against the sweat. '...keep staring. I know what you're seeing, my dear.' His eyes glistened like leeches. 'I'm not human anymore, am I? I am aware of that, never fear. As though I've become the ghost of myself here, haunting the settings of my youth.' The smile creased his face again. 'My youth.' He shucked off the parka and let it slump across a spool. 'Don't you find that a pleasingly romantic notion?' Muscles bulged under the black sweatshirt, even through the layer of fat, a startling contrast to the weak face with its moist, smallish mouth. '...thinking how ugly I am. No, no, don't deny it. No need. Perfectly true. Except for my mouth. Don't you think my mouth is fine? Daddy used to say it was the only thing about me he didn't hate. Charming man, my father. You'd have liked him. Everyone did. Or perhaps you knew him?'
His brimming eyes burned even to look at. She felt this man lived, had lived perhaps for decades, perpetually on the verge of screaming, and it sickened her even more to feel pity mingling with her terror.
'...realize he's dead. Oh, yes. Or, more to the point, I realize that you also are aware of this.'
The rasping gnaw of the surf surrounded them, and she realized that the girl had begun sobbing with guttural, desperate gasps, like a child. Ramsey stumbled toward the cot, and Kit stared at the massive curve of his back. 'Don't, Stell.' Raising a doughy hand, he let it hang above her face, thick fingers splayed in the air, and the girl sucked a damp shriek deep into her stomach. Gently, he brought the fingers closer; then he hissed between his teeth as he drew back. 'Families. So difficult.' He looked up at Kit. 'You know how it is.'
Moving away, he chuckled, pacing into the center of the room. 'Some old guy used to run this place.' He flapped his arms at the walls. 'Mr. Johnson. He used to let me hide here. Sometimes. When I needed to.' Sweat trickled down his neck. 'Sometimes. He always had so many books. All kinds. Science fiction and romance and murder mysteries. I read them all. That old drunk was the closest thing I ever had to a friend. Do you remember him? I remember you. You were the freckled one who always wanted to play with the boys.' He stepped closer. 'I always liked your hair.'
Her stomach knotted. 'Keep your fucking hands off me.'
'You always had a mouth too, if I recall.' He chuckled. 'How amusing that you became the town's protector. A misfit like you. Not much left to protect now, is there, dear? Impressive job you've done. There there--you shouldn't feel too bad about the town. They all knew. You understand?'
She saw the madness like a flare, a sudden red flowering in his gaze, and she pressed back against the rough chair.
'...must have heard us...must have heard every night...'
He moved even closer to her. Fleetingly, the light from the kerosene lamp slanted up on him, revealing an odd, rubbery quality to his flesh, until his features themselves seemed somehow unformed, as though the skull beneath remained too soft to provide sufficient definition. His sparse and ragged hair glinted like spun glass. 'Tell me, do you still like to play with the boys?' His touch spidered across her cheek, and a silent scream rattled in her brain. She forced herself to dispassionately observe his subtle facial deformities: something about the eyelids; a distortion to the shape of the upper lip. She began to wonder if they might represent ancient beatings...and she recalled the room with the strap.
'And if I'm not human anymore, what am I, you're wondering.' His breath felt damp on her neck. 'Maybe I'm a vampire. Maybe I'll tear out your jugular with my teeth and suck up your blood.'
Her anger rose like balm. 'Maybe you're a fucking maniac.'
'That temper of yours will get you into trouble, my dear, one day.' He chuckled. 'Mark my words.' His eyes seemed to stretch to unnatural roundness, showing white all around the murky blue, and his fingers trailed to her throat. His fingers slipped into her open jacket, then under her blouse. She felt them slide to her bra, and the calluses on the balls of his fingers scratched her nipples. The heat of his breath jetted down her neck. With his other hand, he loosened his pants. Suddenly, he began to laugh and pulled away from her. 'My dear, you should see your face.'
'Knew...?' She croaked out the word. 'What did they...?'
He reached out again, his fingers tracing her breasts, and the warmth of his hand made her gasp. 'Don't endeavor to engage me in some psychological gamesmanship. You're ill suited for it.' His stroke resembled the most casual caress. 'That face shows everything. Your best feature really. Very appealing, that raw quality.' Her flesh went numb in patches, but she could feel his exhalation on her cheek as he bent over her. 'Enticing. Even now. But of course I have Stella now.'
Rank with a stench like choked-down vomit, his breath sickened her, and she waited for the meaty hands to tighten around her neck. 'The Chandler house, your house, is pretty far from town. How could anyone hear...?'
'I said, don't play games!' The bellow erupted, ending with a giggle. Nothing could have frightened her more--the high-pitched snigger went on and on, repetitive, mechanical. He pushed closer, nothing in his face sharper than paste. It seemed teeth didn't belong in so soft a face, even stubby yellow ones. She tried to look away but couldn't. She bit her lip, using the sharp ache to hold back a groan.
'He'll have returned by now,' he said, the grin melting from his lips. 'Your gentleman friend, the one who hunted me. Perhaps I should have waited for him after all.' His glance tracked across the room to his sister. 'Yes, I can see now that I miscalculated by returning here so quickly.' His expression stayed dulled, as though whatever passions boiled in his chest failed to reach any higher, but his hands clenched into fists. 'I could have shot him.' As he paced, his fists began to beat against the upper part of his legs. 'I had your gun. I could've gotten the key from his body--then I'd have had Perry too, and it would be over. Finally. None of this trading business.' The fists drummed faster against his thighs. 'Yes. Hindsight. No need to say it. But he had a gun as well. Mustn't overlook that. And I can't take chances of that magnitude. Not now. Not when I've got Stella. Finally.' Brutal shrewdness glinted in his face. 'He'll bring the boy here. He'll trade for you. Then I'll take your lives. Nothing personal. You understand? I'll have to. You do see that, don't you? For the sake of the family.' The words droned quickly, some furious craving driving them. 'And I'll take care of Perry. Finally. The way Daddy would have done. Then it'll be only Stella and myself. Together.' His face clenched. 'Perry had no right. I'm the eldest. After Daddy came me.' Water gurgled all around them as the room rocked. 'But Perry must come to me first. No one must know about him. Don't ever let them see--that's the most important rule.'
'What rules?' The trembling in her shoulders grew uncontrollable. 'Know what about him?'
Within the heater, flame pulsed softly. As the chill closed in, he sat on a crate, his shadow mountainous on the wall. 'He always told us that. Draw the curtains. Don't scream so loud. Don't talk to the neighbors. Don't talk to anyone. Ever. Always been like that. And it worked well. When his family came here from the barrens, they were laborers. Now we own the town.' After a pause, he added, 'What's left of it.'
His voice hissed faintly. '...consider the possibility that I may really be quite insane after all. Wouldn't that be quite a joke?'
'What...?' She coughed, pain rattling in her chest. 'What brought you back to Edgeharbor?'
His chest heaved as he turned to her.
She held his stare, desperate to delay whatever action she sensed he was working himself toward. 'I mean, why now?'
'The papers. We do get newspapers, you know, even in lunatic asylums. So sorry. Mental health facilities. It's the one truly great curse of late-twentieth-century man--we know everything that happens and have no idea what any of it means. But when I saw that the killings had begun, I understood.' His voice rose in outrage. 'My brother had taken my place. Besides...he's too pretty, don't you think? Too much like her.'
'Who? Who is he like?'
Silence swelled, filling the shack.
'Your mother?' She watched tension bulge beneath his fleshy jaw. 'The girl, your sister,' she spoke quickly. 'She looks sick. She needs...'
His face moved with an oblique shifting of shadowed eyes: the sleeping girl's breasts rose and fell. 'You think my mother was good, don't you?'
'I...you...'
His gaze sliced at Kit like a razor. 'Everyone did.' From his temples to his bulging throat, the sheen of perspiration formed rivulets. 'But she never tried to stop him.' Sweat beaded his chin. 'Do you know what she told me? She told me to pray for strength. And the things he did--she called them punishment.' Grunting, he gulped air. 'But for what? My fault. Mine. Ugly me.' His fist thumped against his chest. 'The things he made us do.' Then he
