while later. The whole town went out there before they even dug the Whalens up. Awful. Their eyes were all bugged out, and their faces were blue. And the expressions — you wouldn’t have believed it.”
“Jesus,” Chip said softly. “Did they find out who did it?”
“Nah,” Riley said. Disgust edged his voice. “Everybody had suspicions, of course, and what happened after that didn’t help any.”
“Something else happened?”
“About a week after the funeral, Harney’s dad gave in and signed a lease with the lumber people. The old man wouldn’t, but Harney’s dad did. And then he leased the beach to that guy Baron, who built the house out there that Harney owns now.”
“How’d Harney get it?”
“He grew up,” Riley said flatly. “He Just waited around. The lease wasn’t a long one — only about ten or fifteen years — but by the time it was up his dad had died too and Harney owned the land. He just refused to renew the lease. Baron was mad — real mad. Claimed there’d been an unwritten agreement, some kinda option, I think. But Harn got some fancy lawyer from Olympia to go to work on that. Anyway, he ended the lease, and that was it for Baron. He stayed around for a while and tried to fish, but that didn’t work either. Got himself drowned, he did. Nobody around here gave a shit — they all thought he’d been in on killing Old Man Whalen and his wife.” The old man chuckled then. “Funny how I always think of him as Old Man Whalen — he must have been twenty years younger than I am now when he died.”
He stopped talking for a few minutes, then grinned at his grandson. “Funny thing. I was telling Tad and Clem about Baron the other day, but I couldn’t remember his name then. I know it as well as I know my own but it just slipped right on away. Anyway, like I told Tad and Clem, same thing happened to Baron’s wife as happened to Miriam Shelling. Hung herself in the woods. Might even have been the same tree for all I know.”
Chip stared at his grandfather. “She hanged herself? After her husband drowned?”
“Yup. Just like Pete and Miriam. Funny how things like that happen. I guess the guy who said history repeats itself wasn’t so far off, was he?”
“Funny Harney didn’t tell me about it,” Chip commented.
Riley made an impatient gesture. “Why would he? What happened to the Barons was thirty-five, forty years ago, long before you were even born. Anyway, that’s why Harney hates strangers so much. A couple of them killed his grandparents, even if no one ever proved it.”
Chip swirled the half-inch of scotch that still remained in his glass and stared thoughtfully up at the portrait of his grandmother. Her dark face had a stoic, almost impassive look, as if life had been hard for her but she had survived it. As he studied the portrait Chip realized that the resemblance between her and her nephew, Harney Whalen, was not so much a physical thing at all. It was the look. The look of impassivity.
Chip began to understand Harney Whalen, and his sense of worry deepened.
Missy Palmer lay in bed asleep, her hands clenched into small fists, her face twisted into an expression of fear. The rain pattered on the roof, and Missy began to toss in the bed. At the sound of a twig snapping outside, her eyes flew open.
She was suddenly wide awake, the memory of her nightmare still fresh in her mind.
“Robby?” she whispered.
No sound came from the bunk above.
Missy lay still, her heart thumping loudly in her ears. Then she thought she heard something. A snapping sound, like a branch breaking.
Her eyes went to the window and the thumping of her heart grew louder.
Her dream came back to her. In it the … something at the window was chasing her. She was on the beach with Robby, and it was chasing both of them. They ran into the woods, trying to hide, but it followed them, looming closer and closer. Her legs wouldn’t move anymore. Try as she would, she couldn’t run. Her feet were stuck in something, something gooey, that sucked at her, trying to pull her down.
Then she fell, and suddenly the shape was above her, towering over her, reaching for her.
She screamed.
She felt her mother’s arms go around her and began sobbing, clinging to Rebecca.
“There, there,” Rebecca soothed her. “It’s all right. It was a dream, that’s all. You had a dream.”
“But there was someone here,” Missy sobbed. “He was trying to get us. Robby and I were running from him but he was after us. And then I fell …” She dissolved once more into her sobbing, and Rebecca stroked her hair softly.
Robby, awakened by the scream, hung over the top bunk, a look of curiosity on his sleepy face.
“What’s wrong?” he asked groggily.
“Nothing,” Rebecca assured him. “Missy had a nightmare, that’s all. Go back to sleep.”
Robby’s head disappeared as Glen came into the doorway.
“Is she all right?” he asked anxiously.
“She’s fine,” Rebecca told him. “Just a bad dream.”
Missy’s head stirred in her mother’s lap. “It wasn’t a dream,” she cried. “It was real. He was here. I saw him outside the window.”
“Who did you see, darling?” Glen asked.
“A man,” Missy said. “But I couldn’t see his face.”
“You were dreaming,” Rebecca said. “There isn’t anyone out there.”
“Yes there is,” Missy insisted.
“I’ll have a look,” Glen said.
He threw a raincoat on over his pajamas and opened the door of the cabin, shining his flashlight around the surrounding forest. There was nothing.
Then, as he was about to close the door, Scooter dashed between his feet, his tiny tail wagging furiously, barking as loudly as his puppy voice would allow. Glen reached down and scooped him up.
“It’s all right,” he said to the puppy, scratching its belly. “Nothing’s out there.”
Scooter, soothed by the scratching, stopped barking.
But Missy kept on crying.
Two miles away, while the wind rose to a vicious howl, the back door of Glen Palmer’s gallery flew open. The horror began.
22
Early the following morning Glen Palmer put on his slicker, opened the cabin door, and let Scooter out. The puppy scuttled around the corner, and when Glen followed, he found the dog sniffing under the window of the children’s room. He squatted down, picked up the wriggling puppy, and carefully examined the ground. There was a slight depression, obscured by the still-falling rain, that might have been a footprint.
Or it might not.
Glen frowned a little and tried to find another, similar depression, but the ground was rough, soggy, and covered with pine needles.
“Well, if anything was there, it isn’t now,” he muttered to Scooter, then set the puppy down again. Scooter, having lost interest in whatever he had been sniffing at, trotted happily off into the woods, looking back every few seconds to make sure he hadn’t lost sight of Glen. Clumsily he lifted a leg next to a bush, then ran back to the front door, where he began yapping to be let in.
As Glen followed the puppy into the house, Rebecca looked curiously at him from the stove, where she was frying eggs.
“Find anything?”
“What makes you think I was looking for anything?”
“You were. Was there anything to find?”
