Cry for the Strangers

“He seems to think it’s some kind of fate, or an old Klickashaw curse or something. He says whenever strangers come to Clark’s Harbor trouble comes with them, but that it always turns back on them.”

“Makes things simple anyway,” Brad commented.

“Yeah,” Chip said, a little uncomfortably. He glanced around the gallery and set his empty beer can down. “Tell you what,” he suggested to Glen. “If Brad wants you to help him, why don’t we call it a day? I’ll go down to Blake’s and pick up what we need to finish this off and we’ll do it tomorrow.”

The sky had turned black by the time they locked up the gallery, and Chip glanced at the western horizon. “Looks like a storm’s getting ready to hit.” The three men shuddered, keenly aware of what a storm could mean in Clark’s Harbor.

Jeff Horton had spent the entire day walking the beach, tramping north aimlessly, telling himself he was looking for wreckage from Osprey when in fact he was trying to sort out the pieces of what had happened.

He had been awake all night, and several times he had heard someone else downstairs, also awake. Twice he had been tempted to go down and tap at the Randalls’ bedroom door, just for the company. But it wasn’t company he needed. He needed to understand what was happening.

He had left the house early in the morning, telling no one where he was going — he was sure the Randalls would understand, and besides, he wasn’t sure where he was going. Or what he was looking for.

He knew that storms could kill people, but they did it simply, straightforwardly. They came down on you if you were at sea, tossed you around, terrified you, then, if the spirit moved them, hurled a gigantic wave at you and crushed you.

If you were on land you were safer, though a storm could still smash your house, drop an electrical line on you, or cut you down with a bolt of lightning. But could a storm make someone cast a boat adrift? Could it send someone into an art gallery to destroy its contents? Could it hang a woman from the branch of a tree in the middle of the woods? All Jeff Horton’s sensibilities told him it could not. And yet, as the wind began to blow and the dark clouds began to lower over the horizon, he turned south and started back toward Clark’s Harbor. The surf began to build and the tide began flooding in, the storm on its heels.

Missy and Robby were on Sod Beach when the storm struck the coast. As the first drops of rain fell Missy gave up her search for a perfect sand dollar and called out to her brother.

“It’s starting to rain.”

“So what?” Robby said, not looking up from the patch of sand he was carefully searching. So far he had found five undamaged shells, and Missy none, and he was sure she was just trying to spoil his fun. Besides, the beginnings of the storm made the beach exciting. He glanced up at the clouds, then grinned happily at the sight of the churning surf. He was only vaguely aware of Missy’s complaining voice.

“I want to go home,” she insisted. “I don’t want to stay out here and get soaked!”

“Nobody’s home,” Robby pointed out. “Dad’s still at work and Mom’s down at Dr. Randall’s.”

“Then let’s go there,” Missy begged. “We can go through the woods.” She started across the beach, determined not to look back, not to give her brother a chance to cajole her into staying on the unprotected sand. She wanted to turn around when she got to the reef of driftwood that lay at the high water line but was afraid to, afraid that if Bobby wasn’t coming along behind her she would give in and go back toward the angry sea and the growing storm. Not until she was safely into the forest did she risk a look.

Robby was no longer on the beach. Missy had a moment of panic, then decided that her brother was teasing her, trying to scare her. Well, she wouldn’t be frightened. And she wouldn’t go running around looking for him, the way he wanted her to. She would stay right where she was, in the safety of the forest, and watch. Sooner or later, Robby would come looking for her.…

Jeff Horton arrived at the north end of Sod Beach in a shadowy half-light, a dark gray dusk made heavy by the now-raging storm. The beach looked deserted, but as Jeff passed the Palmers’ cabin he paused, a curious sense of apprehension sweeping over him. When he began walking again he had an urge to run but fought it off, telling himself there was no danger, nothing to be afraid of; he only had a few hundred yards to go before he would be comfortably inside the Randalls’ house.

But as he moved through the storm Jeff began to feel an odd sensation: the lightning flashing around him seemed to slow him down, drain his energy. He wanted to run but found he could only walk, and with each step his stride became slower.

He tried to force himself to hurry but it did no good. And as his pace slowed he came to the realization that he was no longer alone on the beach. Something else was there, something terrifying. Something that had come out of the storm.…

From her vantage point in the meager shelter of the forest Missy could barely make out the shape moving steadily down the beach. At first she thought it must be Robby, but then she realized it was too big. It was too dark for her to recognize who it might be; indeed, as the light faded into darkness the figure began to disappear entirely. But as night closed around her the full force of the storm struck, and the beach was lit up by sudden flashes of lightning. Each time the beach became momentarily visible, Missy looked fearfully around for her brother. He was nowhere to be seen.

A few minutes later she lost her courage and crept away into the woods when the white flash of pent-up electricity suddenly revealed not one, but two figures on the beach. They were close together, and as she watched they suddenly merged.…

Jeff Horton felt the attack before it came. The hair on the back of his neck tingled and stood on end, and his feeling of apprehension changed suddenly into a sense of danger. He was turning to face whatever enemy was behind him when he felt the massive arm slide around his neck and a force on the back of his head pushing forward. He felt his windpipe close under the pressure of the opposing forces and began to struggle, his arms flailing in the rain. Once he got a grip on his unseen assailant, but his hands, slick with wetness, slid loose. Before he could break free he began to lose consciousness. His last memory was of a sound, a cracking noise from just below his head. He wondered what it might have been, but before he could find an answer the blackness closed in on him and he relaxed. Seconds later he lay alone on the beach, the rain pounding down on him, the surf licking at him like a beast sniffing at its fallen prey.

Missy ran along the trail through the woods, her heart pounding, her small voice crying out to her brother. And then he was there, standing on the trail ahead of her, waiting for her.

“I was looking for you,” Robby said softly. “How come you hid?”

Missy stopped running and stared at her brother, her breath coming in great heaves. She tried to speak through her gasps of exhaustion and fear but couldn’t. She sat heavily on a log and began crying. Perplexed, Robby sat beside her and put his arm around her.

“I–I saw something,” Missy stammered. “I was waiting for you, but you didn’t come, and I saw something. On the beach — there was someone on the beach, and then someone else — and I — oh, Robby, let’s go home,” she wailed.

Robby took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “You didn’t see anything,” he assured her. “It’s too dark.” He began leading her along the path, his step sure, his pace fast. The excitement of the storm swept over him. He wished it would never end.

At nine o’clock that evening the librarian at the tiny Clark’s Harbor public library — two rooms in the town hall — tapped Brad Randall on the shoulder. Brad stopped writing in the notebook he had nearly filled in the five hours he and Glen had been working and looked up.

“It’s closing time.” The gray-haired woman whispered, though there was no one else in the area. “You’ll have to come back on Monday.”

“That’s all right,” Brad said. “I’m almost finished.” He smiled at the woman ruefully. “I hope we haven’t put you through too much.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” the librarian assured him. “Most days I just sit here. It’s nice to have something to do now and then. Though what you want with all those papers is beyond me, I’m sure.”

“Just checking some things out,” Brad said mildly. “Sort of a research project on the history of the town.”

“Not much history,” the librarian sniffed. “We live and die and that’s about it.”