The Shore (Leisure Fiction)

then She more felt than heard it, a strumming vibration, a change in the quality of silence, almost in the air pressure. Did I lock the main door behind me?

Faintly, the floor beneath her feet vibrated, and she knew the heavy front door had just closed.

She put the phone down. With painful slowness, she inched closer to the doorway. Almost imperceptibly, the glass panel rattled. Feeling along the wood of the door, she found a small latch. She twisted it, backed into the light. Her hands traveled to the desk drawer. Rubber bands and paper clips scattered under her fingers, and she lunged to the other desk. A side compartment squealed open.

A heavy pair of scissors lay on a pad of paper.

Clutching the scissors, she fumbled with the lamps until darkness thrummed around her, and papers slithered from the desk to the floor. For an eternity, she listened.

The shuffling of cloth drifted in the air, and the sliding of soft footfalls scuffed to a halt.

A whisper seeped through the cracks. '...never hurt you...' The doorknob rattled. 'Don't be afraid.'

'I have a gun! I'll shoot if I have to!'

Expecting him to come right through the glass, she backed into a file cabinet. Terror crept along her veins like smoke.

Nothing. No sound. No movement.

Then she felt the change in pressure, heard the muted vibration of the front door closing again, and she leaned against a desk until the roaring darkness quieted.

The ringing roused him, not from true sleep, but from some miserable condition beyond the edge of consciousness. Fully clothed, he sat on the bed still, his shoulder to the wall. his name I know his name have to He started at the next ring, almost pitching forward, then grabbed the phone before it screamed again. 'Who...?' His tongue felt thick, and he had difficulty forming words. 'Kit, is that...?'

'He's been watching us.'

He knew fear too well not to recognize it in her voice. It brought him fully awake. 'Are you all right?'

'There's something else.'

'Where are you?'

'Something we didn't know about. I think he has a hostage.'

XIV

At least the sun's out today. A pale slab of light pressed the concrete. First time in weeks. Slamming the car door, she surveyed the empty sidewalk. Not that it feels any warmer. Once this neighborhood had been the business hub of Edgeharbor, and she still remembered it seething with activity. A sheet of newspaper clutched at her ankles, then ghosted away down the street. Solemn gusts clutched at the bit of paper in her hand.

Scanning addresses, she peered at a shop window. A hand-lettered placard proclaimed USED BOOKS, and the whitened covers of comics curled amid a clutter of souvenir pennants and plastic fish, tiny dolls with bulging foreheads. Farther down the street, a sign swayed above what had once been a candy shop. The doctor's office beside it, she knew, still opened for a few hours each week during the summer months, the doctor--well into his eighties now--dispensing little beyond tetanus shots and bandages.

She paused to peer at each storefront. Few of the doorways sported legible numbers. Checking the slip of paper again, she crossed the street.

A square of raw wood patched the grimy door of what apparently had once been a real estate office. The window had been soaped, and sharp angles of light splintered against the translucent film, bright patches sliding rectangles of grime down the far wall. She found a clear crevice but could make out only bailed papers within. Dimly reflected, the whole of the desolate street floated behind her, and a plastic bag drifted along the sidewalk like a jellyfish.

Remnants of cellophane tape still clung to the row of buttons, and she tried each of the silent buzzers in turn. A second door, hung with venetian blinds, angled into the frame. Cupping her hands, she squinted through a gap. Gradually, stairs coalesced from the gloom. Behind the stairs, at the far end of a hallway, daylight pried around the frame of another door: a rear entrance.

Well...here goes. If someone spots me, I stick to my story--I'm checking out a report of a break- in. Strolling around the side of the building, she tried to look somehow both casual and official. Not that I expect anyone to see me. This has got to be the most deserted part of town these days.

The empty lot could have accommodated half a dozen cars, and her shoes scuffed at the gravel. Hell. Crushed stones bounced, clattering. So much for sneaking up. No windows interrupted the blankness of the stucco. At least, no one in there can look out. At the back, a gate swung, the rusted padlock uselessly clasped through a link in the fence.

As she stepped into the shade behind the building, dried leaves skated up against a row of metal trash cans from which painted addresses flaked away. It wouldn't be the first time a cop jimmied open a door, she reasoned, but the knob turned easily, the hinge whistling. Only as the door grated inward did she notice the cracks. Half the lock dangled from a broken wood screw.

Allowing dim light to stream in around her, she took a cautious step. The break-in could have occurred long ago, she told herself. She unzipped her jacket, and her hand moved to her holster. No reason to get nervous. She wore the gun all the time now.

Behind her, the door tapped the wall, and venetian blinds clanked at the other end of the corridor as a faint gust stirred up the musty smell of the carpet. Cautiously, she crept forward and checked a door beneath the stairs. Locked--broom closet or stairs to the cellar, she guessed, moving on.

Stepping on a smear of light, she peered out through the blinds of the front door. Across the street, a thin layer of sunshine coated the jeep, still the only vehicle in sight. If anyone did notice it, at least the broken door would enhance the credibility of her story, she decided. Still, I'd better be quick.

Letting the blinds click back into place, she turned to the stairs. 'Police,' she called, flicking reflexively at a useless light switch. 'Is anyone there?' The first step groaned softly beneath her tread. 'Did you know your back door was open?' Linoleum had worn through to pine planks, and paint splintered from the wobbling banister at her touch. 'Can anyone hear me?'

The tracery of age mapped the plaster walls, and a dank chill filled the stairwell. First, I sneak into the courthouse. The unseen strands of a spider's web melted across her lower lip, and she rubbed her knuckles against the withered taste. Now, I'm breaking into an office. Through thickening haze, she ascended, thoughts scurrying in her skull like mice. Who would have believed it could get so much easier so fast?

A thin smear of dust coated her teeth, and she took her hand from the banister to rub her gritty palm on her jacket. Why would Chandler have an office in a dump like this? She became aware of the barest tickling of a pulse in her throat, and by the time she reached the upper hall, she'd grown accustomed to the muddy dimness. A wan gleam illuminated curtains that appeared to be made of vinyl, and she could smell old rain. Concentric blurs on the carpet marked where puddles had dried around the grime-matted radiator.

One of the doors sported a stained card that read

CHANDLER PROPERTIES. She knocked, then felt the furred ledge above the jam. Doesn't look too solid--I could probably break it down. But this door also swung open, the faint illumination from the hall shaping a phantom arch on the opposite wall. Hell, if someone catches me searching the guy's office, nothing I tell them is going to matter anyway.

A sigh stirred behind her, a rustling cough of wind in the curtains.

So I'd better be quick. Closing the door behind her, she just stood for a moment in near darkness, then groped for the outline of a window shade. She banged her knee on something. 'Shit!' Her outstretched hand touched a stiffly yielding and scratchy mass, and she knelt on it to reach the window. At first the shade resisted her tugging, then it hissed and rustled to the floor.

Sunlight flooded the office, and dust motes ignited. Dry as a leaf, a dead moth spiraled to the carpet. The