The Shore (Leisure Fiction)

'Surprised him. It's different.'

'Then you frightened me.' Anger swelled in her words. 'You agreed to let me question him.'

'Fine! Then do it. Ask him what he was looking for by the pond that first morning I spotted him--all those months ago. That girl who was torn all to...'

'Don't.'

'Ask him.'

'Okay. Perry?' Gently, she lay a hand on either side of the boy's face, but his shoulders shuddered, and he twisted his head away.

'...have to...let me go. Please...don't you understand?' He clawed savagely at the tears that mottled his face. 'Not me...hid because I knew he'd come. She's all alone.' The straining voice roughened. 'You have to let me go.'

'You know we can't,' she told him, but he wouldn't look up. 'Tell me. Let us help.' She reached out again, laid her palm on the side of his neck. 'Oh God. He feels so hot now. Steve? What are you doing?'

'Is there something dry here I could wear?'

'Why?'

'We've wasted enough time. I never had a chance to check the apartment. Caught him outside. Then his big brother put in an appearance.' He rubbed his mouth. 'If that girl's alive, she'll be there.'

She stared at him. 'Don't say it.'

'I have to go look.'

'You know what's out there.' She shook her head. 'You don't face that alone. I can't let you.'

'And him?'

'I...we...' She hugged herself, her fingers digging painfully into the flesh of her own arms. 'How likely do you think it is she's even still alive? We can leave the boy in the holding tank. He won't...'

'No!' The boy exploded in fear. 'Don't leave me!' The chair crashed to the floor behind him. 'He'll come! Please!' Panic knotted his features. 'Can't leave me here!'

'Then we'll wait. Steve, it won't be, can't be long before help gets here.'

'You said it yourself. If she's alive, God knows how long she'll stay that way...if Ramsey finds the building...if he's searching now...' The words poured out. 'We lock the boy in the back, and you keep a weapon and wait here. To guard him. You understand me?'

'Forget it.'

'I have a gun. The apartment's not far.'

'No.'

'That's the way we do it. And the door to this place stays locked until I get back. What choice do we have?'

XXVI

As he stepped into the night, the sound of surf billowed roughly over him. Turning, he nodded at Kit through the diamond pane. As their eyes met, he heard the latch. She smiled wanly, her face etched by a glare that turned her hair a harsh orange.

He started down the slick street. Don't look back.

As he rounded the corner, his flashlight caught the gently settling drifts of rain so that bright patches seemed always to hover just ahead of him. He turned up the collar of the slicker, grateful for the dry overalls Kit had found in one of the lockers.

He'd decided to go on foot, in case some emergency came up and she needed the jeep. And progress was much easier now, especially this far from the beach. Suddenly large drops covered the sidewalk. Hell, not again! But the squall faded before he'd reached the next corner. Without streetlights or house lights, the sidewalks glittered, and invisible rills gurgled below the curbs. The flashlight beam bounced back at him from the wet concrete and glinted from flickering water. With careful tread, he rounded another corner.

With constant ragged flapping, a rotting canopy rustled above his head. It took a moment to orient himself. All the old brick buildings looked alike, but his flashlight trembled up the facade of the tallest. Shivering, he approached. Another spattering of rain struck, and a dull stain of lightning rippled on the numerals.

The outer door creaked open at his touch, but an inner door held firm, so he angled the beam through a glass panel. Shadows huddled in the alcove. The gleam trickled across a stairway, and peripheral gobbets of light dripped up the tiled walls. He kicked the door. And again. So much for the element of surprise. The wooden frame splintered, glass shattering loudly as the door rebounded from the wall.

His boots crunched over the glass. He thundered up the stairs, past the inky stillness of the lower floors. At the top landing, he swung the flashlight, gripping the revolver tightly in his other hand. A fluid glow washed the walls. One door hung partly ajar, scarlet brightness oozing around it to dimly flood the hall. He shouldered it open.

A votive candle flickered on the kitchen table, the red glass sliding ruby shadows around the room. From the hall, wind sighed as soft illumination circled, lilting from corner to ceiling, and crimson pools trembled up the wall. A broken chair lay on its side, and a shattered door leaned askew. Fragments of a wooden table littered the floor.

In the room beyond, the flames of other candles danced along the floor and windowsills. In one corner, a strange substance mounded, white and lumpish like old snow--the stuffing of a gutted mattress that leaned against the wall.

A hinge creaked. The closet door moved. He eased it open and thrust the flashlight deep into soft dimness. On the floor, stained strips of clothesline coiled beside a carving knife.

He got her. He turned away. Ramsey. Everywhere the candles quivered, filling the apartment until it resembled a chapel, some shrine to violent dementia, and the smell of hot tallow mingled with a stench of rot. Must have been some kind of ritual. Flattening along the wall, he crept toward the bedroom. She's dead for sure.

A flimsy lock on the bedroom door had been shattered. Inside, the box spring tilted from its broken frame, and craters marked the plaster between crumbling gouges in the wall. He noted brown smears near the baseboards. Muttering a curse, he checked the bathroom. Nothing. As he hurried back through the kitchen, he caught sight of something in the periphery of light.

He tilted the beam to the wall, bringing it closer. In the bright circle, faltering stripes gouged the wood of the door frame.

Claw marks.

A block from the station, he felt his stomach lurch. Where's the light? He jolted over the slick sidewalk. The emergency battery, maybe it just wore down. But fear roiled in his belly. Not Kit. Please, not Kit.

The door swung loosely. The light above it had been smashed, and points of glass crunched like ice under his boots.

Inside, the emergency light still glared, and one of the chairs lay splintered among plaster chips from the wall. The desk had been shoved aside so hard the blotter had slipped to the floor with the phone and lamp still upon it, like the result of some evil conjuring trick.

On the concrete floor, it glistened. A few drops only. Blood. Darkly shining in the light. He crouched and tapped a fingertip to one spot. Already cool. But still mostly fluid. A lump compounded of rage and fear wadded in his windpipe.

Something filtered to his eardrums, nothing so definite as sound, more a faint vibration, a sort of scratching in the air where a sound should have been. His grip on the revolver tightened, and he stalked to the holding tank.

It was still locked. He fumbled the key out of his pocket, and the door swung out, letting the edges of the glare flow in as his shadow bobbed to the ceiling. 'Come out.'

After a moment, he heard a stifled whimper.

A pale hand fluttered beneath the cot, and then an arm and shoulder emerged. With awkward, clogged movements, the boy crawled out. Still on all fours, he nervously licked his lips and asked, 'Did he take her?'