Cry for the Strangers

by John Saul

  “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 inter
ested 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?”