The Shore (Leisure Fiction)

to dig in unison, shredding at the cardboard.

...car...soft roof...pretty...

The cat jerked its head up toward the wall.

...red dripping on the sand...

Instantly, the cat swelled, emitting a needle-toothed hiss. In terror, it fled for a hole in the fence.

It seemed he'd lain awake a long time, trying to recall the dream. Now, he moved his arm away and blinked without comprehension at a ceiling where amorphous shapes and vague colors swam. Across the room, the curtains had drifted apart: fathomless darkness rippled beyond the window. He sat up with a jerk that nearly sent him over the edge of the bed.

He checked his watch. Damn. Groping for the phone on the night table, he heaved to a sitting position. Almost missed it. Holding the phone in his lap, he stared intently at his watch as the second hand swung. Then he dialed a number, letting it ring twice. He hung up, waited a few seconds and then dialed again.

'I'm sure now.' Breath clogged in his throat, and he spoke in a rush, without preamble. 'We've got another one.'

IV

Night boomed hollowly in the black spaces beneath the house. Propped on stilts like all the properties at the edge of the bay, the duplex faced out over the water, and years of salt spray had encrusted the support beams until they glistened like mica in the moonlight. The wooden slats of the stairs also glittered, as did the rail on the landing. Darkness filled the lower row of windows, but slivers of light pierced the curtains of the upper floor.

Inside, Kit grunted, twisting vigorously and listening to the wind. Just what is the temperature out there? The Franklin stove, which took up an entire side of her living room, gave off only sporadic warmth, and even above the sonata that poured from the CD player, she could still hear the windowpanes rattle. Would it be so awful if I stayed inside just one night? Illumination from a squat lamp glinted from the moisture beading the pane. Would I be fat by tomorrow or something? Bending far forward, she stretched. Sometimes I think I must be out of my mind.

Whatever. She stretched to the other side. No excuses. The glass doors behind her made up most of the living room wall, and she checked her form in the reflection. The night, dimly striped by the caps of waves, stirred beyond the small balcony, and the moaning wind created an eerie counterpoint to the music. She owned only classical CDs--Beethoven, Chopin, Mozart--a small collection, mostly piano sonatas, and although (to her continuing chagrin) she could barely tell most of them apart, she could almost always lose herself in their melodies.

She crouched, extending her thigh muscles, then the calves, trying not to let her vision stray to the glass doors. In the cramped apartment, any momentary lapse of concentration could result in seriously barked shins, even with the coffee table shoved up against the sofa and the ottoman pushed to one side so she could exercise. This was as cleared as the room ever got. Far too many heavy pieces of furniture, any single one of which was probably too large for the space, had been jammed into the apartment. Now go for it. Gritting her teeth, she tried for maximum extension in one leg, then the other.

A clammy dread closed on her.

...something watching...

Slowly, she straightened and turned to the balcony. Something massive moved out there, some hulking nightmare.

...no...

A gaze glittered at her from seven feet above the balcony. One of the eyes moved, became a fat droplet that slid down the door, glistening.

What's wrong with me? She stepped closer to the glass. Rolling blots marked the edges of the sea. There's nothing there. Often, she had considered that this view made her life endurable, but this winter the hushed whisper of the surf seemed only to intensify her constant unease. All of a sudden, I'm scared of reflections? She pulled a cord, and the drapes swung closed, leaving only a wedge of darkness at the center. Who did I think was that big anyway?

The central heat rushed on with a grunting exhalation, as though some beast hulked below the grill on the floor. She stepped over the barbells on the carpet, got her running jacket from the closet, pulling up the tight hood of the jogging suit. Tucking her short red curls in all around, she rummaged on the closet shelf for leg warmers and a hat. Where did I...? She opened a bureau drawer to a snarl of scarves, and her attention settled irresistibly on the pistol that nestled among them. For a moment, her hand hovered. Then she slid it out of the holster and almost tenderly hefted it before returning it to the leather pouch and smoothing a scarf around it. No one knew about the gun. She'd had it since Boston. The force here didn't even carry them.

I'm just jumpy. Perhaps the run would help. Who wouldn't be jumpy after today? The run would have to help: she would not resume the tranquilizers, refused even to consider it. No, she was through with all that.

Grabbing her keys from the small kitchen table, she let the door slam behind her. This stairwell always looked unfinished to her, as though the glaring white paint had been intended as an undercoat. Months earlier, her firstfloor neighbors had moved away; yet halfway down she paused, listening. Wind soughed through the foundations. Near the entrance, dank, heavy musk clung to the carpet, something no amount of airing had ever more than temporarily diminished, and an arctic night seemed to bulge at the front door. Squaring her shoulders, she flung it open and stepped out onto the landing.

The chill shocked her. A swath of light rippled briefly; then the door banged shut behind her. Slowly adjusting to the dark, she let her gaze drift out over the bay. She could just make out pinpoints of light on the mainland, faint as distant stars.

Here goes. Freezing air drilled into her chest as she ran in place for a moment, swinging her arms. Then she launched herself down the stairs and into the bottomless night.

Monsters.

He'd hung up the phone, feeling bitterly wretched. They couldn't seem to talk about anything else anymore. He stopped pacing and peered out the window. Had there ever been a time when they could? The endless hunt had consumed both their lives, crowding out everything else. He knew what he had to do now. But what if nothing could draw the boy out of hiding? What if all the months spent tracking him here ended in failure? How could he face her again?

He poked the curtains aside. At the end of the block below, a car swung onto the street, and the glacial glow of its headlights somehow made him feel even more isolated. It was time to make his sweep of the streets.

Shrugging into his jacket, he eased open the door, and light swung out across the faded hall carpet. He stared into the brown gloom. Unable to bring himself to switch off the lamp, he closed the door on it instead, then felt his way along the hall, letting his hand ride the gritty banister as he descended into vague brightness. The stairs creaked in agonized whispers.

The lamp on the desk still glimmered. Barely. Twenty watts? Nice of them to make that concession to his presence, he thought. They're probably asleep. He crept across the lobby, the damp chill penetrating his clothes before he reached the foyer. The inner doors groaned softly. In the vestibule, murky illumination quivered through a design on the leaded glass. He put his shoulder to the outer door.

Lord. As the wind struck, he swayed on the doorstep. Feel sort of wobbly all of a sudden. He looked around. Only a blue van shared the small lot with his Volkswagen. Better eat something. An empty can rattled across the ground.

The boy could be anywhere by now. The muted rush of surf seemed to drift in the wind, to drone from the sky, to reverberate from the wall behind him. Around any corner. He unlocked the car and checked the backseat before getting in. The engine stuttered to life, but the headlights barely penetrated the night. The heater would kick in once he got started, he told himself, letting the motor idle. By