unbuttoning his jacket; then he pried the edge of the shade and peered into the evening shadows. At last, he switched on the kitchen light and tossed his hat on the table. He stripped off his coat, peeling the top sweater along with it so that, inside out, they slid in a lump across the back of a chair. He smoothed the other sweater across his taut stomach, then rubbed his palms above the red coil of a space heater, pain flushing into his fingers with the sudden warmth. When he twisted the knob all the way, the heater hummed. It almost drowned out the whimpering behind him.
Weeks earlier, he'd clumsily screwed a heavy latch into the wood of the closet door. As he unhooked it now, he heard a shuffling sound within, and when the closet door swung open, the pale mask of her face hovered low. He yanked on a length of chain, and the lightbulb swung shadows at him.
Her hair shone softly. She groaned, huddled on the floor, her back pushed hard against the far wall. At the sight of him, her eyes squeezed shut, rolling wildly beneath the lids, and she thrashed her body from side to side with a soft rustle, like the sounds made by a sleeping child. Her elbow struck the wall. Somehow she'd gotten her hands around in front of her, though heavy nylon cord bound them. A strip of adhesive tape still covered her mouth.
'I'm back.' He pushed into the closet and knelt beside her, shoving a long woman's coat out of the way. She began to choke. Above them, hangers jangled.
'I told you I was gonna come back.' Slowly, he reached for the tape, but she jerked her head with a moan. 'You always get nervous.' Falling to her side, she drummed her feet against the floor.
Gently, his fingers stroked her throat. 'Don't worry.' The flesh felt moist and hot, and he could feel the rapid pulse.
Her eyes became glittering slits.
'I'm home now. See?'
As tears coursed down her cheeks, she tried to roll her face away.
'Don't be like that. You know I won't never do nothing to hurt you.' He stroked the long tresses, savoring the pale softness. 'It'll be all right. You know I love you.' He stared hard at her face, knowing that in the sealed cavern of her mouth, she screamed. 'I do. You know I do.' He slid down next to her, and his thin arms slipped around her waist. 'Don't be afraid. You got to trust me. Everything I do is for you.'
She trembled convulsively.
'Were you trying to get this off, or what? Good thing I come home when I did.' The caressing flutter of his touch strayed to the tape on her lips; then he stroked the ropes. 'Don't look at me like that. You know why I got to do this--it's 'cause you don't believe me. You'd try to run away if I left you untied. You know you would. And they'd get you. I know you don't believe me, but they're out there. Hunting us. I mean it. That's why we got to hide.' His fingers silked through her hair again. 'Or else you'd yell until they found us. Yes, you would. And they'd kill us. Please try to understand. Why can't you believe me? You and me might be the only real people left in the whole town. All the rest are monsters.'
III
Beneath the ramp, a rasp echoed. Coughing damply, the fat man lumbered out into the daylight. His parka, which gleamed a dirty orange, distorted his girth and rendered him almost shapeless. He approved. Blinking through wire-frame glasses at the dingy sky, he held up the prizes he clutched: three lengths of thin rope. Stiff with brown stains, they dangled from his fists. Behind him, the contents of a plastic trash bag lay scattered on the sand.
He understood what the ropes meant, and he brought them closer to his face. The girl still lived.
The boy had her.
His gaze raked across the buildings before him, probing empty windows. He would find them. His fists clenched with a spasm of anger. He would. No one else.
Scanning broken glass and eroded porticoes, he turned his scrutiny to the largest structure in the area. The dulled contours of The Abbey Hotel towered above the neighborhood. Terraces scoured by the wind, facade flaking away, the hotel faced the sea. The color of sand, it might almost have been a natural outcropping, a cliff pocked with caves. Even at this distance, he fancied he could hear wind whistle through boarded windows. He knew that sound only too well: it never stopped. For weeks now, he'd been living like a rat in the Abbey's deserted halls. So many windows--the huge old building had provided an excellent lookout, but now the winter had grown more intense, forcing him to move a few blocks inland.
One thought drove him on. No one else must be allowed to get them, not now when he drew so close. The day before, he'd witnessed the stranger almost take the boy down, and thoughts of it still whipped fury through his bulk. He'd searched and searched, and there remained only so many places where they could be hiding.
Wind billowed suddenly, swamping him in dust, and pale oily tendrils of hair danced free of the parka's hood to flutter over his forehead like the legs of a frantic spider. He needed just a bit more time. He lowered his face, teeth grinding, and retreated to the relative shelter of the ramp.
Beneath the boardwalk, the wind stirred a low moan, like the closing note of a solemn hymn.
Above the cottage roofs, a husk of moon glimmered in the afternoon sky. Before each dwelling, naked trees swayed, gnarled by salt wind, shadows stringing the lawns.
Even with the seat pushed back as far as it would go, his long legs felt cramped in the Volkswagen. As he sipped coffee, he warmed his hands on the Styrofoam cup. The dead streets seemed slightly wider here, the houses larger, but still no noise intruded, and he found it increasingly difficult to imagine these blocks had ever echoed with the normal sounds of human life. Footsteps? Voices? Laughter? Grinning sourly, he decided he knew little enough about normality to be passing judgment. He turned up the heater. Since chasing the boy on the beach the day before, he hadn't been feeling right and had been making an effort to keep warm. Using one of the leather gloves from the seat beside him, he wiped at the mist on the side window.
Still no children in sight. He could wait.
Slumped, he stared glumly through the windshield. Weeks ago, raindrops had dried in jagged splatters on the glass, crusting into a translucent pattern that resembled heaps of tiny leaves. He fiddled with the radio again but soon gave up.
Checking his watch, he resumed his surveillance of the street. Between each cottage lay a space wide enough for an automobile. Wooden fences broke up the monotony at random intervals but none offered anything like sufficient cover, especially not in winter with the trees whip-bare. On the other hand, there were no street lamps, and in full dark it might be safe enough, unless a porch light suddenly went on. He studied the yards, mapping out paths to rear doors and lower windows, a routine mental exercise. On the nearest lawn, a birdlike effigy tilted on stiff wire legs; beyond it, a plastic windmill spun, audibly hissing. On the other side of the street, some inventive gardener had bedded only plastic blooms, sun bleached now to a waxy gray, and everywhere small pine trees straggled like ragweed.
As the school bus swayed ponderously around the corner, he slid farther down in his seat and stayed down until the door hissed. Crouching, he could just see the bus in the side mirror. A girl hopped out, maybe twelve years old, dragging a smaller version of herself along, both of them all scarves and curls. Three boys bounced down after them, pummeling each other with their books while the bus groaned off, exhaust bulging from its tailpipe. The boys jostled through the intersection, as the girls headed down the block.
Yesterday, he'd trailed the boys. Today, he waited until the girls got halfway to the corner, then jammed the ancient Volkswagen into gear. It shuddered forward, muffler sputtering.
