Shivers (28 page)

He went up and down on his toes. “The glamor is all in the feet.”

Between yawns Valerie talked about the Everson case while they rode down to the lobby. “It really gets to me, Ralph. I mean, I know we
have
to sleep and all that. But I keep thinking. That young man is
out
there somewhere, and each day the trail gets foggier. It just . . . gets to me.”

“Slow, methodical work always gets results,” Ralph reminded her. “As long as we leave no stone unturned and track down every lead, we’re doing the best we can.” They stepped out of the elevator. “We’re
going
to find Joey Everson.”

“I know,” Valerie said. “But will we find him
in time?”

For that Ralph had no answer.

After he had forecasted clear skies on the six o’clock news, Harry Faulkin stepped out of the studio some hours later, and was immediately sprinkled with thousands of falling snowflakes.

“Damn!”

What he needed was a nice stiff drink at O’Malley’s around the corner. Closing the top button on his jacket to keep out the chill, he walked in the direction of the bar.

It had been a busy day. He’d finally gotten Steven together with Job Foster, the reporter he’d interested in the connection between Joey Everson and the Jessup lady’s death. Hadn’t been the greatest meeting, that was true— Steven was so damn sensitive—but at least the kid’s picture had been splashed all over the six-o’clock news.

Harry’d wanted to report the story himself, but the producer had nixed it. “Harry, stick to what you do best. Let Job cover the story.” Harry had to face it. They’d let him anchor the news on weekends when the regular guy was sick, but actual reporting was out of the question. What did they think he was—just some pretty-boy dumbo?

Well, he had plans up his sleeve. Big plans. Like the story he was working on now . . . about the weather, about how it didn’t behave the way the meteorologists said it should.
That
was a big story—and he’d devote his whole report to it some time next week whether they liked it or not. Nobody could argue that it wasn’t about the weather . . . but it was a lot bigger than that.

Only no one had a clue as to what was going on. So what he planned to do was somehow hijack a camera crew and go interview the weather brain-boys and videotape them as they told him how baffled they all were. All that stuff about air currents, barometric pressure, and so on only bored and confused him anyway, and would only bore and confuse his audience—all anybody really wanted to hear was whether or not it’d rain tomorrow—so he’d just tell the guys to shake their heads ominously and keep it simple.

He could see it now. “And now with the weather, it’s Harry Faulkin.”

Hello, folks. Gotta strange one for you tonight. It’s always been a big joke how weathermen never accurately predict the weather—but in point of fact, most of the time we guys are downright perfect. I haven’t time to explain all the factors that go into predicting the weather. Let’s just say our modern-day meteorologists
can
predict it pretty accurately. So how come
every
weather forecast—in print and on television— has been inaccurate for days now? Where’s that freak heat spell we’ve been hearing so much about?

Good question, folks. You see—and this is pretty scary—something other than the usual everyday factors is affecting the weather. Only
nobody
knows what it is. At first, we thought it was simply a matter of human error, but now . . .

And then the videotapes of the meteorologists would come on.

If
that
didn’t get him noticed, nothing would.

He started unbuttoning his jacket as he turned into the entrance of O’Malley’s.

A singles hangout, O’Malley’s was crowded from five o’clock on. It emptied slightly toward eight o’clock, as the martini crowd left for home or other restaurants—O’Malley’s had good food, but was a bit noisy for some diners—and filled again to capacity about three hours later with the lonely late-night cruisers.

Harry walked into the bar section of the restaurant and went over to his crowd of regulars, mostly men in their thirties who also worked in the television industry. O’Malley’s was a spacious wooden tavern modeled after an old-fashioned saloon. The big picture windows allowed the patrons to scrutinize each new arrival before he or she even walked in through the door. “Friends” of his were turning to greet Harry before he’d even spotted them.

“How goes it?” asked a blond chap who wrote the TV column for a local paper. “Still employed?”

Harry laughed. WNUC was known for the way they quickly and quietly removed key personnel before they’d even known what hit them. “No pink slip yet. I’m on their good side.”

“Speaking of good sides,” another man butted in, “are they still putting your ugly mug on the air?”

“Of course. WNUC needs all the sex appeal it can get.”

The blond man laughed. “He doesn’t suffer from an inferiority complex, now does he?” The other men agreed. Harry was about to counter the remark, but excused himself and went instead to the side of a young woman down near the end of the bar.

Her name was Adele Wanamer, and she had been dismissed from WNUC six months ago. She had long, straight hair that swerved down to her shoulders, and a kittenish expression that made her look as if she was always signaling for those around her to “come hither.” She gave Harry one of her patented Cheshire-cat grins as he approached.

“Hello. Can I buy you a drink?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Adele, isn’t it? What are you drinking?”

“Club soda,” she said, peering up from the delicate straw between her pursed lips. “I have quite a lot left.”

“Then why don’t we add something to it? Something with a bit more kick and bite.”

“What would you suggest?”

“Some scotch perhaps?”

“But it does such terrible things to the breath, don’t you think?”

For a moment Harry felt self-conscious, until he remembered that he had not yet had a drink. He would definitely not order a scotch.

“Then how about vodka? Vodka has no taste. No odor. Goes down real smooth. What do you think?”

“No, thank you. I think I’ll just stick to my club soda.”

“If you insist.” He ordered a vodka-tonic and turned back to the woman. “Care for a cigarette?”

“No thanks.” Harry thought quickly for something to say, something with which to segue into a bright and snappy conversation. She beat him to it, disastrously. She brought up the one subject he was in no mood to talk about. Not until he was sure he’d beat the competition.

“I saw your weather report tonight. While I was shopping. In an appliance store. They had the set turned to your channel.”

“That’s, uh, nice.”

“You didn’t say anything about snow.”

“I know.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s snowing.”

“Nobody
else
mentioned snow either.”

“I wouldn’t know. I only watched
your
report.”

He took a quick swallow of his drink. “Well, those are the breaks. What can I say? I only read what they tell me to.”

“Better watch out,” she said. “If you don’t start getting it right, they’re going to replace you.”

Harry hated her. She was mocking him, laughing at him. The nerve of the little bitch.

“Like they did you,” he said. Tit for tat.

“Oooohh,” she purred. “You
are
upset. I’m not complaining. I got myself a better job, with more money. I’m sure
you
could name your price at other stations. In fact, according to what I’ve been hearing, you just might be able to write your own ticket.”

“Where did you hear this?”

“I have my sources.”

“Might I ask who they are?”

“Not here. Even the walls have ears, if you know what I mean. Why don’t we go to my place, and I’ll . . . fill you in on some things.” She winked. “Why settle for reporting the weather when some anchor spots may be opening up elsewhere?”

She had him hooked. “Sounds good to me. Sure we can’t have a drink or two first?”

“Uh, uh. We’re taking a chance being seen together as it is. Besides, the snow may get even worse. I’ll go to the powder room, and you leave first. I’ll follow you in a minute or two. My car is just down the block, at the corner. A red Camaro. Wait for me.”

Harry was excited. By her, by what she had to offer. Her body, her information. He thought about how exciting it would be to go to another station; more money, more prestige, not to mention all the publicity. He watched Adele walk to the ladies’ room, then went out the door, avoiding the crowded bar by going through the restaurant. Someone yelled out a greeting, but he pretended not to hear.

She arrived at the car five minutes later, wearing a seductive smile and a lot of fresh makeup. They got into her car, pulled into traffic, and headed out of the city.

“Where do you live?” he asked. “Uptown?”

“Nope. Long Island. It’s not that long a drive. You didn’t have
plans
for the evening, did you?”

“Not any more. I’m not on at eleven on Saturdays unless the weekend guy is sick.”

They drove on, the night arriving in full, darkening the sky until only the lights of approaching cars lit up the highway. Their polite conversation had come to a halt once they were on the expressway. The snow was thickening, making driving more hazardous than usual. Whatever brightness the snow created was dissipated by the fog-like swirling of windblown snowflakes. They had to go slowly.

Harry found himself fighting off feelings of claustrophobia, as well as his mounting desire for the woman sitting next to him. He could barely see the road, and wondered how she could manage it. He looked at her—the glare from outside was playing strange tricks. It highlighted the sculptured bone structure of her face, made her appear gaunt and unusually pale. She turned to face him, aware that he was staring.

For just a moment, Harry could have sworn he was looking at a death’s-head.

Steven Everson was also in the process of driving to Long Island, but on a different highway. He was trying his best not to think about Andrea, concentrating only on the meeting at midnight. Driving was treacherous enough as it was. He had already seen two accidents back on the West Side Highway, and was determined not to make himself the third.

The snow was falling even heavier now, making use of the windshield wipers mandatory. He had hoped that conditions would improve once he’d left the city and the traffic behind. Instead they got worse. He was worried now about what it would be like driving home afterward.

He had thought about turning around, calling the whole thing off, but couldn’t seriously consider it. He’d gone too far, been through too much, to give up now. The snow thickened and the wind howled, a haunting, indescribable melody that chilled his blood. A half an hour passed. He turned the heat up higher, and reached for the radio knob. The radio didn’t work. Too bad, he could have used some cheerful music, some news about the weather. He hoped it would stop snowing soon.

Renting the car had been easy and fairly inexpensive—all he really cared about was that the engine worked and that it would get him where he had to go and back. So far, so good.

Several miles out of the city it was as if he had crossed some kind of invisible barrier. Just like that, the snow faded away into a few trickles dotting the windshield. He could see much more clearly.

The highway he was on was a thin, two-laned strip of road that sliced through the beach at the edge of the formidable Atlantic Ocean. Even over the noises of the auto, he could hear the pounding surf—relentless, icy cold—splashing over and over again onto the nearby shore. Now and then a house would light up the roadway. He saw no more cars. No wonder—who but an idiot or someone obsessed as he was would travel in such weather?

He chanced to see his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Lord, he looked like hell. Sunken eyes, uncombed hair. He must have looked a fright to Andrea—
No! Don’t think about her.
A horrible thought: he looked like Joey might have looked had he been
dead
for a week. Never had the resemblance between the brothers been so striking in such an
unhealthy
manner.

He slowed down, dismissed his morbid thoughts, and looked again at the note he had received. It wasn’t far now. He had only to follow directions. He started looking out for the sign.

It wasn’t long in coming. His headlights illuminated the word
Tanton.
According to his correspondent’s crude map, if he kept driving straight along this road he would bypass the town proper and arrive in minutes at the correct lot, 15. He started to feel tense again. His breathing was so loud and forced that it obliterated the sound of the roaring ocean. Just as well. Ever since he’d been a child he had been afraid of the sea. So large and fierce, without boundaries that one could perceive. He had felt so small against its vast-ness. Even today the feeling persisted, intensified by the night.

He wondered why this meeting had to occur so late, when it was so dark and cold.

This was it.
His destination. The lot number on the sign corresponded to the one on the note. There was a house across the street from it. For a moment he wondered if he should go to the house, but there was no guarantee that whoever lived there had sent him the letter. He parked the car in the lot, got out, and looked around for the lifeguard station. It was a few minutes after twelve.

There it was. Way down almost at the edge of the water.

He made sure the car doors were locked securely, pocketed his keys, and started in a diagonal direction toward the station. There was no sound except for the wind. There was a small amount of snow covering the sand, enough for his feet to leave faint impressions. The sand was soft at first, hardening as he got closer to the water. No one seemed to be around.

He became aware of a new noise as the wind grew stronger. A squeaking, grating kind of sound. Then a loud report which almost made him jump.