Cry for the Strangers

Epilogue

“It’s over,” Chip Connor said as he walked into the Randalls’ living room.

Brad and Maine looked at him expectantly, but Glen Palmer didn’t seem to care.

Two weeks had passed, two weeks during which the strange story of Harney Whalen had passed through Clark’s Harbor in whispers, two weeks during which the people of the village had come to accept what had happened.

Today it had been finished. The coroner’s inquest had been held. It had been a strange inquest.

There were few facts to be discussed. Much time had been spent on speculation, on trying to decide exactly what had happened to the police chief.

In the end it had been decided that Harney Whalen had died a suicide. Nothing was said about the other deaths in Clark’s Harbor, the deaths that dotted its history like a pox. But outside the inquest the people talked, and wondered, and clucked their tongues in sympathy.

Sympathy for those who had died — and for Whalen, who apparently had killed them.

“They want me to take over Harney’s job,” Chip said when he had finished telling them the results of the inquest.

“Are you going to?” Brad asked.

“I don’t know,” Chip said uneasily. “It makes sense, I suppose, but I don’t know if I want the job.”

“You’d be good at it,” Glen Palmer offered.

“That’s not what worries me,” Chip replied. “It’s the memories. Too many memories. I’d probably do too many things differently from Harn.”

“Would that be so bad?” Elaine asked.

Chip shook his head. “That’s what I don’t know. Harn wasn’t all bad. For a long time he ran things very well. If it all hadn’t gone wrong for him …” He let the thought go, then turned to Brad. “What happened?” he asked. “Isn’t there any explanation?”

“A theory,” Brad said. “But I’ll never be able to prove it. There was a connection between Bobby and Harney Whalen.”

“I don’t understand—” Chip began, but Brad stopped him.

“I’m not sure I do either. It has to do with bio-rhythms, and bio-rhythms are elusive things. We know they affect us, but we don’t know why. For that matter, we aren’t even sure what they are. Everyone has a set pattern of rhythms that begins the day he’s born, and the pattern only repeats itself every fifty-eight years and sixty-seven days. As it happens, that’s exactly how much older Whalen was than Robby. Both of them, apparently, had a bio-rhythmic pattern that’s affected by the storms out here. For Robby the effect is good. For Whalen — well, coupled with the trauma he had when he was a boy, the effect was disastrous.”

Chip stared at the psychiatrist. “How come you didn’t think of that before?” he demanded. “If you knew something like that could happen, Harn could have been—”

Again Brad cut him off. “I’m sorry, Chip,” he said gently. “There’s nothing that could have been done. In fact, I don’t even know if my theory is right. All it is is a theory, but it fits the facts. And with bio-rhythms that’s most of the story. You can’t predict what’s going to happen, but they often explain what did happen. You might call them a good tool for hindsight,” he added wryly.

But what about the future, he wondered to himself. His eyes wandered to the window, and came to rest on Robby Palmer. The boy was walking slowly along the beach, studying the sand at his feet.

Again the words came into Brad’s mind. What about the future? With Harney Whalen gone, what would the beach hold for Robby?

As if reading Brad’s mind, Chip Connor suddenly stood up. “I think I’ll go for a walk,” he said, almost too casually. “One thing about this beach — it was always a good place to think.” As he pulled on his coat, Chip gazed out at the calmness of Sod Beach. On the horizon, as often was the case, a storm seemed to be building, but it no longer posed a threat, no longer induced a fear of something horrible about to happen …

And yet, far down the beach, he could see Robby Palmer, standing still now, staring at the darkening horizon, his puppy frisking at his feet.

A chill crept through Chip’s body, and he buttoned his coat snug around his neck.

* * *

He left the old house and started north, not stopping until he reached the point where Harney Whalen had disappeared into the surf.

Chip’s eyes scanned the sea, unconsciously searching for the police chief’s body.

It had never been found, never washed up on the sand, either here or on the beaches to the north and south, all of which had been patrolled regularly.

Chip turned away from the sea and started toward the woods. As he made his way to the top of the driftwood tangle the wind began to blow.

Two weeks ago the blowing of the wind would have frightened him.

He sat on a huge silvery log and tried to sort things out in his mind, tried to separate his memories — tried to categorize them, keeping the good memories and discarding the bad ones.

He wanted to create two Harney Whalens: the one he had known so well, the one he had grown up respecting and admiring; and the other one, the recent one, the Harney Whalen whose mind had been twisted, partly by his ancient memories, but also apparently by the same elements that had twisted the log on which Chip sat. Maybe, Chip reflected, his grandfather was right — maybe it was the sea that got to Harney.

As the sun began to go down and the wind blew harder, Chip shivered. He watched the sand dance across the beach, driven on the wind.

He saw something, something that had been buried on the beach but that was being revealed by the storm.

Curious, he climbed down from the driftwood and uncovered the object.

He recognized it instantly. It was Scooter, Missy and Robby Palmer’s tiny puppy.

It was still warm.

Its neck had been wrung.

As the storm broke upon him, Chip turned to the woods, suddenly frightened. Carrying the tiny body of the puppy, Chip once again climbed the driftwood, but this time he crossed it and went into the woods.

Robby Palmer felt the first drops of rain splash on his face and was glad. He’d been waiting for the storm all afternoon and now it was here.

With the storm would come the excitement.

And with the excitement would come the shapes and the voices.

He hadn’t told anybody about the things he saw on the beach now. He was sure they wouldn’t believe him — none of them except Missy, but they hadn’t be-believed her, either.

He still wasn’t sure exactly who the people on the beach were, or why they were there.

Usually they danced strange dances that always ended with them burying someone on the beach — someone who didn’t belong. But it didn’t frighten Robby because he knew he belonged. He was part of the beach and the beach loved him.

It was the strangers who didn’t belong.

The strangers who came and took the beach from the people who belonged and betrayed them.

As the storm grew the dance began, and Robby watched it from the forest. Then the voices began, telling him to join the dance.

But he didn’t know how.

You will know, the voices said.

Robby suddenly became aware of a figure making its way over the driftwood.

Betrayal, the voices whispered. Betrayal.

The figure came closer, and the voices whispered again.

Vengeance. Vengeance.

Robby didn’t quite understand the word, but he knew what to do.

He picked up a heavy stick and crept behind a tree.

He waited, and listened to the voices.

The full force of the tempest broke over the coast, lashing at the trees as the tide surged forth, marching before the thunderheads like a harbinger of death.

As the surf crested, Robby Palmer, his eyes seeing nothing of the storm, emerged from the forest to pick his way carefully over the bleached bones of driftwood littering the beach.

He was among them now, and as their ceremony came to its climax the storm dancers reached out to him, sang to him, pled with him to join them in their cry for the strangers.

Uncertainly at first, but then with a sense of all things being right, Robby Palmer gave himself up to them.