“I have it.” She rolled away.
“We should begin checking them.”
“Of course.” She reached for the clothes she’d thrown off earlier. “I didn’t mean to waste your time. Should we divide them?”
“Wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean we had to…” He tried to pull her toward him, but she continued to dress. It seemed the light clarified every freckle on her pale arms and legs. “Kit, there’s no reason for you to be involved in this any further, I’ll…”
“Don’t even try it.” Fingers trembling, she zipped her jeans. “We’ll take turns watching the apartments.”
“No, if you insist on coming with me, we’ll…”
“Barry, Steve, whoever the hell you are…” She squinted at the window. “The only possible excuse for my not having informed the authorities already is for us to be handling this ourselves. We should have moved on it by now, but here we are instead. So tell me again how committed we are to saving lives. Do you want to eat something, before we get started?”
He shuffled through the blankets. “Kit.”
Shrugging away from his touch, she tugged her blouse on, then hurried out of the room. As she walked, the cat pressed at her ankle.
What am I doing? She got out a skillet and began to root through the refrigerator. He’s just sitting on the bed, waiting for me to say something. Her hand went to a package of ground meat, and her fingertips pressed it. Gelid. Grainy. Deep pink dotted with white. At the crinkled bottom of the cellophane, a tiny amount of red fluid had gathered. Swaying, she closed the refrigerator and leaned against the door while the room swayed; then she rushed for the bathroom. An unblinking feline gaze observed her.
Leaning on the sink, she listened to his movements in the next room. I won’t be sick. She twisted a faucet, and water gushed. She watched it beat against the basin and splash across her blouse; then she adjusted the flow and cupped her hands to bathe her face. It cooled her burning eyes, but when she looked at herself in the mirror, she cringed. She tugged at the sleeves of her blouse. It made her look bony, boyish. Salt spray and the pillow had made a bizarre frizz of her hair, which now curled chaotically in a coppery mesh. The cat scraped at the door. “Can’t you leave me alone for five minutes?” She turned the shower on full blast before letting her clothes fall in a heap, as though she couldn’t bear to touch them. They smell of the beach. She stood under the water a long time. Everything smells of the beach.
Afterward she wiped the skin of steam from the mirror and combed her hair straight back before wrapping herself in a white terry cloth robe. Maybe he’s right. She had to wipe the mirror with a towel again to see herself, the image smeared and blurred around the edges. Wet, her hair looked almost chestnut. Maybe all I care about is a chance to take the killer down myself. What would that get me anyhow? She shrugged the thought away. Out of here? Is that what I want?
She found him sitting in the armchair, his face buried in her notes, and she walked past without speaking. Finding her slippers, she headed back into the kitchen.
Moments later, cooking odors twined through the warm air. Or do I just want him? She’d pulled the curtains aside, and the last of the light pooled in the center of the table where the cat fitfully purred. “Who said you could sleep on the table?” But the cat just lifted its head, squinting at her. The electric clock on the wall whirred softly. It seemed a reassuring noise, so normal, making nonsense of all their talk of monsters. In the next room, a chair scraped, and a few seconds later she heard the shower. Slicing onions and peppers, she prepared an omelet for them, annoyed with herself at the amount of effort she put into it, disgusted with her own transparent need to impress him with her domestic skills.
The cat slid off the edge of the table and leapt to the windowsill. “What do you want from me, cat? This never letting me out of your sight business is getting on my nerves. You’re not hungry. You won’t let me pet you.” She moved to the old china cabinet and got out her best dishes and linen. “So what is it?”
The cat’s tail tapped the wall in a restless oval.
“We should start with these cottages on the outskirts of town,” he said, his fingers tracing a column of addresses. “The ones most likely not to attract attention. We need to go back to the Chandler house too—just to check—periodically. See if anybody shows up.”
Her hand glided above the table, started for the salt, then the water glass, hesitated and returned to her lap. “This is what it’s all about for you.”
He poured himself another cup of coffee.
“This search. Everything else…just a means to an end.”
He chewed mechanically.
“What happened to you? What could make a person like this?”
“I shouldn’t have touched you.” Finally, he faced her. “Taking warmth from you. I don’t have the right.” He forced his attention back to his plate. “What? Were you going to say something?” His hand dropped to the table with a thud. A moment later, he tried to smile. “I’m sorry. Was this for the cat?”
“Shut up. It’s tofu. It’s good for you.”
He prodded the omelet with his fork. “No sprouts?”
“Don’t try to be funny.” She snatched the list off the table. “It scares me worse than anything when you’re charming.” She studied the page. “You know, these places will all be locked up tight for the winter. How do you intend checking them out?”
He forked another bit of omelet into his mouth.
“Oh.” She picked up her coffee mug, almost brought it to her lips, set it down again. “We’re going to do some more breaking and entering, right?” Her fingers tightened around the handle of the mug. “Didn’t take you long, did it?”
He swallowed glumly. “What?”
“To turn me into an outlaw.”
“Like me, you mean?”
Her shoulders pressed back, and her arms stiffened.
“Can’t you trust me just a little longer, Kit?” Veins in his temples bulged, and the muscles under his shirt twitched visibly. “Can’t you believe we’re doing this for the right reasons?”
“How can I believe anything you say?” She covered her face with her hands. “What’s wrong with me? Monsters. Am I crazy too? There aren’t any rules for this, no departmental directives.”
“You’re right about one thing. I can’t do this alone, Kit. Help me, please.” He stroked her arm. “I’ve told you everything I can.” He stood up. “It’s your call. I’ll go if you want me to.”
“And?”
“And try on my own.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said. “I’m scared. And I probably am falling in love with you. God help me.” Silence thundered in the room. “Did you hear what I said?”
“I haven’t even thought words like those in a long time.” He stood close beside her, and his hand smoothed the delicate tendrils of hair at the back of her neck. “I’m not sure what they mean anymore.”
She pressed her face damply into his shirt.
“C’mon, Kitten.” He stroked her back. “We’ve got work to do.”
XVIII
Motion washed over him, and bare trees banded the gray sky. For a moment, it seemed they might be going anywhere at all, away, to safety; then her voice brought him back.
“…used to be the best section of town.” She maneuvered them through the narrow streets. “Did you nod off?” Surreptitiously, she checked herself in the rearview mirror. She’d worn the green scarf in hopes that it would bring out the color of her eyes. It didn’t, she decided. “Used to get the highest rents.”
He noticed she wore earrings today, the first jewelry he’d seen on her, and the tiny gold circles glinted dimly as she turned her head to peer down the street.
“Stands to reason the Chandlers would own half the properties here,” she said as she parked the jeep and zipped her jacket.
They walked briskly down the block, side by side under the trees, neither quite looking at the other. At the top of the b
luff, majestic homes commanded an imposing view of the sea.
“Used to?” Wind tore at the flesh of his face.
“What?”
“Used to be the best?”
“When I was a kid,” she explained, “these were the summer homes of rich people. After that, they started to rent by the season, but you had to know somebody. These days, the owners are lucky to get tenants at the height of the season. If it wasn’t for this wind, I’d walk you down. Used to be our nicest beach. Nothing but rocks now. And during a storm…hell. See that watermark way up there on that porch?”
“Jesus.”
“This town’s never coming back.” She shrugged. “So what am I doing here?”
Withered gardens tightly encircled the first three properties they visited. As they tested doors and peered through windows, she watched him, beginning to comprehend the extent to which he operated by instinct.
“Doesn’t look like anybody’s been at this one either. Three strikes,” he grunted. “Let me see that list.” Slowly, they drove back toward the center of town and passed the next place several times before parking on the opposite side of the street. For a moment, they remained in the jeep. The three-story houses had porches on each level, like shelves, empty flower boxes clinging to each of the ornate railings. Identical structures ranged up and down both sides of the street.
“This time, let me go alone.” She put a hand on his arm. “Just stay in the jeep. It only makes sense. If somebody spots me, I can say I’m checking out a report of prowlers or something.”
“You’re out of uniform.” A smile whisked across his face. “But you’re getting good at this.”
She thought he sounded sad. “Anyway, it’ll make me feel less like I’m just along for the ride,” she told him.
“If you see anything…”
“You’ll be the first to know,” she said.
The door slammed before he could respond, and he watched her stride across the street and study the house. What have I done to her? The set of her shoulders struck him as both proud and innocent, suggesting a determined youngster. Too late to start feeling guilty now. Suddenly, she headed around the side of the building. What the hell is she doing? He opened the door and almost stepped out. With a tearing noise, the wind sliced itself through the branches of a small tree. All right, so she’s checking windows. After a moment, he pounded his fist on the dash. Where is she? What’s taking so long?
Swinging her arms like a little girl, she came around the side of the building. Glancing at the jeep, she shook her head before starting for the first porch. He settled back in. He had a perfect view. He saw her finger on the bell, watched her look around before trying the door. She put her face to the front window then turned away. A moment later, she headed farther up the steep, trellised stairs.
Damn, this is no good. Now he could barely see her through the wrought iron grillwork, and she vanished altogether on the next porch. What if he’s there? She could be dead while I sit here. As he shoved the door open again, he caught a glimpse of her heading for the third level. Damn it. Stay where I can see you. A second later, she leaned over the rail, beckoning.
Against the wind, he bounded toward the house and took the stairs two at a time, the dull chill of the metal rail cutting into his flesh.
She looked flushed, guarded excitement tightening her face. “There’s a light on inside, way in the back. See?”
He peered through a gap in the curtains: dark forms bunched on the floor.
“That’s suspicious all by itself, isn’t it?” she asked. “I mean, why wasn’t the power turned off? And…”
“Quiet.” He tried the door.
Behind him, she leaned against a porch swing, which gave a rusted squeal.
“Quiet, I said!”
She steadied it with her hand, but it continued to creak faintly. “Steve?” Thick soot covered the vinyl cushions. “The swings.” She strayed to the rail. “On every other building, the swings are down for the winter. But all the porches on this building still have…”
His shoulder hit the door, and the lock gave.
Nervously, she glanced around at the other houses. When she turned back, the doorway stood empty. “Steve?” Entering, she stumbled around bags and boxes, toward the light in the back. A heap of bedding covered a battered sofa.
“Freezing in here.” His voice drifted from somewhere ahead in the brown murk. “And it stinks of garbage. Take a look at this.”
Grease spots glistened like mica on the kitchen wallpaper. Strewn among pizza boxes and fast-food containers, garish magazine covers depicted rock bands and wrestlers, curling pages glued to the counter. Comic books littered the floor around the table.
“You ever seen anything like this?” He waved his arms at the mess.
“Could still have been summer people,” she pointed out, hesitantly.
Soda cans and paper plates gathered against one wall like a snowdrift, and a plastic trash bag full of old clothing sagged open. He poked into the clutter and pulled a copy of Soap Opera Digest from under a stiffened icecream container. “The November issue. They were here.” He tossed it aside, and the soles of his shoes crackled over a greenish patch of something sticky on the linoleum.
Beneath the layer of grime, the linoleum appeared to be yellow marbled with purple, like a bruise. The floor curled up in a weird lump at one corner, and she wondered what picture she’d get if she connected the dots of the cigarette burns. “Steve?”
“There’s got to be something here.” He paced into the next room and began to dig around the sofa cushions. “Some hint of where they went.” He dumped out the contents of a drawer, turned over a wastepaper basket and began to sift the contents.
She followed him to a small bedroom where closet doors hung open, bare wire hangers tilting. The stained mattress had been stripped, and bureau drawers lay empty on the floor.
“Looks like they took everything they could use. Steve, there’s nothing here.” Wandering back into the kitchen, she twisted a knob on the range. “Gas is off.”
A twisted paper bag lay atop the dirty dishes in the sink. “Water’s on still.” He demonstrated. “Check that refrigerator.”
She pulled open the door and gagged at the sour stench. “Half a bottle of orange soda. Ketchup.” On the bottom shelf, a head of deliquescing lettuce had covered the grate. “And some…looks like it used to be onion dip.”
“Swell.” He shook his head. An almost empty bag of pretzels, an empty pastry carton and three nearly empty boxes of breakfast cereal shared the surface of the kitchen table with a jar of peanut butter, scraped clean. “What’s the expiration date on the milk?”
“The twelfth.” Her voice dropped. “Of last month.”
“I knew it!” He pounded his fist on the table, and the pretzel bag rattled to the floor.
“Do you think he’ll come back?”
“Electricity’s still on. Water. Yeah, he might.”
“But won’t he see the door’s broken and…”
“We’ll have to split up.” He met her stare. “One of us is going to have to watch this place while the other keeps searching. It’s the only way. What?”
“Look at this.” She prodded at the trash bag, and stench smoked through the room. With the tip of her shoe, she pushed the opening back, and even in the poor light, they could see the blood that stiffened the denim overalls within.
XIX
In a bizarre assortment of architectural styles and follies, crowded roofs ranged tall in this part of town. Brick chimneys jutted from sloping shingles alongside squared flattops, all at different heights and angles, and wind-driven rain and sleet bounced as though trying to scour them all away.
Sleet chimed against the glistening fire escape. From the streets below, the barking of dogs rose, keening thinly against the wind. Then a deep rumble reverberated, and the dogs fell silent. Again, the hellish cry razored the night, unwinding like a pulsing wire of noise. Mingling bitter grief with raging h
opelessness, it surged and echoed over the deserted streets, then whimpered to silence.
Sleet gave way to soft raindrops that spattered the metal stairs. Through the open window, the sodden fabric of summer curtains trailed and billowed in a damp gust. The scream spurted once more, shrilled into a mewling shriek.
He doesn’t sound terribly happy this evening.
The screech faded into a pathetic groan. Then the pounding began, vibrating clearly even at this distance, as if great fists rammed against the walls in that room across the courtyard.
Ah, it’s begun.
Lenses clicked against the pane. At his window, Ramsey Chandler twisted the knob on the binoculars. His focus swept the mouth of the alleyway, then jerked up a wall, across a low rooftop, scouring the brick canyon in nervous swoops. He could hear the wind moan below, battering windows as it passed.
Somehow, the tables had been turned. No longer did he stalk his prey unseen. Now someone hunted him, and he fought to control his trembling. I should have taken the time to kill him in the alley. But to have been so close to the boy! To see recognition kindle in that face. In those eyes. So like hers. Luminous. Knowing. To have it all so close to a final resolution—a quick twist of that slender neck! It had been too much, and in that moment, he’d forgotten all else. But I should have made sure the stranger was dead. Instead, he’d left the man unconscious and pursued the boy. Foolishly, stupidly, with no real chance of overtaking him on foot, he’d revealed himself. I lost my head. So uncharacteristic of me. The boy had scurried into the blackness, and he’d blundered after him. When at last he’d given up and gone back to finish the man, he’d arrived in time to see the redheaded policewoman helping him into her jeep. No matter. They’d driven in the direction of the marina. It is set in motion now, and nothing can stop it, regardless of whom this stranger might be. It had taken hours of scouring the neighborhood around the docks in that freezing wind before he’d spotted the jeep again.
With a jerk of the binoculars, he wrenched his mind back to the present. Whoever he is, whatever he is, I cannot allow him to live. And little Perry. He must die as well. A wave of fear swept through him as he considered the boy. Difficult that. Problematic. But I almost caught you once, little brother. Vulnerable. Unchanged. I shall find you that way again. And soon. It must be soon. He twisted the focus. But first things first.
The Shore Page 17
