The Shore (Leisure Fiction)

by Robert Dunbar

  Her thoughts probed back beyond the pain in her skull. The station house. Yes. From outside, the explosion of glass and that deep, terrible man's scream. Yelling for Steve, she'd rushed outside, waving her gun. Like an idiot. The pain had erupted shatteringly in her skull. Worst cop in the world. He must have been crouched on the low roof of the station, poised to jump, and she wondered what he'd hit her with. Points on her ribs still burned. When a shudder passed into her bones from a thrumming deep beneath the floorboards, she raised her head.

  From the cot, the girl stared back at her. Different shades of ash, the long and tangled hair clung to the dampness of her forehead. The rough cot had marked the flesh of her face. Her skin looked unwashed, grublike, and a greenish vein pulsed at her temple. She might have been about seventeen, but as with the boy, the feverish pallor made her look older. In other circumstances, she might have been pretty, but the dark blotches and the bruises beneath the dirt made it difficult to imagine. Then her mouth went slack, and her head jerked to the side.

  She's in shock. Maybe dying. I've got to help her. The room swam in a deep murk, but isolated details focused. Damn it, I've got to figure out where I am. Books on a raw plank shelf had long ago swollen to burst their covers, and paperbacks without covers rotted on the floor around a barrel, around a lumpish roll of decaying carpet. It was mold on the walls, she realized, not gray paint. Again, the edges of the room seemed to liquefy as the sea entered freely through cracks near the floor. A boat, it must be...

  "...did?" The girl's eyelids fluttered.

  "What?" asked Kit. "What did you...?" But the girl slumped out of consciousness again as she watched. The walls seemed to bow inward, and the girl's eyes twitched open. Kit watched her jerk almost into a sitting position, tossing her head with a childlike gesture. "Stella?" Kit forced the words out steadily. "That's your name, isn't it?" She tried for a smile, her face rigid from the pain and the cold. "Are you listening?" She tried to hold the girl's gaze. "No, stay awake. Look at me. Where's your brother, your brother Ramsey? Is he here somewhere?"

  With a wobbling movement, the girl slid back down on the cot.

  "You're not tied, are you, Stella? Can you stand?"

  The girl hunched forward into a fetal posture, and she began to rock with her arms clasped around her knees. It would have looked like a trance if not for the furious rolling motion beneath her eyelids.

  "Stella, listen to me. I'm a police officer. I can help you. But first you have to help me. You have to get up. You have to untie these ropes before he comes back." She shuddered as another fragment of memory plummeted into place--a voice at the station house screaming for the keys, the keys that Steve had taken with him. A bellow of frustrated rage as he dumped out the desk drawers. So big, so much stronger, he'd knelt crushingly on her chest, trussing her with the cord he'd ripped from the lamp. He'd taken her gun and gone off to try and reach the boy, and she'd heard shots. Then his kicks exploded on her sides, and he'd crashed something wooden again and again into the wall, until the pounding roar had faded.

  The ocean thundered.

  "Stella, please, can you hear me?"

  The girl writhed.

  "You have to..."

  Wind knifed through the room. "Have you figured out where you are yet?" The moist, gravelly voice seemed to come from all around; then the door banged, and he rose up against the wall like a shadow.

  The breath froze inside her. His head seemed to block the light, and for a moment, she thought some dead thing lumbered toward her. All heat left her body as she twisted against the ropes.

  The thin, dripping hair slicked down to a glistening forehead, pale as the belly of a shark, and the heavy eyelids lifted slowly to afford her a glimpse of the red-rimmed blaze beneath. With difficulty, she recognized the thick expression as a smile. "...such a miracle really, that we should have survived this. Wouldn't you concur? So near the inlet. But the rocks always did protect this section of the boards. Daddy owned these rides, you realize. Strange to think of it, I must admit. He owned the whole amusement park once but sold it off one piece at a time. Now, of course, even the gears are rusted stiff. You see? These particular levers once operated the Ferris wheel." He raised a lantern from the floor and jogged it a little to hear the gurgle of fuel, then peered into the shadows. "Aren't you fascinated by the history of the town?" The lantern rocked, and a gleam swayed up the wall and down.

  She couldn't seem to control her breathing. The monster. Locks of his pale hair seemed longer than others, possibly the result of a self-administered haircut, giving his head a bizarrely ragged look. No, not a monster. A man. A killer. I've got to hang on, got to watch him, figure out his weak spots, find a way to...

  "...only appropriate that it should be all that remains intact of the town, though it will do my sentimental old heart good to see it wash away finally. Only the rocks left. Finally clean." Even in the cold, he blinked constantly against the sweat. "...keep staring. I know what you're seeing, my dear." His eyes glistened like leeches. "I'm not human anymore, am I? I am aware of that, never fear. As though I've become the ghost of myself here, haunting the settings of my youth." The smile creased his face again. "My youth." He shucked off the parka and let it slump across a spool. "Don't you find that a pleasingly romantic notion?" Muscles bulged under the black sweatshirt, even through the layer of fat, a startling contrast to the weak face with its moist, smallish mouth. "...thinking how ugly I am. No, no, don't deny it. No need. Perfectly true. Except for my mouth. Don't you think my mouth is fine? Daddy used to say it was the only thing about me he didn't hate. Charming man, my father. You'd have liked him. Everyone did. Or perhaps you knew him?"

  His brimming eyes burned even to look at. She felt this man lived, had lived perhaps for decades, perpetually on the verge of screaming, and it sickened her even more to feel pity mingling with her terror.

  "...realize he's dead. Oh, yes. Or, more to the point, I realize that you also are aware of this."

  The rasping gnaw of the surf surrounded them, and she realized that the girl had begun sobbing with guttural, desperate gasps, like a child. Ramsey stumbled toward the cot, and Kit stared at the massive curve of his back. "Don't, Stell." Raising a doughy hand, he let it hang above her face, thick fingers splayed in the air, and the girl sucked a damp shriek deep into her stomach. Gently, he brought the fingers closer; then he hissed between his teeth as he drew back. "Families. So difficult." He looked up at Kit. "You know how it is."

  Moving away, he chuckled, pacing into the center of the room. "Some old guy used to run this place." He flapped his arms at the walls. "Mr. Johnson. He used to let me hide here. Sometimes. When I needed to." Sweat trickled down his neck. "Sometimes. He always had so many books. All kinds. Science fiction and romance and murder mysteries. I read them all. That old drunk was the closest thing I ever had to a friend. Do you remember him? I remember you. You were the freckled one who always wanted to play with the boys." He stepped closer. "I always liked your hair."

  Her stomach knotted. "Keep your fucking hands off me."

  "You always had a mouth too, if I recall." He chuckled. "How amusing that you became the town's protector. A misfit like you. Not much left to protect now, is there, dear? Impressive job you've done. There there--you shouldn't feel too bad about the town. They all knew. You understand?"

  She saw the madness like a flare, a sudden red flowering in his gaze, and she pressed back against the rough chair.

  "...must have heard us...must have heard every night..."

  He moved even closer to her. Fleetingly, the light from the kerosene lamp slanted up on him, revealing an odd, rubbery quality to his flesh, until his features themselves seemed somehow unformed, as though the skull beneath remained too soft to provide sufficient definition. His sparse and ragged hair glinted like spun glass. "Tell me, do you still like to play with the boys?" His touch spidered across her cheek, and a silent scream rattled in her brain. She forced herself to dispassionately observe his subtle facia
l deformities: something about the eyelids; a distortion to the shape of the upper lip. She began to wonder if they might represent ancient beatings...and she recalled the room with the strap.

  "And if I'm not human anymore, what am I, you're wondering." His breath felt damp on her neck. "Maybe I'm a vampire. Maybe I'll tear out your jugular with my teeth and suck up your blood."

  Her anger rose like balm. "Maybe you're a fucking maniac."

  "That temper of yours will get you into trouble, my dear, one day." He chuckled. "Mark my words." His eyes seemed to stretch to unnatural roundness, showing white all around the murky blue, and his fingers trailed to her throat. His fingers slipped into her open jacket, then under her blouse. She felt them slide to her bra, and the calluses on the balls of his fingers scratched her nipples. The heat of his breath jetted down her neck. With his other hand, he loosened his pants. Suddenly, he began to laugh and pulled away from her. "My dear, you should see your face."

  "Knew...?" She croaked out the word. "What did they...?"

  He reached out again, his fingers tracing her breasts, and the warmth of his hand made her gasp. "Don't endeavor to engage me in some psychological gamesmanship. You're ill suited for it." His stroke resembled the most casual caress. "That face shows everything. Your best feature really. Very appealing, that raw quality." Her flesh went numb in patches, but she could feel his exhalation on her cheek as he bent over her. "Enticing. Even now. But of course I have Stella now."

  Rank with a stench like choked-down vomit, his breath sickened her, and she waited for the meaty hands to tighten around her neck. "The Chandler house, your house, is pretty far from town. How could anyone hear...?"

  "I said, don't play games!" The bellow erupted, ending with a giggle. Nothing could have frightened her more--the high-pitched snigger went on and on, repetitive, mechanical. He pushed closer, nothing in his face sharper than paste. It seemed teeth didn't belong in so soft a face, even stubby yellow ones. She tried to look away but couldn't. She bit her lip, using the sharp ache to hold back a groan.

  "He'll have returned by now," he said, the grin melting from his lips. "Your gentleman friend, the one who hunted me. Perhaps I should have waited for him after all." His glance tracked across the room to his sister. "Yes, I can see now that I miscalculated by returning here so quickly." His expression stayed dulled, as though whatever passions boiled in his chest failed to reach any higher, but his hands clenched into fists. "I could have shot him." As he paced, his fists began to beat against the upper part of his legs. "I had your gun. I could've gotten the key from his body--then I'd have had Perry too, and it would be over. Finally. None of this trading business." The fists drummed faster against his thighs. "Yes. Hindsight. No need to say it. But he had a gun as well. Mustn't overlook that. And I can't take chances of that magnitude. Not now. Not when I've got Stella. Finally." Brutal shrewdness glinted in his face. "He'll bring the boy here. He'll trade for you. Then I'll take your lives. Nothing personal. You understand? I'll have to. You do see that, don't you? For the sake of the family." The words droned quickly, some furious craving driving them. "And I'll take care of Perry. Finally. The way Daddy would have done. Then it'll be only Stella and myself. Together." His face clenched. "Perry had no right. I'm the eldest. After Daddy came me." Water gurgled all around them as the room rocked. "But Perry must come to me first. No one must know about him. Don't ever let them see--that's the most important rule."

  "What rules?" The trembling in her shoulders grew uncontrollable. "Know what about him?"

  Within the heater, flame pulsed softly. As the chill closed in, he sat on a crate, his shadow mountainous on the wall. "He always told us that. Draw the curtains. Don't scream so loud. Don't talk to the neighbors. Don't talk to anyone. Ever. Always been like that. And it worked well. When his family came here from the barrens, they were laborers. Now we own the town." After a pause, he added, "What's left of it."

  I've got to hold on. Her jaw clenched against nausea as the liquid floor gushed again, and in her vision the freezing room broke into pieces, buzzing like angry flies.

  His voice hissed faintly. "...consider the possibility that I may really be quite insane after all. Wouldn't that be quite a joke?"

  "What...?" She coughed, pain rattling in her chest. "What brought you back to Edgeharbor?"

  His chest heaved as he turned to her.

  She held his stare, desperate to delay whatever action she sensed he was working himself toward. "I mean, why now?"

  "The papers. We do get newspapers, you know, even in lunatic asylums. So sorry. Mental health facilities. It's the one truly great curse of late-twentieth-century man--we know everything that happens and have no idea what any of it means. But when I saw that the killings had begun, I understood." His voice rose in outrage. "My brother had taken my place. Besides...he's too pretty, don't you think? Too much like her."

  "Who? Who is he like?"

  Silence swelled, filling the shack.

  "Your mother?" She watched tension bulge beneath his fleshy jaw. "The girl, your sister," she spoke quickly. "She looks sick. She needs..."

  His face moved with an oblique shifting of shadowed eyes: the sleeping girl's breasts rose and fell. "You think my mother was good, don't you?"

  "I...you..."

  His gaze sliced at Kit like a razor. "Everyone did." From his temples to his bulging throat, the sheen of perspiration formed rivulets. "But she never tried to stop him." Sweat beaded his chin. "Do you know what she told me? She told me to pray for strength. And the things he did--she called them punishment." Grunting, he gulped air. "But for what? My fault. Mine. Ugly me." His fist thumped against his chest. "The things he made us do." Then he rubbed his hands together with a dry rasp. "Nothing unique, of course. Quite banal, I'm afraid. I often read about people like him in the hospital library. Not at first, of course, but later, when they trusted me." He made a laughing clack in his throat. "Sometimes, he used to make me watch. When she was just little. And then after, right in front of her, he'd make me..." The bone-dry chuckle obliterated his words. "Such a close family." He slammed a big fist into a thick palm. "And--after all that--Perry gets her?"

  "You wanted to help her get away from him? I could tell them that. You were just trying to help her. They won't..."

  "I'm here now." His voice rasped with purpose. "And I'll take Stella away with me. Would you like that, my angel? To finally get away from Edgeharbor?"

  Kit peered toward the darkest corner of the room. This can't be happening. Agony throbbed in her head. It's not real. Fear made her thoughts grow vague. She heard his voice raging on, but the words tumbled faintly into one another, dissipating like a spent wave.

  "...after I've killed them all. Then we'll be happy. You'll see."

  XXVIII

  The boy crashed against the door.

  "Look at it!" Steve grabbed him by his shirt. "Look at it, I said!" He shook him hard.

  Bullet holes marred the heavy wood of the door. Long scrapes ran along the frame, the knob, the lock, and the safety glass had been cracked and chipped till only wires held the sections together.

  "It was you he wanted!" He shoved the boy's face against the wood. "Now tell me! Tell me where he's got her!"

  "I don't know. Don't hit me." Trying to push his face from the jagged glass, Perry gulped air. Blood branched slowly from his nose to his chin.

  "Tell me!" Sputtering with rage, he hauled the boy back by the collar. "Or I'll cuff your hands behind you and toss you outside. How far do you think you'll get before your brother finds you? You think I won't do it?"

  The sobs raked up from deep within him. "Stell..."

  His hands circled the back of the boy's neck, and strong fingers clamped down, tightening. "Tell me!" The bones felt fragile and sharp.

  Beneath the pressure, Perry bent forward until his head pointed at the floor. "I'm sorry." He choked out the words.

  Steve took his hands away, and the boy sank to the concrete. Steve watched his own fing
ers clench and unclench; then he moved to the window and stared out at the night. Behind him, he heard the boy whimper on the floor, and his fingers dug into the grill over the window. Killer. Moisture glimmered on the glass. Monster. Wires cut into his flesh, and he felt the sting of blood. Oh, Kit. His first gulping sob emerged before he could force it down.

  "There's one place."

  He whirled around at the sound of shuffling movement.

  The boy spoke in short gasps. "One place he might be."

  "Please, you have to help me."

  On a filthy cot by the heap of moldy newspapers, the girl lay unresponsive, almost inert. Again the shack rocked, one wall shivering violently as muddy water slid across the floor. The girl's head lolled, and white crescents flickered beneath her parting eyelids.

  "Get up!" Kit shouted hoarsely. "Before he comes back. Listen to me. You have to help me. You have to get up! He'll kill us both. Do you hear me?"

  The girl's head jerked, her gaze glittering like broken glass, and the fingers of her left hand jerked. "Perry...he'll get me again...no, please...don't let him." A rusty edge grated in her voice, as though she were unused to speaking aloud.

  Kit's thoughts raced. Clearly, the girl's mind had broken--it was as though she had no will to move. "Perry's gone!" She shouted again. "Are you listening to me? It's Ramsey we have to worry about now. You have to stand up."

  "He'll hurt me." One white hand floated up to cover her face.

  "No! Stay with me! Keep looking at me. I can protect you from Ramsey. I'm a police officer. Do you understand me? Listen to me--if you'll untie me, I'll take care of..."