems to me something ought to be done.”

Chip didn’t hear what Phelps had just said — his mind was racing.

“Doc, tell me about the blackouts. It might be important. Very important.”

Phelps frowned at the young man and tugged at his lower lip. He didn’t like these kids trying to push him around.

“Well, I don’t know,” he hesitated. “Seems to me like I’ve already broken Harn’s confidence—”

“The hell with Harn’s confidence,” Chip snapped. “Dr. Phelps, I have to know what you know about those blackouts.”

“Well, I don’t really know much at all,” Phelps grumbled. He still resented being ordered to talk by Chip, and yet there was a note of urgency in the young deputy’s voice that struck a chord in the doctor. “He didn’t really tell me much. Mostly he was upset about something that happened the other day while he was driving out to Sod Beach. It was the day those new people moved in — the Randalls? — and I guess Ham was taking them out to their house. Anyway, he froze at the wheel, I guess, and almost ran over those two kids who live out there.”

“Robby and Missy? The Palmer kids?”

“Those’d be the ones,” the doctor agreed. “Anyway, it upset Harney enough so he came to see me. Told me he’d been having what he calls spells. His hands start twitching, and then he doesn’t remember anything for an hour or so.”

“Do you know what’s causing it?” Chip asked anxiously.

“Haven’t any idea at all,” Phelps shrugged. “I wanted him to go down to Aberdeen for some tests, but you know Harn — stubborn as a mule!”

“And you didn’t try to make him?” Chip demanded unbelievingly. “For Christ’s sake, Doc, he might have killed somebody!”

“But he didn’t, did he?” Phelps said blandly.

“Didn’t he?” Chip muttered. “I wonder.”

He slid off the barstool and headed back to the police station, intent on confronting the police chief. But when he got to the station, Harney Whalen’s office was empty.

Chip glanced around the office and saw that Whalen’s raincoat still hung from the coat tree in the corner. Wherever he had gone, and for whatever purpose, he hadn’t bothered to take his coat with him.

The storm outside, so gentle this morning, was raging.

And it was getting dark. Tonight high tide would be an hour after dusk.

As dusk began to fall Elaine took Missy and Robby into the downstairs bedroom and began putting them to bed. The storm had increased, and the sound of rain battering against the window seemed menacing to Elaine, but she was careful not to communicate her feelings to the children. As she tucked them into the big bed Missy suddenly put her arms around her neck.

“Do we have to sleep here?” she whispered. “Can’t we sleep at home?”

“Just for tonight, dear,” Elaine said. “But don’t you worry. We’ll all be in the next room. Your father, and me, and Brad. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“No, it isn’t,” Missy said, her voice tiny and frightened. “Nothing’s ever going to be fine. I know it isn’t.”

Elaine hugged the child reassuringly and kissed her on the forehead. Then she kissed Robby too and picked up the lantern by the bed.

“If you need anything you just call me,” she told them. Then she pulled the door closed behind her as she left the room.

They lay in bed, listening to the rain beat against the window. For a long time they were quiet, but then Missy stirred.

“Are you asleep?”

“No. Are you?”

“No.” Missy paused a moment, then: “I miss Mommy. I want to go home. I don’t like this house.”

“It’s just a house,” Robby said disdainfully. “It isn’t any different than any other house, except that it’s better than ours.”

“It’s creepy,” Missy insisted.

“Oh, go to sleep,” Robby said impatiently. He turned over and closed his eyes and tried to pretend that he was sleeping. But he heard the sounds of the rain and the wind and the building surf of the flowing tide. The sounds seemed to be calling him, and try as he would, he couldn’t ignore them.

“If you really want to, we can go home,” he whispered.

Missy stirred next to him, and he knew she’d heard him.

“Could we go through the woods?” she whispered.

“All right,” Robby agreed. The beach would be better, he thought, but the woods would be all right. At least he’d be near the storm.…

A few moments later Robby raised the window and the two children crept out into the night.

29

Harney Whalen sat behind the wheel of the patrol car, his knuckles white with tension, his face beginning to twitch spasmodically. The windshield wipers, almost useless against the driving rain, beat rhythmically back and forth in front of his eyes, but if he saw them, he gave no sign. He was watching the road in front of him, and there was an intensity in his look that would have frightened anyone who saw it. But he was alone, driving north toward Sod Beach.

As he approached the beach he began to hear voices in his mind, voices from his childhood, calling to him.

Floating in the darkness ahead of him, just beyond the windshield, he thought he saw faces — his grandmother was there, her face twisted in fear, her eyes reflecting the panic of a trapped animal. She seemed to be trying to call out to Harn, but her voice was lost in the howling tempest — all that came through was the faint sound of laughter, a laughter that mocked Harney, taunted him, made the chaos in his mind coalesce into hatred.

He turned the car into a narrow side road halfway up Sod Beach and picked his way carefully through the mud until the forest closed in on him, blocking him. He turned off the headlights, then the engine, and sat in the darkness, the rain pounding on the car, the wind whistling around him, and the roar of the pounding surf rolling over him, calling to him. Beckoning him.

Listening only to the voices within him, unmindful of reality, Harney Whalen suddenly opened the car door and stepped out into the storm. A moment later the police car stood lonely and abandoned in the forest.

Harney Whalen had disappeared into the night.

When the pounding on the front door began Brad Randall’s first impulse was one of fear — the sudden, gripping fear that always accompanies an unexpected sound in the night. But when he heard a voice calling from outside, his fear dissipated and he hurried to the door.

“I can’t find him,” Chip Connor cried as he came in out of the storm. “He’s gone, and I think it’s going to happen again!”

“Can’t find who?” Brad asked. “For Christ’s sake, calm down! You’re not making sense.”

“It’s Harney Whalen,” Chip gasped. “I’m sure of it. He’s been sick lately, then he got mad at me today. So I went and found Doc Phelps.” Chip dropped into a chair and tried to catch his breath.

“Phelps?” Glen asked. “What the hell does he have to do with anything?”

“He told me about Harn,” Chip said. “He told me that Harn’s been having blackouts.”

“Blackouts?” Brad repeated. “What kind of blackouts?”

“The same kind Robby has. He doesn’t pass out — he just can’t remember what he was doing. As soon as Phelps told me that I went back to the station, but he was gone. His raincoat’s still there but he’s not.”

“Maybe he went home,” Glen suggested, though he was sure it wasn’t true.

“That’s the first place I went,” Chip said. “He’s not there. So I figured I’d better come out here and warn you. If what you think is true, he’s probably prowling around the beach somewhere.”

“My God,” Elaine moaned. “Is the house locked up?”

“It’s been locked up all evening,” Brad said.

“I’m going to check anyway.” She picked up a lantern and started toward the dining room, intent on circling the main floor.

“We’ve got to find him,” Chip said as soon as Elaine was out of the room.

“Maybe not,” Brad replied. “As long as we’re all here there isn’t much chance that Whalen will find anyone on the beach. Not tonight.”

As if to confirm what he said, a bolt of lightning struck, briefly illuminating the room, then the clap of thunder shook the old house, rattling the windows.

As the thunder died the sudden void was filled by Elaine Randall’s scream of horror. A second later she appeared at the bedroom door. “They’re gone,” she cried, her face pale and her voice strangled. “The children are gone.”

Glen Palmer started for the bedroom and Elaine stepped aside to let him pass. He looked frantically around the icy room, then went to the open window, the cold, wind-driven rain stinging his face.

“Please,” he prayed silently. “Leave me my children.”

When he returned to the living room, Chip and Brad were waiting for him, their coats on, flashlights in their hands. Next to the fireplace, Mac Riley stood uncertainly.

“I think I should go too,” he said. “I’ve known Harney since he was a baby. If something’s happening to him …”

“No, Grandpa,” Chip replied. “Stay here. You can’t move as fast as you used to, and Mrs. Randall shouldn’t be left alone.”

“Please,” she begged. “Please stay with me. If I have to wait by myself I’ll go out of my mind. I know I will.” Sobbing softly, she sank into a chair. Brad started toward her, but Mac Riley held up his hand.

“Go on,” he said. “Find the children. We’ll be all right, I promise you.”

As Chip, Brad, and Glen went out into the night, Mac Riley poked at the fire, then began one more circuit of the house, checking the doors and windows. When he came back to the living room he tried to comfort Elaine.

“They’ll find the kids,” he said softly. “Don’t you worry.”

But inside, the old man was worried.

30

The maelstrom crashed around them, the high keening of the wind screaming in the treetops providing an eerie counterpoint to the roar of the surf as the tide came to full flood. The beach had shrunk to a narrow ribbon of sand between the roiling sea and the tangle of driftwood that creaked and shifted in the storm.

“I can’t see anything,” Missy cried out, clinging to her brother’s hand, stumbling blindly along after him as he moved quickly through the night.

If he heard her Robby gave no sign. The excitement of the beach was upon him, and his senses took in the wildness of the elements, absorbing the unleashed energy of the tempest. His body was filling with a strange exultation, exciting him, yet at the same time calming him. It was a feeling he didn’t quite understand, but he accepted it and was grateful for it.

Missy stopped suddenly and Robby nearly lost his footing as she jerked on his hand.

“Something’s here,” Missy whispered, pulling close to Robby and putting her lips to his ear. “I can feel it.”

“Nothing’s here,” Robby said. “Only us.”

“Yes there is,” Missy insisted. “Something’s in the woods looking for us. Let’s go back. Please?”

“We can’t go back,” Robby told her. “Not anymore.”

He started forward again, pulling Missy with him, and she began sobbing, her terror overcoming her. As they moved along the beach she began to see shapes, strange glowing figures, moving along beside her, in front of her, behind her, coming closer, reaching out for her.

She began screaming.

Harney Whalen crouched behind the pile of driftwood that separated the beach from the forest and listened to the sounds in his head. The laughter was getting louder and the screams of his grandmother seemed to be fading away.

There was a flash of lightning and he saw two figures coming toward him across the beach. They were small figures but he knew who they were.

They were strangers.

Strangers had killed his grandparents while he had helplessly watched.

He wanted to run, wanted to go away and hide, as he had done so many years ago.

But he couldn’t. He felt something gripping him, forcing him to stay where he was. He turned and there was someone beside him in the night. His grandmother, her strong, chiseled features gleaming in the night, her dark eyes flashing, was beside him.

While the rain slashed at him and the wind tore through his clothes, chilling him, she whispered to him, her words echoing against the pounding of the surf.

Don’t run away. Avenge. Avenge.

Harney waited behind the log, waited for them to come near.

He crouched lower, huddled in upon himself, and listened to the words of the old Klickashaw at his side. She spoke to him of ancient wrongs.…

On the beach Robby and Missy, the wind whirling around them, hurried along, unaware of the danger waiting for them in the forest.

Far down the beach, Chip Connor, Brad Randall, and Glen Palmer hurried through the storm, their flashlights playing over the sand, nearly useless in the rain.

“We’ll never find them,” Brad called out, raising his voice against the wind. “Not if we stay together. Let’s spread out.”

“You take the surf line,” Chip yelled. “Glen, stay in the middle of the beach. I’ll go up by the forest. And call for them. They might hear and it will let us keep track of each other. I don’t think we should get too far apart.”

They spread out, and the three dots of light scattered themselves across the beach, visible for only a few yards but lighting the way for the searchers. They began calling out the children’s names.

Robby began pulling Missy toward the forest but she hung back, her terrified eyes seeing nothing but the strange figures closing in around her, reaching for her. A faint sound drifted through the night, nearly lost in the storm. Missy pulled Robby to a halt.

“Someone’s calling us. I can hear my name.”

Robby glared at his sister, tugging on her arm. “We have to go into the woods. We’ll be safe there,” he hissed.

Once more the faint sounds echoed through the night: “Missy … Robby!”

The children crouched uncertainly in the sand, straining to hear better, but it was useless. The wind increased, howling in from the ocean, carrying the acrid smell of salt water with it.

They began climbing over the pile of driftwood.

Harney Whalen also heard the voices calling. But stronger in his mind was his grandmother’s voice, whispering to him, urging him on, reassuring him.

We are with you. We will help you. You are a child of the storm. You belong to us.

He stood up, facing the storm, and exultation swept through him. His grandmother cried out to him. Vengeance! Vengeance!

The lightning flashed.

The instant of electric brightness seemed to last an eternity, and the three figures froze, staring at each other across the driftwood.

And Missy knew.

“It’s him,” she screamed. “He’s here, Robby. He’s going to kill us.”

Harney Whalen didn’t hear the words Missy cried out — only the sound. He peered malevolently at the two figures, seeing not two small and frightened children, but two faceless figures from the past, two unidentifiable forms, laughing at him, laughing at what they had done to his grandparents.

He had to destroy them.

He started over the driftwood.

The two children, suddenly coming to life, began running up the beach.

The lightning faded and the roll of thunder began.

“I see them,” Brad cried as the night closed around him once more. “North. They’re north of us, right near the woods.”

On either side of him, the pinpoints of light that were Chip and Glen suddenly began bobbing in the darkness as all three of them broke into a run. Then they began hearing Missy’s frightened cries, leading them through the night.

The children tore through the night, hearing the pounding of feet behind them. Then Robby stumbled and fell, and Missy tumbled on top of him.

Harney Whalen, his breath coming in fitful gasps, caught up with them, towering over them, glowering down upon them like a furious giant.

Missy saw him first and her eyes widened in terror as she screamed out into the night. Then she felt a hand clamp over her mouth and her scream was cut off.

Robby scrambled free from the tangle of limbs, but his mind was confused and nothing was making any sense to him. He moved aside, staring helplessly at his struggling sister, then began to scream.

“My God, he’s got them,” Glen shouted as he heard first Missy’s choked-off scream of terror, then Robby’s mindless howling in the night. The three men were running together now, shining their lights into the darkness, praying that they would get to the children before it was too late.

And then they found them. Chip Connor hurled himself onto Harney Whalen’s back, grabbing the chief by the neck. Whalen let go of Missy and began struggling with Chip, desperately fighting off his unseen assailant.

Glen grabbed Missy and held the sobbing child close to him, stroking her head, patting her, trying to calm her. Then Robby too flung himself onto Glen, and the three of them held each other, unmindful of what was happening around them.

Brad stood helplessly, wanting to come to Chip’s aid but unsure if it would do any good. Then, before he could make up his mind, Whalen broke free of Chip’s grasp and ran.

Chip started to follow him, but Whalen disappeared into the darkness.

“Which way did he go?” Chip cried. “I can’t find him.”

“Toward the water,” Brad called.

They began running, Brad shining his light ahead, the wind clutching at them.

And then they saw him.

Harney Whalen was in the surf, wading out to sea.

Chip started in after him, but Brad stopped, holding his light steadily on the retreating figure of the police chief.

“Let him go,” Brad called.

Chip stopped, instinctively obeying the command.

As the two men watched, an immense wave swept in from the sea, breaking over Harney Whalen’s head.

He struggled against the force of the water for a moment, his arms waving ineffectually in the air.

Then he was gone, taken by the sea.

Chip walked slowly back to where Brad stood, still playing the light over the spot where Harney Whalen had vanished.

“Why did you stop me?” Chip asked softly.

“It’s better this way,” Brad answered. “This way we know it ends.”

Then they turned away from the sea and started back toward Glen Palmer.

Behind them the tide turned and began to ebb.

An hour later the storm broke.

Sod Beach was quiet.