Cry for the Strangers (11 page)

His grandfather had built the house, and he’d built it well. It had stood against the Northeasters for more
than a century, and its joints were as snug as ever, its foundation maintaining a perfect level. Only the roof ever demanded Harney’s attention, and that only rarely. He wandered from room to room, not really seeing the furnishings that filled them but feeling their comforting presence, and wondering idly what it would be like to be one of those people who spent their lives like gypsies, wandering from one residence to another, never really putting down roots anywhere. Well, it wasn’t for him. He liked knowing that his past was always around him. Even though he lived by himself in the house now, he wasn’t really alone—his family was all around him and he never felt lonesome here.

He made a sandwich, then opened a can of beer to wash it down with. By the time he returned to the living room, the movie had begun, and he sat down to munch his sandwich contentedly and enjoy the film.

Sometime during a barrage of commercials he felt the uneasiness begin, and he glanced around the room as if half-expecting someone to be there. He noticed then that the wind had come up and left his chair to go again to the window. It had begun raining and the water on the glass made the lights of Clark’s Harbor appear streaked and blurred. Harney Whalen shook his head and returned to his chair in front of the television set.

He tried to concentrate on the movie, but more and more he found himself listening to the wind as it grasped at the house. Each time he realized he didn’t know what was happening on the television screen, he snapped himself alert and forced his attention back to it.

The storm grew.

Just before the end of the movie Harney Whalen felt a nerve in his cheek begin to twitch and wondered if he was going to have one of what he called his “spells.” A moment later, as he was about to put the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth, his face suddenly contorted into an ugly grimace and his hands began twitching spasmodically. The scrap of sandwich fell to the floor beside his chair, and Harney Whalen stood up.

Robby and Missy lay awake in their bunks, listening to the rain splash against the window.

“You want to go look for him, don’t you?” Missy suddenly whispered in the darkness, a note almost of reproach coloring her voice.

“Who?” Robby asked.

“Snooker.”

“He’s out there, isn’t he?”

“Could we find him?”

“Sure,” Robby said with an assurance he didn’t feel.

“But what about the ghosts?”

“There isn’t any such thing.” Robby climbed down from the top bunk and sat on his sister’s bed. “You didn’t believe that old man, did you?”

Missy squirmed and avoided looking at her brother. “Why would he lie?”

“Grown-ups lie to children all the time, to make us do what they want us to.”

Missy looked fearfully at her brother. She wished he wouldn’t say things like that “Let’s go to sleep.”

Robby ignored her and started dressing. Missy watched him for a moment, then she, too, began pulling
her clothes on, all the time wishing she were still in bed. But when Robby opened the window and crept out, Missy followed him.

As soon as they were on the beach Missy thought she saw something, but it was too dark to be sure. It was a shape, large and dark against the heaving ocean, that seemed to be moving near the surf line, dancing almost, but without a pattern. She clutched Robby’s hand.

“Look,” she whispered.

Robby peered into the darkness. “What is it? I don’t see anything.”

“Over there,” Missy hissed. “Right near the water.” She pushed up against Robby, squeezing his hand so hard it hurt.

“Let go,” Robby commanded, but the pressure remained.

“Let’s go into the woods,” Missy begged. “It’ll be safer there.”

Robby hesitated, then decided to go along with his sister; if Snooker was anywhere around, he was likely to be in the woods. They were creeping over the barrier of driftwood when Missy suddenly yanked on Robby’s arm.

“Something’s happening,” she whispered. “Let’s hide!”

Robby stiffened, then made himself look around, but there was nothing. Only the blackness of the night and the noise of the wind and surf, building on each other into a steady roar. Still, when Missy tugged on his arm again, he let himself be pulled down into the shelter of a log.

*    *    *

A few yards away Miriam Shelling stirred slightly, a strange sensation forcing itself into her consciousness. Her fingers were tingling and her hair seemed to stand on end, as if charged with static electricity. She stared blankly into the night, her confused mind trying to match the eerie feeling with the terrifying images she saw on the beach. Strangers, strangers with odd, dead-looking eyes, their faces frozen in silent agony, their arms raised, their hands reaching, clutching at something Miriam couldn’t see.

She rose and began walking across the beach, drawn to the eerie tableau by a force beyond her control.

Missy peered fearfully over the top of the log, her eyes wide and unblinking.

There were several shapes on the beach now, but they were all indistinct—all except one, which moved outward toward the ocean slowly, steadily. Missy wanted to call out into the darkness, to disturb the strange scene that seemed to be unfolding silently in the maelstrom of noise that filled the night. But she couldn’t find her voice, couldn’t bring herself to cry out Instead, transfixed, she watched as the strange forms, the forms that seemed to glow against the dark backdrop of sea and sky, circled slowly around the other shape, the distinct shape, the shape she knew was human.

They closed on the human figure, circling ever more tightly, until Missy could no longer tell one from another. When the single figure finally disappeared, Missy came to life, fear overwhelming her. She reached out to clutch Robby’s hand.

Robby was gone.

Panicked, Missy forced herself to look back out at the beach once more.

The beach was empty.

Where only a moment before the night had been filled with activity, with frightening shapes moving about in the dimness, now there were only blackness and scudding clouds.

Terrified, Missy ran for home.

When she got there Robby was in his bunk, sleeping peacefully.

On Sod Beach, the rising tide washed the sand from the corpse of the dog, and moments later a wave, whipped abnormally large by the wind, swept Snooker’s remains out to sea.

By then the children were both in bed, though Missy was not asleep, and Miriam Shelling had disappeared from the beach.

7

Merle Glind glanced nervously at Brad and Elaine Randall as they came down the stairs the next morning and busied himself with the previous day’s receipts. It was the fifth time he had checked them through. As soon as they passed his desk, his eyes left the ledgers and followed the Randalls out the front door.

“Did you get the feeling Mr. Glind wasn’t too pleased to see us?” Elaine asked Brad as they descended from the porch.

“Maybe he had a bad night,” Brad suggested.

“I don’t think he approves of us,” Elaine said, squeezing Brad’s arm. “And I suspect he won’t be the only one. I mean, after all, planning to spend a whole year just writing a book? It is scandalous.” She sighed dramatically, sucked in the fresh morning air, and looked around. “Shall we go to the café? I’m hungry.”

“I vote for the police station,” Brad replied. “If there really is a house for rent we might as well get started—from what Glind had to say yesterday it might take all day just to talk what’s his name into renting it to us.”

“His name is Whalen, darling, and if I were you I’d
remember it. He looks like a real red-neck to me, a small town dictator, and you won’t win any points with him by not being able to remember his name.”

They walked along the waterfront, then turned up the hill on Harbor Road. A few minutes later they had found the tiny police station.

“You’d be the Randalls?” the police chief said without standing up. Brad and Elaine exchanged a quick glance, then advanced into the room. Harney Whalen looked as if he’d been expecting them.

“Brad Randall, and this is my wife, Elaine.” Brad was careful not to preface his name with his title. But it was soon apparent that there were few secrets in Clark’s Harbor.

“Dr. Randall, isn’t it?” Harney said mildly. “They tell me you’re a psychiatrist.” He neither invited the Randalls to sit down nor told them who “they” might be.

Brad immediately decided there was more to Whalen than a mere “small town dictator.” He dearly knew something about manipulating people and putting himself in a position of strength. Well, two could play that game. “You don’t mind if we sit down, do you?” he asked mildly, seating himself before Whalen had a chance to reply. Elaine, taking his cue, took a chair close to Brad.

Whalen surveyed them for a minute, feeling somehow slighted. He wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, but he suspected he had lost the upper hand. The feeling annoyed him. “What can I do for you folks this morning?” he asked, though he knew perfectly well why they were there.

“They told us you have a house for rent,” Brad said.
He took a certain malicious pleasure in using the same vague “they” that the police chief had used on him, but Elaine shot him a look that told him to stop being cute and get on with it.

“That depends,” Whalen said. “I might, and I might not. I think maybe I’d like to talk to you a little bit first.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Brad said with a smile. “We like the town.”

“Can’t say I blame you,” Whalen replied. “I like Clark’s Harbor myself. I was born here. So were my parents. My grandparents helped found the Harbor, back when it was a lumbering town. Still a little lumbering going on, but the big company closed years ago. Now it’s mostly fishing. You fish?” Brad shook his head. “Too bad,” the chief went on. “If you don’t fish there isn’t much else to do. You live in Seattle?” he suddenly asked, shifting the subject abruptly.

“Seward Park,” Elaine answered. When the chief looked blank, she explained. “It’s on the lake, at the south end.”

“Sounds nice,” Whalen commented neutrally. Then, eyes narrowed: “Why do you want to leave?”

“We don’t, not permanently. I’ve been kicking around an idea for a book for quite a while, though, and in Seattle I just never seem to get to it You know how it is—if it’s not one thing it’s another. I finally decided that if I’m ever going to get the damned thing written, I’d have to get out of town for awhile.”

“Why Clark’s Harbor?” the chief probed. “Seems to me there’s a lot of better places for you than this. Pacific Beach or Moclips, or up to Port Townsend maybe.”

Elaine smiled at the chief cordially, but she was growing annoyed by all his questions. If he has a house to rent why doesn’t he just say so, she thought Why the cross-examination? It’s as though he doesn’t want us here, the same as Mr. Glind. Being unwanted was a new experience for Elaine. Suddenly she was determined—almost as determined as Brad—to settle in Clark’s Harbor and
make
these people accept her. Carefully keeping her annoyance concealed, she spoke warmly.

“But those are exactly the sorts of places we
don’t
want to be,” she said. “What we need is someplace quiet where Brad can concentrate. I don’t know about Pacific Beach, but Port Townsend has entirely too many people who spend all their time having parties and talking about the books they’re
going
to write. Brad wants to avoid all that and get the book written.”

“Well, you people seem to know what you want,” Harney said when she was finished. He smiled thinly. “Ever been on the peninsula during the winter?”

The Randalls shook their heads.

“It’s cold,” Whalen said simply. “Not a nice kind of cold like you get inland. It’s a damp cold and it cuts right through you. And it rains all the time—practically every day. Not much to do during the winter, either—you can walk on the beach, but not for very long. Too cold. There’s no golf course and no movies and only one television channel. And I might as well tell you, we Harborites aren’t very friendly. Always been that way, likely always will be. We stick close together—most of us are related one way or another—and we don’t take kindly to strangers. As far as we’re concerned, if you weren’t born here you’re a stranger.”

“Are you telling us not to come to Clark’s Harbor?” Elaine asked.

“Nope. Only telling you what the town’s like. You can make your own decision about whether you want to come. But I don’t want you coming to me six months down the road and saying I didn’t tell you this or I should have told you that. I believe in playing fair, and I believe people should know what they’re getting into.”

“Then you do have a house for rent?” Brad asked.

“If you can call it a house,” Harney said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Tell us about it.”

“It’s out on Sod Beach. Been empty for quite a while.” He smiled tightly at Elaine. “Ever cooked on a wood stove?”

She hadn’t, but wasn’t about to admit it to Whalen. “I can manage,” she said softly, and prayed that Brad wouldn’t laugh out loud. He didn’t.

“You’ll have to,” Whalen said flatly. “The place has no gas or electricity.”

“Running water?” Brad inquired.

“That it has, but only cold. Hot water you’d have to boil on the stove. As for heat, there’s a big fireplace in the living room and a smaller one in the master bedroom. Nothing in the upstairs, but it doesn’t get too bad since the stairs act like a chimney.”

“You don’t make it sound very inviting,” Elaine admitted. In her mind’s eye she pictured the old house she’d seen on the beach the day before, almost sure that was the one the police chief was describing. “How long has it been since anybody’s lived there?”

“Nearly a year,” Whalen replied. “As a matter of fact, most of their stuff’s still there.”

“Still there?” Brad repeated. “What do you mean?”

“They skipped out,” Whalen said. “They got behind on the rent and one day I went out to tell them to pay up or go elsewhere, but they’d already gone. Took their clothes and their car but left everything else and never came back. So there’s some furniture there. If you want the place I suppose you could use it. Don’t think you’ll want it though.”