by John Saul
“You mean the legend?”
Glind shrugged. “Who knows? But Harney Whalen believes in the legend, and he’s part Indian.”
“The police chief?” Elaine asked unbelievingly. “He certainly doesn’t look it!”
“Take another look,” Merle replied. “If you know, it shows up right away. Anyway, he thinks there’s something to the legend. That’s why he doesn’t like to rent the house out there. Fact is, I’m surprised he rented it to you.”
“Well, he didn’t seem too eager,” Brad said.
“Don’t imagine he was. And if I were you I’d have let him discourage me. That’s a bad place out there—no mistaking it.”
Elaine suddenly felt angry, and her eyes narrowed.
“Exactly what do you mean?” she demanded.
Her tone seemed to frighten the nervous little man and he retreated a step back from the counter. “N-nothing, really,” he stammered. “It’s just the stories. You must have heard the stories.”
“We’ve heard them,” Brad said levelly, “and frankly, we don’t put any stock in them.”
Glind’s eyes suddenly clouded over and he almost glared at them. “Well, that’s up to you,” he said stiffly. “For your sake I hope you’re right” But his tone told them that his hope was faint Brad and Elaine picked up their suitcases and left the Harbor Inn.
“That really burns me up,” Elaine grumbled as they carefully fit the suitcases into the car. “It’s almost as though he was trying to scare us off.”
“That’s exactly what he was trying to do,” Brad said, slamming the trunk closed. He heard something crack inside and ignored it “But it won’t work, will it?” He smiled confidently at his wife, knowing her instinctive reaction to Glind’s tactics would be to prove the odd little man wrong.
“No, it won’t,” Elaine said defiantly as she got into the car. She waited until Brad was behind the wheel before she spoke again. “The way I feel now, I wish you’d been able to talk Whalen into selling the place to us!”
“That’s my girl!” Brad said happily, reaching over to pat her on the leg. Suddenly Elaine stared suspiciously at him, her eyes narrowing and a tiny smile playing around her mouth. “Did you put him up to that? Just to bring me around?”
“Absolutely not,” Brad said sincerely, staring straight ahead through the windshield. Then he turned and grinned at her. “But if I’d thought of it I would have!”
“Bastard!” Elaine said, laughing suddenly. Then: “Hey, let’s stop and see Glen Palmer before we leave, just to say good-bye.”
“I’d already planned on it,” Brad said easily. He turned the corner and headed up Harbor Road toward the main road. A few minutes later they pulled up in front of the gallery.
Brad and Elaine were standing in front of the gallery, trying to picture what it might look like when it was finished, when Rebecca Palmer appeared at the front door.
“I was hoping you two would show up,” she said happily. “That’s why I came in this morning. A little bird told me you might stop on your way back to Seattle. Come on in—I’ve got coffee going.”
She led them into the gallery. A moment later Glen appeared from the back room.
“Rebecca’s little bird was right, I see. Well, what do you think?” The Randalls looked around as Glen led them through the room, explaining what would eventually be where, trying to build a visual image for them with his words. He was only half-successful, but Brad and Elaine admired the work anyway. Glen looked just a little crestfallen.
“You can’t see it, can you?”
“Just because I can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there,” Elaine protested. “Let me see it again when it’s finished. Did you say there’s some coffee?”
“Some beer too,” Glen offered. “Come on back and see what I got this morning.”
In the back room, standing on its hind legs and whimpering plaintively, a tiny puppy peered at them from the confines of a small carton.
“Oh, he’s adorable!” Elaine cried, sweeping the puppy into her arms and cuddling it “Where did you find him?”
“I didn’t,” Glen said. “He found us. He was sitting out front this morning when we arrived.”
“But he can’t be more than eight weeks old,” Elaine protested. “What would a puppy that young be doing wandering around at night?”
“Search me,” Glen said. “I asked a couple of people about him this morning but no one seems to know where he might have come from. Bill Pruitt down at the gas station said sometimes people from Aberdeen or Hoquiam come up here and dump puppies instead of having them put to sleep. I figure if nobody comes looking for him today, he’s ours.”
Elaine carefully put the puppy back in its box. Immediately it began trying to scramble out again, its tiny tail wagging furiously.
“Was Snooker’s neck really broken?” Rebecca suddenly asked. Elaine looked at her sharply and bit her lip.
“Glen told you?”
Rebecca nodded mutely.
“Well, then there isn’t any use lying about it, is there?” She smiled weakly. “I’m sorry. When I found him I had no idea he was your dog.”
“What did you do with him?”
“I left him where he was,” Elaine said gently. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Well, there isn’t anything to be done now, is there?”
“There wasn’t anything to be done when I found him, Rebecca. He’d been dead for hours, I’m sure.”
“I know,” Rebecca replied. “But it just seems too coincidental, Snooker getting his neck broken and then Mrs. Shelling—” She let the sentence hang, then pulled herself together and tried to smile. “I’m sorry,” she said. “These things have just gotten to me. I’ll be so glad when you’re back, Elaine. All of a sudden I just don’t like the idea of being out at Sod Beach all by myself.”
“That’s nonsense,” Elaine said with a certainty she didn’t feel. “It’s a beautiful beach and you’ve been very happy there. It’s absolutely silly to let this get to you.”
“I know,” Rebecca said. “And if it were just one thing—even if the one thing was Miriam Shelling—I think I’d be all right But two things? It just seems spooky.”
“Another minute and you’re going to start sounding like Merle Glind,” Brad said.
“Merle?” Glen said the name sharply and Brad’s attention was drawn away from Rebecca. “What did he have to say?”
“Not much, really,” Brad answered. “Some nonsense about what a mistake we’re making moving out to the beach. Without really saying it, he managed to imply that there’s something to that legend of Whalen’s. Say, did you know that Whalen’s part Indian?”
“Not me,” Rebecca said. “But now that you mention it, I suppose he does have that look.”
Outside, a car pulled up and the group suddenly fell silent, waiting for the door to open. When it didn’t Rebecca got up and went to look out. “Well, speak of the devil,” she said. Frowning slightly, Glen joined his wife. Outside, Harney Whalen was standing next to the Randalls’ car, one foot on the bumper, writing in what appeared to be a citation book. “What the hell is he up to?” Glen muttered. He started for the front door but was stopped by Brad’s voice.
“I’ll take care of it, Glen. It’s my car he’s got his foot on.” He went to the door and stepped outside. “Good morning,” he said cheerfully. The police chief didn’t respond.
“Something wrong?” Brad asked. Whalen glanced up at him, then finished writing and tore a page from the book. He handed it to Brad.
“Parking ticket,” he said evenly, his eyes boring into Brad’s.
Brad grinned crookedly. “A parking ticket?” he repeated vacantly. “What are you talking about?”
“Car’s parked illegally,” Whalen stated. Brad glanced around, looking for a sign that would tell him he had broken the law. There was none.
“It isn’t posted,” he said.
“It’s not illegal to park here, Randall,” the chief said. “It’s t
he way you parked. Rear end of the car is over the pavement.”
Brad walked around the car. The edge of the pavement, indistinct in the dust, appeared to be no more than an inch or two under the side of the Volvo. Suddenly he knew what was going on. “I’m sorry,” he said easily. “Very careless of me. How much is this going to cost?”
“Ten dollars,” Whalen said. His face wore what appeared to be an insolent smile, as if he were waiting for Brad to protest the citation. Instead, Brad simply reached for his wallet, pulled out a ten-dollar bill, and handed it to the chief together with the citation.
“I assume I can pay you?” he asked politely.
“No problem,” the chief said, pocketing both the citation and the money.
“I’ll need a receipt for that,” Brad said.
The police chief glared at him for a second, then moved to his patrol car. He sat behind the wheel and scribbled a receipt, then returned to the spot where Brad waited for him.
“Be more careful next time,” he said, handing the receipt to Brad. He turned and started back to the black-and-white.
“Chief Whalen?” Brad called. The policeman turned and stared at him. “If you think you can scare me off with a phony parking ticket, you’re wrong,” Brad said quietly. “It’s going to take a lot more than that to keep me out of Clark’s Harbor.”
Harney Whalen pulled at his lower lip and seemed to turn something over in his mind. When he finally spoke his voice was just as quiet as Brad Randall’s had been.
“Dr. Randall, I don’t give phony tickets. Your car is parked illegally, so I cited it. If I wanted to keep you out of Clark’s Harbor, believe me, I could. I tried to tell you what things are like here. Now, you want to come out here or you want to stay away, that’s your business. But don’t come to me looking for trouble—you’re likely to get it. Do I make myself clear?”
Brad suddenly felt foolish. Perhaps he’d been mistaken and the ticket hadn’t been the harassment he’d assumed it was. And yet it had to be—the violation, if indeed it was a violation, was so trivial. He decided to drop the matter, at least for the moment.
“Perfectly clear,” he said. “If I was out of order I apologize.”
The chief nodded curtly and wordlessly, got into his car, and drove away. Brad watched him go, then went back into the Palmers’ gallery.
“What was that all about?” Elaine asked. “Was he giving us a ticket?”
“He gave us one and I paid it,” Brad said pensively.
“What for?” It was Rebecca, a look of concern on her face.
“Apparently I parked illegally. It seems the right rear corner of the car is an inch or two over the pavement.”
“And he cited you for that?” Glen was outraged. “That’s ridiculous!”
“I thought so too, but I didn’t push it. No sense getting off on the wrong foot.”
“Sometimes I don’t think there’s a right foot,” Glen said bitterly. There was a silence, and Rebecca moved to him and took his hand.
Elaine looked down at her watch. “It’s time to get going,” she said softly. “It’ll take us at least three hours to get home.”
Rebecca suddenly put her arms around Elaine and hugged her. “Don’t change your mind,” she whispered.
“Not a chance,” Elaine assured her. “This town’s got my dander up now.” She pulled away from Rebecca. “Give us a week, more or less, and we’ll be back. Okay?”
Rebecca nodded. “I feel silly,” she said. “But all of a sudden things seem like they’re going to be fine. Hurry back.”
“We will,” Brad said. “And I expect to find this place finished by then. If it’s not I’ll have to pitch in and do it myself.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Glen promised him. He and Rebecca walked with the Randalls to their car, then watched them drive away.
“I hate to see them go,” Rebecca said. “What if they change their minds and don’t come back?”
“They’ll be back,” Glen told her. “Now come on in and forget about them for a while. There’s lots of work to be done and a puppy to be taken care of.”
Together, the Palmers went back into the gallery.
“What are you thinking about?” Brad asked as they drove away from the gallery.
“Nothing much,” Elaine said, not sure she wanted to share her thoughts with Brad. She was afraid she was being silly. She didn’t fool her husband.
“Worried again?” he guessed.
“I suppose so. Maybe we jumped in too fast. I mean, a house at the beach is one thing, but without electricity and in a town that doesn’t seem to want us?”
“It isn’t the whole town,” Brad pointed out “It’s only Harney Whalen and Merle Glind. There are also Glen and Rebecca, who want us very much.”
Elaine lapsed back into silence. Resolutely, she put her thoughts aside. But as they drove further and further away from Clark’s Harbor, the thoughts kept coming back: And they’re strangers, she thought Strangers, just like us. And just like the Shellings.
* * *
Harney Whalen waited until the Randalls’ car was completely out of sight before he pulled out from behind the billboard and headed back into town. As he made the turn onto Harbor Road he glanced at the Palmers’ gallery with annoyance and wished once more that they had taken him up on his offer to buy them out. Then, with the offending gallery behind him, he looked out over the town. His town. He had a proprietary feeling about Clark’s Harbor, a feeling he nurtured. Now it lay before him, peaceful and serene in the morning sun.
He pulled up in front of the tiny town hall and ambled into his office. Chip Connor was already there, enjoying a steaming cup of coffee. When Harney came in Chip immediately poured a cup for his boss.
“Well, they’re gone,” Harney said.
“Gone? Who?”
“The Randalls. Left just now.”
“But they’ll be back,” Chip pointed out.
“Maybe,” Harney drawled. “Maybe not.” He sat down and put his feet up on his desk. “Beautiful day, isn’t it, Chip?”
“For now,” the deputy commented. “But a storm’s coming. A big one.”
“I know,” Whalen replied. “I can feel it in my bones.”
Harney Whalen smiled and savored his cup of coffee and waited for the storm.
BOOK TWO
Night Waves
12
The Reverend Lucas Pembroke peered over the tops of his half-glasses at the sparse crowd that had gathered in the tiny Methodist church and tried to blame the poor attendance on the weather. It had been raining almost steadily for the last five days—ever since Miriam and Pete Shelling had been buried—and the Reverend Pembroke wanted to believe that it was the weather that was keeping people away. Only a few, the bored and the curious, had showed up at the burial. Lucas had hoped that more would turn out for this service. It seemed almost useless for him to have driven all the way up from Hoquiam just to hold a service for two people he hardly knew in front of an audience of less than ten. Perhaps, he reflected, if the bodies were here … He let the thought die and chastised himself for its uncharitability.
No, it was something else, something he had been acutely aware of ever since he had added Clark’s Harbor to his circuit. He had felt it from the first: a standoffishness among his congregation that he had never completely overcome. It was as if they felt that though they ought to have a pastor for their church, still, an outsider was an outsider and not to be completely accepted. Lucas Pembroke had thought he had come to grips with the situation in Clark’s Harbor, but the deaths of Pete and Miriam Shelling had hit him hard. Of all his congregation they had been the only ones who had ever really let him know they appreciated his weekly trips to the Harbor, perhaps because they, too, had never felt particularly welcome here. He missed the Shellings, so he had decided to hold a service to say farewell to them. Apparently not many people in Clark’s Harbor shared his feelings.
Merle Glind was there, of course, but Lucas was sure
that Glind’s presence was due more to his innate snoopiness than to any feelings for Pete and Miriam. Glind sat in the fourth pew, about halfway between the door and the chancel, and his small, nearly bald head kept swiveling around as he noted who was there and who wasn’t.
Other than Glind, only three fishermen and Harney Whalen represented the town at the service. But in the front pew, off to one side, Rebecca and Glen Palmer sat with their children, strangely out of place. They had never been in the church before, and Lucas wondered what had brought them here today. He glanced at the clock he had placed above the door of the church to remind him of the time when his tendency to ramble on too long got the best of him, and decided he had delayed long enough.
He began the service.
An hour later the small assemblage filed out of the church. Harney Whalen was the first to leave, and Pembroke noticed that the police chief seemed to be in a hurry. He hadn’t stopped to chat, even for a minute or two. Merle Glind paused briefly to pump Lucas’s hand, then, mumbling that he had to get back to the inn, bustled off. As soon as he was gone, Rebecca Palmer stepped up to him.
“It was a very nice service, Mr. Pembroke,” she said shyly.
“I’m glad you came.” Pembroke’s response was warm. “So few did, and it always hurts me when people stay away from a funeral. I suppose I can understand it but it always makes me feel lonely. I didn’t know you knew the Shellings,” he added, making it almost a question.
“We didn’t, really,” Glen answered. “Actually, I don’t think I ever spoke to Mr. Shelling. But I talked to Mrs. Shelling the night she died, and we just felt that we should come.”
Lucas Pembroke shook his head sympathetically. “It must have been very difficult for you,” he said to Rebecca. “If there’s anything I can do …”
“I’m fine now,” Rebecca assured him. “Really I am. Your service helped. I know it sounds strange, but I thought if we came it might help me stop thinking about it. And I think it will.”
“Come back again,” Lucas urged. “I mean for the regular services, of course. We don’t have a large congregation and I hate to preach to an empty church. Makes me feel unimportant, I suppose,” he joked.
