The Shore (Leisure Fiction)

television antenna poked from a larger pond, and the corner of a door protruded from the water. He alone prowled the wreckage.

Rain slowed to a saturating mist. He'd hardly started before he needed to rest. Blasts of wind boomed down the block as he climbed the stairs of a building he didn't recognize. Have to go on. He sheltered in the doorway, gasping, while the wind seemed to strike in some complicated rhythm, driving chilling wetness in around the edges of the slicker. The boy will move. Clutching the rail, he splashed back down and hurried into the deepening gloom, skirting a side street that had become a river. He'll run now. The boy would need to be holed up in a new hiding place before the townspeople began to trickle back. It's what I'd do in his place. He bent into the wind, scarcely progressing. Just ahead of him, a storm door banged with a constant, furious clatter, until it pulled loose and scraped across the sidewalk. Water slid in patches of brown and green. His hands slipped away from a pole, and the gale danced him across a sodden lawn. Everywhere lay trees, uprooted or shattered, and some of the houses sat at strange new angles--several had moved considerable distances. Some of these dark spots in the water might be basements. Struggling toward higher ground, he skirted a car that had wedged tightly against the front door of a cottage on a slight rise. With each gust, wet gravel from the driveway hailed into the side of the car, making a noise like bullets, and he ducked his head, protecting his face with his arms.

The drizzle ceased, and wind sighed to nothing. Be night soon. In the sudden silence, he sloshed forward, the muscles in his legs aching with every step. Got to hurry.

Before him stretched a swamp. He could see no way through the flooded intersection. Could go back the way I came, try to find another way around. But the sky dimmed steadily. No time.

Wading in, he tried to feel a curb beneath his feet, some ridge to balance across. A fine mist began to blow, and he stumbled. His boots plunged hard. Instantly, numbing water climbed above his knees. Shit! Slowly, he pushed on through the muted hush. The gurgle pouring from a broken pipe had become the loudest sound, almost the only real sound. Can't stop. Nearby, an old Chevy tilted against the Seaside Savings & Loan, and the drowned car began to founder. His teeth chattered as he waded deeper, giving it a wide berth. What the...? He felt a pull. It can't be a current. With a low moan, the wind stirred again, and he struggled to keep his footing, but each gust twisted him, and the water rushed between his legs. He lunged for a handhold on the car, his grasp sliding along the windshield. Sucking waters surged around him.

As he clambered onto the roof, liquid coils tightened, and he felt the vehicle wobble, then begin to lurch away in an angling roll. The street! Water moiled, and the Chevy sank deeper, engulfed in a welter of blurring forms. There's nothing there! The front end of the car dipped. Whatever sewage line or natural fault had lain beneath the asphalt had given way. A stony grinding shuddered through the roof, through his bones, and the car began to spin. Tipping, it plunged past the entrance to the Savings & Loan. He gathered his legs beneath him and leapt.

With a splash, he caught at a railing, rust and paint chips grinding into his palm. He grunted, twisting his knee on the stairs. Ripples tugged at him, and he tasted salt. Pulling himself to the top of the stairs, he clung to the doorway and shuddered.

The car vanished in a snarl of muck, and water swirled, choked with disgorged effluent. After a moment, he inched his way along the ledge. A fat wave lapped at a window, then dragged the length of the facade without cresting. Not so deep here...maybe. Edging around the corner, he reached the back of the building.

Staring hard, he waited for the swirling to stop. He braced himself, then slipped one foot into the water, felt for the bottom. Water rose almost to the top of his boot, and the edge of the windowsill slipped from his freezing fingers. He yelped once. But both feet found the uneven ground, and he slogged on, his wake striping the surface behind him. The water reflected a dimming sky.

He balanced precariously along the trunk of a downed tree, then plowed for the corner. Half a block farther on, he splashed through shallow puddles. At the corner, the little library tottered brokenly, glass walls completely gone. The final liquid flickers of light revealed sodden books, floating everywhere, spread in the puddles like the carcasses of broken gulls. Lightning veined the sky; wind wrinkled the puddles. If the storm comes back, and catches me outdoors...

Thunder detonated across the low rooftops, and he ran, splashing wildly. With a sudden hiss, rain slanted down, spattering the smooth sheets around him into leaping patterns.

Gargantuan clouds tumbled inland, dense as oily smoke within which splinters of light flickered, still smoldering. He bolted past the church. The ersatz stained glass hung shattered now. Spinning around the corner, he halted.

Halfway down the grimy block, one apartment building towered above the rest.

As Kit approached, the door of The Edgeharbor Arms banged softly. All the glass had gone, and wet slivers glistened on the steps. From inside, a steady tinkling drifted, almost like music.

Cautiously, she edged through the door. A damp blotch spread on the Oriental carpet, and the chandelier chimed, swaying--she gave it a wide berth as she yanked the drapes aside. Sudden dust added to the reek of decay, but a wave of fading twilight swept through the lobby. Stifling a sneeze, she turned to the desk and the dim apartment beyond.

The closets stood open, contents ransacked. As she paced back toward the faint light of the window, she spotted an old registration book on the desk and found only one name on the latest page, only one room number.

Wind resonated around her on the stairs, and the clanking of the chandelier pursued her. Even as she climbed the staircase, she knew nothing living shared this structure with her. Two floors up, one door stood open, casting a patch of paleness on the hall carpet.

'Steve? Are you in there?' She found little to indicate that the room had been recently occupied. But what had she expected? He had trained himself to leave no sign.

The drawer stuck, then gave with a thin howl of wood. She searched the dresser, then the single tight closet. Finally, with a small grunt of satisfaction, she hauled the two suitcases out from under the bed. Grabbing the flashlight from the dresser, she propped it on the pillow and tried the smaller case, only to find it locked. Briefly, she considered searching for the key; then she struck the clasp with her pistol. A second later, she dumped the folder into the light.

The beam glinted thinly from a snapshot of a mangled face, and her bile rose. She yanked the rubber band off a stack of photographs and tossed them on the bed where they spread like an evil deck of cards. She blinked. How could he have these? She barely noted the newspaper clippings and maps that filled the bottom of the case--her eyes kept returning to the photos. How could he have gotten them?

Numbly, she flipped the catch on the larger case. Stuffed in among the clothes lay several large manila envelopes and an old knapsack. The knapsack felt stiff.

She unzipped it and reached in, then drew back her hand with a sharp gasp--darkness welled in her palm. With her other hand, she angled the flashlight: a slice oozed from the base of her thumb. Holding the flashlight gingerly, she tilted out the contents of the knapsack, and something thudded on the mattress. She tugged away the rolled towel.

A carving knife, a cleaver, wire cutters and a hammer--all clotted and dark--covered the photographs of carnage.

'What have I been helping?' she whispered. 'Oh God. What is he?' She thought of the Chandler children, hiding from him, skulking from apartment to apartment because they somehow knew what stalked them. 'What have I done?' She backed away from the bed.

Frenzied now, she searched every corner of the room. Where could he have gone? There had to be some clue here. She had to find him. Her foot struck something by the leg of the chair.

Picking it up, she held the notebook to the light: it took a moment for her even to recognize the marks as writing. The insane scrawl made the flesh at the back of her neck tighten, though most of it remained