The Shore

by Robert Dunbar

  THE SHORE

  ROBERT DUNBAR

  LEISURE BOOKS NEW YORK CITY

  THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT

  The phone rang.

  “Look, I told you—I have to take these keys back. We can start looking for Ramsey in the morning and…”

  She stopped talking. She knew.

  “No need to look further, dear woman.” The words pushed through with a mushy quality. “She will die. Can your limited mentality comprehend this? If the boy spots anyone around, if he so much as suspects the police are after him, he will take her life.” The voice slurred and choked. “You cannot imagine what he is.” Groaning wind all but drowned out his words. “And for my part, I cannot let you endanger her with your meddling. Do you understand? I cannot allow it.”

  She leaned over the phone, as though sucked in by his words, and she gripped the receiver so tightly her fingers ached. “If you have any information regarding this…”

  Branches rattled in a sudden gust; then the dial tone rose loudly.

  “Hello?” Panic settled on her. Get him back on the line. Try star sixty-nine. Her numbed fingers stabbed at the buttons. Get him talking, get him to say something useful. Act like a cop for once.

  In the distance, she could hear a phone ringing. Not over the instrument, but faintly through the windows behind her. She replaced the receiver, and the ringing ceased.

  The phone booth outside.

  For Carl, who loved a good scary story…

  late at night on the roof…

  with the wind off the Hudson and the sky full of stars.

  …the sea,

  Delaying not, hurrying not,

  Whispered me through the night, and very plainly

  before daybreak,

  …the low and delicious word…

  DEATH…

  Hissing melodiously,

  But edging near…rustling at my feet,

  And creeping thence steadily to my ears…

  DEATH…

  ~Walt Whitman

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  The Voice In The Night

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Author's Note

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Epilogue

  Other Leisure Books By Robert Dunbar

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  This book is entirely a work of fiction, the characters imaginary, the town of Edgeharbor based on no actual place. Only the Jersey Devil is real.

  PROLOGUE

  Pines glow, branches clawing at moonlight as the car hurdles past.

  She turns up the radio, but music dissolves in static as she fiddles with the dial. Only a religious talk program emerges clearly. Switching it off, she rifles the glove compartment for a disk.

  At last, jazz trombone smokes through the interior of the convertible. Though tension still sings in her neck, she sighs. Hellish shift tonight—the faces of the players, desperate and sweating, swim in her mind. One more year of this, she thinks, and she’ll go back to school; then she laughs aloud, wondering how long she’s been telling herself this. She increases the pressure on the gas pedal, and bristling shades stream around the car, melting in the periphery of the headlights as the road throbs beneath her.

  A sign flashes past. Instantly the channel narrows, and she eases up on the gas. A tall tree seems to writhe in her head-lights. Fringed and tufted with needles, its limbs seem to reach for the fleeting brightness.

  Darkness coils like a river, and a chill seeps through the canvas roof. The music swells with anxious melancholy.

  Her high beams scythe the night. No one uses this road much. It has been almost an hour since she glimpsed house lights or even another car, and isolation makes the night seem chillier. Yet she cracks the window to let freezing air whistle in. Her lungs still burn, and the acrid stench of tobacco clings to her clothing. Above the windshield, skeletal trees vault, endlessly frigid and unsullied, as her mind drifts on the music.

  The road twines through the pressing tangle, widening again, sloping up toward a house on a rise, the convertible now a shadow among shadows. As the woods fall away, a few more dwellings gather at the top of the hill. Some little town, she guesses, but still raw, still clean.

  The road humps downward, and suddenly the sea spreads before her.

  Her shoulders relax, and the charred rasp in her chest eases. As the car bounces past, shocks squeaking like mice, a big old house with gabled windows peers blindly. Cranking the window shut, she slows the car to a crawl. Black conifers claw over ledges and rocks, edging onto the shoulder of the road.

  There—a gap in the scrub growth.

  Tires skitter off the graveled edge of the dirt trail and wallow in softness, things crunching beneath the wheels. A moment later, she eases the convertible out onto a small beach.

  Private probably, but not posted, at least not that she can see. Not that she cares much anyway. Not tonight. What’s the worst that could happen? Silencing the wail of music, she sets the hand brake. It’s been months since she found a spot this perfect. Hardly any beach at all really, just the trees, then the rocks and then surf—right there. She clicks off the headlights.

  Waves flicker.

  She listens to the muted hiss, relishing it. The dash lighter pops. Briefly rummaging in her bag, she lights a joint and inhales deeply, then zips up her coat, brushing an ember off the sleeve. It’s a new coat, too expensive for her. A gift. Like the car. Her teeth clench grimly, and she shoves the door open. Cold floods in. Hunching her shoulders and lowering her chin, she clambers out. Normally, on a night like this, she might only sit in the car and watch the ocean, maybe play a CD. But tonight she needs to walk, if only for a moment, if only as far as the rocks. Pines seethe in the wind, and the door slams softly.

  Shale and beach grass crackle underfoot as she heads for a blunt wedge of stone. The raw materials of creation seem to have been abandoned here. Lumpish boulders squat. Scrub growth struggles onto a thin strip of gravel, not so much a beach as a shoal of crushed shells, primeval, unfinished. In the wind, sparse sand grits loudly, and waves slide against the rocks with a tumbling whisper.

  Planting her suede boots firmly, she imbibes the scent of the sea. It smells impossibly ancient, like vapors from the dawn of time. Hypnotized by faint luminescence, she stares at the waves. She tokes on the joint, then squeezes out the tip, as the wind prowls through rocks to pounce, whirling the mass of black hair around her face like a satin veil. The cold sears her ears, lashes the long coat between her legs. She must be crazy, she decides, to be out tonight without a hat or gloves…to be out tonight at all. The next gust draws tears.

  For as long as she can stand it, she lets the wind scour away all thought. Finally, feeling hollowed, almost weightless, she turns her shivering back to the wind and paces along the water’s edge, her boots crunc
hing dully across pebbles.

  Like shattered bones through the flesh of the earth, boulders break the surf, and spent waves pulse over the stones at her feet. Some of the rocks resemble emerging bodies, hunched and fetal, inchoate, and she steps onto the first boulder, hugging herself against the chill. A sudden trace of mist blurs her vision. The sea is liquid darkness.

  Ragged clouds surge apart, and moonlight bursts in the swells, rolling silver lines across the beach. Suddenly looming, an obelisk startles her. So close, yet she hadn’t seen it. A drowned lighthouse—decades abandoned probably and half sunk in the tide. Now she can even make out the chain link fence surrounding it in the water. From somewhere, a foghorn groans mournfully. Again, the wind whips her coat as the clang of a buoy drifts to the rocks.

  Enough, she decides. But she lingers an instant longer, freezing and letting the wind buffet her. Then she steps off the rocks onto the softer earth. Taking her hands out of her pockets, she blows on them, rubbing at her numbed face as she hurries back toward the car.

  It envelops her: a stench that makes her think of sewage lines and decomposing animals. She covers her mouth and nose.

  On the rocks behind her, pebbles rattle.

  She jerks around.

  A shadow bulges. “…pretty…” Something like a voice hisses.

  Panic jets, battering in her chest as she stumbles back. The heel of her boot slips, and she tumbles, sharp stones grinding into her palms.

  A skittering noise rains down from the boulders.

  “Who is that?” She scrambles backward on all fours. “What do you want?” She struggles to her feet.

  It slams into her back, ripping hotly through the coat, pitching her forward. “Stop!” Terror burbles in her throat as she staggers for the car. “No!” Cries drip from her in small cascades. “Somebody, help me!” Yanking the door open, she tumbles in, jamming down the lock. Beyond the windows, blackness pulsates.

  “Oh Christ oh my God.” Writhing into the seat, she fumbles at the key. It feels slippery in her fingers. “Oh sweet Jesus.” Both her hands feel wet. They look black, and warmth trickles at her back.

  With a crackling hiss, the window on the driver’s side goes white.

  “No!” She twists the key, and the engine sputters. “I’ll run you the fuck over. I swear to God!” Shrieking, she pounds on the horn and flips on the high beams, but only mist rushes forward, claiming the light.

  As the car lurches, she wrenches the wheel, trying to swing around in a wide circle. Fog swirls everywhere. “Where’s the road?” The sea yawns before her.

  Cold grips her. She peers up at a moon-cloven sky, as something like a hand gropes through the torn roof. Fingers tangle in her hair, and another hand grips her coat. The steering wheel tears from her arms. Her legs plunge and kick.

  Like the cries of some night-flying seabird, her gurgling screams mingle with the surf. The empty car rolls to the rocks. Glass tinkles, and darkness presses around.

  Waves gush against the rocks, and nothing moans but the wind.

  I

  In splintered shadows beneath the pier, waves caressed the pylons, sliding between them in a plunging, receding rhythm. Wind rippled the surface, and light sank in pillared striations, while from the timbers above, susurrations resounded.

  On the beach, wind grated across sparse dunes and rattled dead grasses, and a damp chill settled from a dull white sky. Gulls hung motionlessly above sand the color of wet straw.

  The rusted mouth of a huge drainage pipe yawned jaggedly at the surf. A man crouched within. Winds hissed, mauling him, and he drew back, his breath clouding. Pulling off his gloves, he blew on his hands and rubbed them together, shivering. He barely had enough room to stand in the pipe, and again he leaned past the lip of the metal tunnel, letting his gaze drift to the far end of the beach: scrub pines straggled near the rocks. Perhaps a century earlier, those boulders had been plowed from the sand. Now they formed a rough wall that crashed deep into the surf. Even from here, he could see spray lash up. The gulls rose.

  Still nothing. And the light almost gone. The thought of returning here at night stabbed an icy chill deep into him, and he risked another glance toward the pier. Clouded waves lapped the pilings.

  As the wind died away, he drew his head back. Tugging the gloves on, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his bomber jacket. Straight ahead, the ocean heaved smoothly, silken weights rolling beneath the surface. Languid hills rode each other, until endless repetition, maddeningly torpid, stirred him to twitching somnolence. As the sand crunched softly, he shifted his weight, clumped gravel scratching the soles of his shoes. Soon, he thought. The one he waited for would come soon. He shuddered, his very heartbeat seeming to fuse with the pulse and rhythm of the tide. Between waves, the hush grew so quiet he imagined he could hear things moving beneath the sand, hidden things, secret things.

  At the mouth of the pipe, a vein of black splayed through the wet sand. Broken boulders littered the shore, and waves gouged through crevices in granite…like slow acid.

  A sound drifted across the beach—the softly grating hiss of footsteps.

  He stiffened.

  The sound grew louder, and he crouched, breath stalled in his throat, fingers curling within the leather gloves. Warily, he peered through a corroded hole in the metal.

  On the granulating mud beneath the pier, foam glinted in an oily sheen, sliding ever back into the water. With a backpack slung over his shoulder, a boy emerged from the dimness. He looked about fourteen. Perhaps a bit older. He wore a brimmed cap, tugged down over his ears, and his cheeks had flushed a deep pink as though wind had scoured away layers of skin. The boy took large strides. Straddling the dry rim of sand, he would pass within a few feet of the pipe.

  A ripple of sensation spurted across the man’s hands, a warming pain, like the twitch of a long-dead nerve. Just a little closer…

  Tongues of wind rasped along the beach, and waves curled over the rocks like talons.

  The boy shielded his eyes from the blowing grit and tried to push back the pale hair that trailed from beneath his cap. Even with two sweaters under the denim jacket, he felt the cold flow right through, and his thin shoulders trembled as he shifted the backpack. Almost against his will, his gaze skimmed out over the sea. He stopped walking.

  A gull shrieked.

  The sun had not really come up at all today. Swells tumbled sluggishly, and shades of gray blurred together where the horizon should have been. With a jerk of his head, he forced his attention from the bleak seascape to resume his scrutiny of the beach. Beyond the sewage pipe, a boulder protruded from the sand, then another farther on and another until a rock barrier ended the gravelly strip. Either he would have to go back or cut straight across the beach, here at its widest point, a risk he hated taking.

  The wind soughed, and a brutal gust scorched his face. Lowering his head, he trudged on, kicking at broken shells. Bird tracks, webbed and hooked like the spoor of tiny dinosaurs, splayed everywhere, and lumps and whorls in the damp sand seemed to mirror the choppy pattern of the surf.

  The boy saw only a blur of movement from the pipe. He pivoted. Big hands grazed his back, groping for a hold. Lips pulled taut, the boy’s mouth opened in a silent cry as he leapt. His sneakers slipped on white pebbles, but he kept his footing, running hard.

  He raced along the edge of the water, straining for the rocks. Footsteps slapped across the mud behind him, louder than his, faster than his. Outstretched hands clutched.

  He sprinted with all his strength. Ahead lay the rock wall, and already his pursuer edged to cut him off from the beach.

  The boy whirled, sliding toward the water. Surprised, the man passed him, cursing, and the boy glimpsed the pale snarl of his face, the fair hair. “You!” Dread trembled in his legs as he darted back, angling across the beach. “It’s you!” His speed seemed to leach away as his sneakers pounded, and sand rose at his feet in slow spurts.

  On the dunes, he heard only his own panting.
Splinters of icy air gouged his lungs, and he began to think he had escaped. Then he heard a snorting gasp. So close. His sneakers dug deep into the sand.

  The man grunted victoriously, lunging. A gloved hand tangled in the long hair at the boy’s neck. With a gasp of pain, the boy ducked under his arm. The man rammed into him, butting him backward, then caught him solidly by the shoulders.

  The boy flailed, realization twisting his face. “You ain’t my…!” Strong hands closed like a trap on his neck. As they grappled, the boy’s jacket and shirttails pulled up, exposing flesh whiter than the frozen beach.

  Gravel shaled down the slope as the man’s shoes slipped. He toppled, clutching the straps to the backpack. Snagged, the boy shrugged it off, diving for a dark spot beneath the boardwalk. The man fell with a grunt, plunged at the boy’s legs. He caught a sneaker. The boy kicked, slipping under the boards.

  With a coughing snarl, the man scrambled to his knees and thrust his arm deep into the opening, groping until his shoulder scraped wood. He dug frantically, enlarging the hole. Sand crept up his sleeves and burned like powdered ice. Then he threw himself on his stomach and shoved forward.

  Freezing blackness closed on him. The tight cavern smelled of damp wood, and he twisted around. An ovoid of thin daylight leaked from above, and he threshed farther in, grinding his hip against the underside of the boards. He could hardly move his arms, could barely turn his head. Sand gritted between his teeth, and the boards squeezed down on him. He felt empty space with his right hand and tried to writhe forward, but softer earth sucked at him. Twisting in the other direction, he slipped into darkness.

  Glowing in a fine seepage of light, a plume of sand trickled down on him.

  He was alone now. He knew it. Wind moaned through the cracks, and haze brightened in his vision as he managed to get his feet beneath him in the trench. The boy was gone. Despair coursed through him.

  Icy sand filled his gloves as he clambered heavily up the incline. His shoes felt weighted with lead, and at the top, he struck his head against a beam. When he squeezed toward the opening, his belt snagged on a nail, and he squirmed, one arm pinned beneath him, his legs kicking at nothing. Wedged in, he thrashed back and forth, making his way by inches, until the wind tore at his face, and he crawled out. At last, he lay on the open sand, cold grit in his mouth. So close. For several minutes, he listened to the labored pounding of his heart, to the tumbling hush of the sea. Spitting dirt, he rolled onto his back and stared at the sky.