The Shore (Leisure Fiction)

by Robert Dunbar

  "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 hopelessness, 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 mew
ling 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.

  Nothing stirred in the alley. Yet his pursuer lurked out there, he knew. Somewhere.

  Eventually, he sighed and swung the binoculars back toward the apartment.

  The window! It was open wide now. He slapped his palm against the pane too hard, cracking it. No! Frantically, he scanned back and forth across the fire escape, the alley, the...

  He caught just a glimpse of the boy's cap vanishing down the alley. Tossing the binoculars on the bedding, he grabbed for his parka. The door thudded against the wall as he pounded into the hallway and down the well of the stairs.

  In the empty room, the candle flickered feebly, and tendrils of smoke twined up to the ceiling. As the door drifted shut, sleet began to tap at the cracked windowpane.

  "Oh, so you're still around."

  "Nice little town you have here."

  The barmaid swiveled a look to someone at a nearby table, and one of the patrons shook his head.

  "Stacey, isn't it?" Steve ordered a beer, then spent ten minutes trying to draw her into conversation. "I was in Cape May last month, stayed at a couple of the famous haunted hotels." He grinned. "You interested in that sort of thing?"

  Wiping a glass, she barely looked at him.

  "Psychic phenomenon is sort of a hobby of mine."

  "Uh huh." She went on to the next glass.

  "Ghosts and poltergeists, that sort of thing." He raised his voice, watching the other patrons in the mirror. "You know, things moving around by themselves. Anything like that ever happen around here?"

  He heard somebody mutter, "What in hell's he talking about?"

  "I mean, are there any old legends about the town? You know, haunted beaches...or strange families. That kind of thing?"

  The white-haired man on the next bar stool cast him a look of utter disgust. "People here ain't no stranger than anywheres else," the man grumbled as he picked up his beer and moved away. "Leastwise we mind our own business."

  "Here, give me another." Steve put a twenty on the bar and forced a smile.

  "Uh huh." Stacey shook her head. "You're different all right. I'll give you that much." Under the makeup, she looked tired. "You ought to meet Tully."

  "Who?"

  "Besides, if you really want to know about the town, he's the only one's gonna talk to you." Smirking, she looked as though she might say something else but wiped the counter instead.

  "Why's that?"

  With one long fingernail, she scraped at a spot on the bar. "Everybody else has gotten pretty leery of strangers since last week. Cops and reporters. Pestering everybody. Just the kind of publicity this town don't need."

  "You expecting this Tully character tonight?"

  "Hey, Tull, come over here," she called. "Man wants to buy you a drink."

  Steve blinked. A young man rose from a table near the wall. No one could have appeared more out of place, and he watched him smile in habitual apology as he squeezed around a table. The sheepskin jacket and cable-knit sweater looked expensive, and brown curly hair hung to his shoulders, slightly exaggerating a suggestion of weakness in his features.

  Cigarette scissored between two fingers, Stacey said, "Now tell him what you was telling me about." Folding her arms, she observed them through the smoke.

  While Steve repeated his comments about psychic phenomenon, Stacey poured drinks. "Oh," the newcomer interrupted with a chuckle, "so that's why she wanted us to meet. Sorry, but she thinks you're weird too." His hands twitched. "Am I right, Stace?" All his gestures seemed jerky, barely controlled and at odds with his polished appearance, as though he constantly reined in some violent reaction. "They all think I'm a little crazy here."

  She smiled with her lips closed.

  "Tully, is it?"

  "Nickname. Long story. Real name's Jason. Jason Lonzo."

  "I take it you're not from around here?" Steve leaned forward. At the closest table, a laugh cut off suddenly.

  "I am. Sort of. My folks have a place here, and I've been here every summer since I was born just about."

  Steve patted the sleeve of his own leather jacket. "Strange time of year for the beach, isn't it?"

  "Hmm? Oh, you mean why am I here now? I more or less dropped out of grad school a couple months ago. The situation got a little tense at home, so I've been staying at the shore house, you know, trying to figure myself out." He shrugged. "Maybe do a little painting."

  "You paint?"

  "Hope so. I don't really know yet."

  Steve nodded. His third beer had settled on an empty stomach, and his companion's last remark suddenly struck him as both eloquent and poignant. "Yeah," he expounded.

  "You think less of me for that? For quitting?" He searched Steve's face as though this stranger's opinion suddenly mattered intensely.

  "Well, uh," Steve cleared his throat.

  "Hey, Charlie, how you doing?" The long hair swayed in front of Tully's face as he nodded at one of the regulars hurrying past. "I'm too sensitive, that's all. I'm sorry, but it's a little weird. Sometimes I know what people are going to say. You know? What they're thinking even. Sometimes I think they can tell, and they resent it. Is that crazy?"

  "You tell me." They kept talking and drinking, though the blurry discourse in which they indulged barely qualified as conversation. Tully's whole demeanor changed whenever he addressed one of the other patrons, his vocabulary and tone of voice altering with a spurious attempted to affect a jocular coarseness of character. Always the locals turned from him with barely concealed sneers. He should give it up. Steve shook his head, feeling a surge of compassion for this young man, so desperate for acceptance. Oblivious, Tully prattled on about some philosopher whose work he found "strangely meaningful," while Steve ordered more beer. Hell, why am I sitting here? I don't have time to waste. The boy could be anywhere. He could sneak out of town, and I'd lose him and never find him, and he'd kill and kill and never stop. But a luxuriating paralysis seemed to spread through his body, pre
venting his muscles from tensing when he willed himself to rise. What next, he wondered? Wander back outside? Into that terrible cold? Kit can only watch the apartment another hour; then she goes on duty. I'll be there to take over. Besides, he found himself liking his tense and melancholy new acquaintance. I'll be there. No rush.

  "Toxic dumping for one thing. Did you get a whiff of the bay?"

  He interrupted the younger man to order food, and they moved to a table.

  "You've met Kit? Really? That's somebody else I always thought was out of place here. Hard to believe she's a cop."

  Steve just watched and listened. While the barmaid wiped the table, he noticed the way she looked at Tully, the way she moved with an exaggerated twitch of the hips. An indulgent smile played across Tully's face as Stacey leaned far over him to swab out the ashtray with a damp cloth.

  Good for you, kid. Steve told himself he wasn't just wasting time here, that mingling with the locals constituted part of the investigative process. Okay, so we'll talk a while, and maybe I'll learn something about the town. Except they didn't seem to be discussing the town. What was the guy going on about now? Renaissance architecture? The beer created a haze in his vision, but he made an effort to focus. "This town," he interrupted. "It's sort of laid out strange for a seaside resort, isn't it? Doesn't look much like the rest of the towns around here."

  "It's older than most. Except for the boardwalk. That only got built about fifty years ago, before the beaches started to go." Tully nodded enthusiastically, switching conversational tracks without noticeable effort. "The earliest residents were mostly English and German, then a big wave of Italians. Lots of fishermen. They built the center of town--you know, brickwork and alleyways. But they're mostly gone now." He sipped his drink. "Like all the people I knew as a kid."

  "I've been meaning to ask somebody--how come the beach is black?"

  "Iron ore. There's a mine in the barrens the town buys sand from."

  Cigarette smoke seemed to create a fog around the lights, and Steve couldn't concentrate on the words he heard. The younger man was telling him about how offshore dumping had changed the coastline and destroyed the beaches or something like that. He could smell a cigar, and suddenly the bar felt cool and damp. He became acutely aware of hostile glares from the corners. Enough. In a moment, he knew he'd find the strength to leave.