The Shore (Leisure Fiction)

She regarded the row of evergreens. Maybe the neighbors can tell me something. As she moved to the stairs, wood throbbed faintly behind her.

Someone is in there. She waited until she heard it again. Don't look around. Faintly, a hinge creaked. Someone is watching. Go down the walk. Pretend to leave.

Between the house and the hedge lay a crude path of worn earth. The tiny pines had gone dry, dead at the marrow, and brittle needles lanced her hands as she inched along the wall. She ducked as she passed a draped window, almost crawled. Flickering shade mottled the hard earth, and the bushes rattled like beetles.

Behind the house, a yard stretched in perfect flatness, as devoid of any semblance of occupancy as the rear of a movie set. No trellised vines. No covered pool. No sailboat beneath a tarp. Nothing.

The back door gaped brokenly, glass dangling in shards from the frame. He's here. She touched her jacket, felt the gun beneath. I should call for backup. As she pried the door open farther, a fragment of pane dropped. I should call. She stepped up. On the single concrete step, a layer of dust coated the points of glass.

Unzipping her jacket, she reached for the holster. With a soft rush of air, dim sunlight swung in with her, and she panned the revolver across a large kitchen. A thick stench of spoiled meat hung in the air, making her grateful for the draft. Her heel scraped sharply on the tile. Blinking rapidly, she scanned every corner. Copper pots and utensils glinted on hooks beneath white cabinets and above a white counter. One drawer stood open.

Edging forward, she looked inside. Carving knives nestled in a rack. One empty slot. A large one.

Go back out to the jeep and call. Her heart tripped raggedly. Do it now.

Her gaze swung toward the next room. Beyond the doorway, the light held a viscous quality, stained blue through thick draperies. But who would come? She inched forward, steadying the gun. The chief? Wouldn't he just call the state cops? In the next room, a floorboard creaked, muffled by carpet.

Right. Talons of panic tore her. This is it. She edged along the kitchen wall. Now! As she launched herself through the doorway, something thudded near her head.

'Kit!'

'Barry!' The gun shook. 'I almost shot you!'

'Lord, you scared me.'

'I almost...!' Her voice quavered.

'Quit pointing that thing at me.'

'What the hell are you doing here?'

'Same as you probably.'

'You tried to...' She couldn't look away from the deep wedge that splintered from the door frame.

'Don't be an idiot.' He hefted a crowbar. 'I thought you were him.'

She blinked. 'This is breaking and entering. I should run you in.'

A pine branch rasped against the window.

Trembling, she holstered the gun. 'Couldn't you see it was me?' she demanded. She had a hard time forcing her fist to unclench, then a wave of relief pounded through each aching finger, sweeping up her arm in a numbing current.

'...didn't break in. I swear it. The door already...' He looked down at the crowbar. 'Okay, I'll admit I came here intending to do whatever I had to. But somebody beat me to it.'

She opened her mouth to object but fell silent, remembering the dust on the broken glass.

He flexed his arms. 'Anyway, before you arrest me, wouldn't you like to know what smells like that?'

'Isn't it...?' She gestured back at the kitchen.

'No, that refrigerator's empty. And take a look at this.'

'Where are you going?' Whispering fiercely, she followed him through a dining room lined with glass shelves. 'Come back here.' Chairs were lined up at the table with military precision.

'Relax. The electricity's off. Nobody's here. May as well check it out.'

'We shouldn't be here either. If anyone...'

'Relax, I said. Nobody saw--those bushes outside were planted to keep anybody from seeing the house.' A heap of mail had mounded beneath the slot in the front door. 'This is what I tripped over when I heard you at the door. Except I didn't know it was you.' Light that filtered through turquoise curtains sank into an azure carpet. 'There's a family room sort of thing down that way, big circular fireplace and a wet bar. But no bottles. No glasses even. Then a bathroom and a door to the garage through there.'

The miasma of rotten meat seemed to permeate the walls of the parlor, clinging to drapes stiff with dust. She stepped farther in, feeling that she didn't walk through the subaqueous gloom so much as float. Her gaze veered about wildly--transparent vinyl encased bulky aqua loveseats grouped around a teal sofa. Sectional pieces hemmed a glass coffee table. 'What makes this room so...odd? Besides the colors, I mean.' Everything increased her edginess. She turned completely around, her gaze shifting across plastic flowers in a ceramic vase, across throw pillows and a framed clown print. She found herself unable to imagine people who would have chosen this combination of items for their home. 'It's not...not...'

'Convincing?'

'Right. Why is that?'

'Don't know,' he answered softly. 'But I had the same feeling in the other room. No books. No magazines. No television set. Like nobody really lives here.'

'The kitchen looks the same way.' She nodded. 'Like a store display.' Her words trailed away. 'The blue room in the photos. This must be it.' She edged closer to him. The vinyl runner on the floor made a shuffling crack, and air hissed beneath it.

She stood close enough to see a vein throb in his neck, then followed his intent gaze to the stairs. Dark matter had lumped and dribbled down two of the steps, and the same crust swirled thinly on the vinyl.

'What is that? Barry?'

'Did you hear something just then?'

'What?'

Ignoring her, he peered upward into the gloom, and a tic began to tremble his right eyelid.

'No. I didn't hear anything. Barry? Don't do anything. Please. We need help.' She moved away to pick up a baby blue phone. 'Dead. Of course.'

Behind her, a stair squeaked.

'Please, Barry,' she spoke without turning. 'Don't go up there.' It felt like the beginning of an old, familiar nightmare. They would go upstairs, she knew. Nothing could stop them now. And nothing would ever be the same.

Barely aware of what she was doing, she followed him. Her feet moved, and the stairs croaked sluggishly. Her damp palm squealed on the banister, a thin treble.

'There's more of it.' He gestured with the back of his hand, indicating a dark patch on the baseboard. The plastic runner ended at the top; so did the faint light. He stepped soundlessly onto thick carpeting.

She followed, straining her eyes in the dimness. Closed doors lined the hall. She swung her service revolver around like a flashlight.

'Stay behind me,' he whispered, brandishing the crowbar.

At the end of the hall, he swung open a door, and hinges shrilled. She followed him in, then paused, amazed.

Skirted dolls ranged along a window seat, and ashen light soaked through the curtains, turning the whole room a deep pink that matched the ruffled bed canopy. He yanked open the closet door, then knelt to peer under the bed. 'Watch your back,' he told her.

He pushed past her back into the hall and paused at the next door as though steeling himself, then jerked it open. Hanging from the ceiling, a model plane tilted in the sudden breeze. Squeezing in behind him, she saw pennants on the walls, a neat stack of baseball cards on a shelf above a small desk. Again, she watched him give the room a cursory search. 'It's trying too hard,' she prompted. 'Same as the others. Like somebody's idea of how