The Shore (Leisure Fiction)

Swinging her arms like a little girl, she came around the side of the building. Glancing at the jeep, she shook her head before starting for the first porch. He settled back in. He had a perfect view. He saw her finger on the bell, watched her look around before trying the door. She put her face to the front window then turned away. A moment later, she headed farther up the steep, trellised stairs.

Damn, this is no good. Now he could barely see her through the wrought iron grillwork, and she vanished altogether on the next porch. What if he's there? She could be dead while I sit here. As he shoved the door open again, he caught a glimpse of her heading for the third level. Damn it. Stay where I can see you. A second later, she leaned over the rail, beckoning.

Against the wind, he bounded toward the house and took the stairs two at a time, the dull chill of the metal rail cutting into his flesh.

She looked flushed, guarded excitement tightening her face. 'There's a light on inside, way in the back. See?'

He peered through a gap in the curtains: dark forms bunched on the floor.

'That's suspicious all by itself, isn't it?' she asked. 'I mean, why wasn't the power turned off? And...'

'Quiet.' He tried the door.

Behind him, she leaned against a porch swing, which gave a rusted squeal.

'Quiet, I said!'

She steadied it with her hand, but it continued to creak faintly. 'Steve?' Thick soot covered the vinyl cushions. 'The swings.' She strayed to the rail. 'On every other building, the swings are down for the winter. But all the porches on this building still have...'

His shoulder hit the door, and the lock gave.

Nervously, she glanced around at the other houses. When she turned back, the doorway stood empty. 'Steve?' Entering, she stumbled around bags and boxes, toward the light in the back. A heap of bedding covered a battered sofa.

'Freezing in here.' His voice drifted from somewhere ahead in the brown murk. 'And it stinks of garbage. Take a look at this.'

Grease spots glistened like mica on the kitchen wallpaper. Strewn among pizza boxes and fast-food containers, garish magazine covers depicted rock bands and wrestlers, curling pages glued to the counter. Comic books littered the floor around the table.

'You ever seen anything like this?' He waved his arms at the mess.

'Could still have been summer people,' she pointed out, hesitantly.

Soda cans and paper plates gathered against one wall like a snowdrift, and a plastic trash bag full of old clothing sagged open. He poked into the clutter and pulled a copy of Soap Opera Digest from under a stiffened icecream container. 'The November issue. They were here.' He tossed it aside, and the soles of his shoes crackled over a greenish patch of something sticky on the linoleum.

Beneath the layer of grime, the linoleum appeared to be yellow marbled with purple, like a bruise. The floor curled up in a weird lump at one corner, and she wondered what picture she'd get if she connected the dots of the cigarette burns. 'Steve?'

'There's got to be something here.' He paced into the next room and began to dig around the sofa cushions. 'Some hint of where they went.' He dumped out the contents of a drawer, turned over a wastepaper basket and began to sift the contents.

She followed him to a small bedroom where closet doors hung open, bare wire hangers tilting. The stained mattress had been stripped, and bureau drawers lay empty on the floor.

'Looks like they took everything they could use. Steve, there's nothing here.' Wandering back into the kitchen, she twisted a knob on the range. 'Gas is off.'

A twisted paper bag lay atop the dirty dishes in the sink. 'Water's on still.' He demonstrated. 'Check that refrigerator.'

She pulled open the door and gagged at the sour stench. 'Half a bottle of orange soda. Ketchup.' On the bottom shelf, a head of deliquescing lettuce had covered the grate. 'And some...looks like it used to be onion dip.'

'Swell.' He shook his head. An almost empty bag of pretzels, an empty pastry carton and three nearly empty boxes of breakfast cereal shared the surface of the kitchen table with a jar of peanut butter, scraped clean. 'What's the expiration date on the milk?'

'The twelfth.' Her voice dropped. 'Of last month.'

'I knew it!' He pounded his fist on the table, and the pretzel bag rattled to the floor.

'Do you think he'll come back?'

'Electricity's still on. Water. Yeah, he might.'

'But won't he see the door's broken and...'

'We'll have to split up.' He met her stare. 'One of us is going to have to watch this place while the other keeps searching. It's the only way. What?'

'Look at this.' She prodded at the trash bag, and stench smoked through the room. With the tip of her shoe, she pushed the opening back, and even in the poor light, they could see the blood that stiffened the denim overalls within.

XIX

In a bizarre assortment of architectural styles and follies, crowded roofs ranged tall in this part of town. Brick chimneys jutted from sloping shingles alongside squared flattops, all at different heights and angles, and wind- driven rain and sleet bounced as though trying to scour them all away.

Sleet chimed against the glistening fire escape. From the streets below, the barking of dogs rose, keening thinly against the wind. Then a deep rumble reverberated, and the dogs fell silent. Again, the hellish cry razored the night, unwinding like a pulsing wire of noise. Mingling bitter grief with raging hopelessness, it surged and echoed over the deserted streets, then whimpered to silence.

Sleet gave way to soft raindrops that spattered the metal stairs. Through the open window, the sodden fabric of summer curtains trailed and billowed in a damp gust. The scream spurted once more, shrilled into a mewling shriek.

He doesn't sound terribly happy this evening.

The screech faded into a pathetic groan. Then the pounding began, vibrating clearly even at this distance, as if great fists rammed against the walls in that room across the courtyard.

Ah, it's begun.

Lenses clicked against the pane. At his window, Ramsey Chandler twisted the knob on the binoculars. His focus swept the mouth of the alleyway, then jerked up a wall, across a low rooftop, scouring the brick canyon in nervous swoops. He could hear the wind moan below, battering windows as it passed.

Somehow, the tables had been turned. No longer did he stalk his prey unseen. Now someone hunted him, and he fought to control his trembling. I should have taken the time to kill him in the alley. But to have been so close to the boy! To see recognition kindle in that face. In those eyes. So like hers. Luminous. Knowing. To have it all so close to a final resolution--a quick twist of that slender neck! It had been too much, and in that moment, he'd forgotten all else. But I should have made sure the stranger was dead. Instead, he'd left the man unconscious and pursued the boy. Foolishly, stupidly, with no real chance of overtaking him on foot, he'd revealed himself. I lost my head. So uncharacteristic of me. The boy had scurried into the blackness, and he'd blundered after him. When at last he'd given up and gone back to finish the man, he'd arrived in time to see the redheaded policewoman helping him into her jeep. No matter. They'd driven in the direction of the marina. It is set in motion now, and nothing can stop it, regardless of whom this stranger might be. It had taken hours of scouring the neighborhood around the docks in that freezing wind before he'd spotted the jeep again.

With a jerk of the binoculars, he wrenched his mind back to the present. Whoever he is, whatever he is, I cannot allow him to live. And little Perry. He must die as well. A wave of fear swept through him as he considered the boy. Difficult that. Problematic. But I almost caught you once, little