Cry for the Strangers

by John Saul

  “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 disappear
ed 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 down-pour, shattering into a thousand pinpoints of light that illuminated nothing, but made the darkness seem even blacker than it was.