The Shore (8 page)

Icy and urgent, a secret tide lifted through the room, swirling the murky desolation that clouded his sleep into a deeper tumult. It seemed he stumbled on a bank of frozen mud. Heavy with the fecund reek of the marsh, sour winds sprang from the water, wafting the sad stench of death around him. He stared down. A pinkish film spread thinly across the surface while men with hooks dragged things dripping from the depths. Gulls skimmed the turbid bay, and their reflections wheeled with squealing cries, their cruel wings curved like hooks…

“No.” He woke in darkness to the sound of his own voice.

He lay soaked against the sheets, listening. Such silence. He found it difficult to believe a town slept below the windows of this hotel. Even blocks away, he thought he could still hear waves rise against the sand, a constant sigh, though scarcely more audible than his heartbeat. The sound eluded him entirely when he tried to focus on it, but the moment his attention drifted, the ebbing hush swept back.

Something tapped at his window, and his fists clenched. As the gentle pattering grew more rapid, he groped on the nightstand for his watch. He held the luminous dial near his face. Only a little past ten thirty. He had time.
And God knows I need the rest.
He gave himself over to the lulling drum against the pane, and sleep washed over him again.

What began as soporific, the somnolent brush of rain across the glass, became something wild, distressing. Again, he woke in alarmed confusion.

Where…?
Switching on the light, he blinked at the room. Rain glittered across the windowpane. He grabbed his watch and cursed, lurching up and into the bathroom to splash water on his face.
Have to get my thoughts clear.

When the second hand on his watch touched midnight, he rang the number once before hanging up, then dialed again.
What would happen if some night that phone just kept ringing?
He envisioned the lonely stretch of highway.
What if no one ever answered?

What would his life become?

It rang twice. With a tremor of something like pain, he shut his eyes when he heard her voice. “It’s starting again,” he muttered. “Yeah, I’m sure now.”

He exhaled loudly. Sleet chipped at the window. “What does it matter how I am?” Listening to her words, he rubbed at his face before responding, despising himself for the petulance in his voice. “Sorry.” He pressed the phone hard against his ear, the receiver slippery in his palm. “I…think I’m coming down with something. I just…sometimes…wonder if we’re doing the right thing anymore. No, I’m all right, I guess. Don’t worry. Yeah. I’m on top of this. Most likely. I’ll call tomorrow.” He hung up quickly and clenched his teeth until the shivering stopped.

I wonder if I really am sick.
He pressed his shoulders against the headboard.
Really sick, I mean.
Gradually, the noise of the storm faded, until he could detect only the faintest tap of rain.
No, probably just a touch of flu, something like that.
He got up, hunting for his shoes. His coat was draped over the chair.

He shut the door softly behind him. At the end of the corridor, a narrow alcove opened to the well of the back stairs. Near the bottom, he paused, and silence settled like dust. Stealthily, he groped along with both hands until he felt the sliding doors. Casters rolled with a low, chattering hum. Weird shapes jutted: tables with chairs on top of them, he guessed. As he crept through the dining room, floorboards barely sighed. A draft found his face, and he located the alcove. Straight ahead must lie the kitchen, and somewhere along here, he knew, a rear entrance led to the family’s apartment. With a deft movement, he snicked open a small knife.

Before his probing fingers located it, frigid dampness revealed the service entrance. He sank to his knees, felt cold whittle in through the jamb. Clicking on the tiny flashlight, he held it in his mouth while he tested the lock with the blade. He took a small can of household oil from his pocket and went to work on the hinges. At last, the door eased open almost soundlessly, and he stepped out into the parking lot. Thin drizzle continued to settle, visible under the streetlight. His Volks was next to the old van that always seemed to be in the same place. As usual, there were no other cars.

He released the brake and let the beetle roll into the street before hitting the ignition.
Makes so damn much racket.
On the sidewalk and in the gutters, slimy film glistened.
Enough noise to wake the dead.
Gray patches had already iced over, and at the first corner, the car skidded. He cursed, pumping the brakes, and tires scraped asphalt.

The streets crawled past, empty and slick, until at last some heat leaked up from the grill. For over an hour, he cruised, constantly circling, trying first a main street, then a back road near the edge of town.

Rain pebbled the windshield. Near an intersection, he let the engine idle and switched off the lights to watch for any sign of movement.

…the dream…

He switched the headlights back on and eased the car forward.

…the bay…

Deciding to take the long way around, he quickly left the streets and houses behind him. As though barring the way, a tangle of evergreens seemed to leap at his windshield. This secondary road led to the mainland, and with each curve his high beams sheered into the trees.

The forest sank into salt marsh. Even with the windows rolled tight, he could smell it.
Just off the road.
He drove past a shack, then another. Headlights lanced over cedar shingles, across broken windows mended with tar paper.

Near the dilapidated docks, the road ended at police barricades. He stopped the car and got out, left it steaming off the side of the road. On foot, he slipped between the barriers.

Pointless.
The roots of an elm had mounded beneath the sidewalk, and he paused on the small rise.
Wandering the docks in the dead of night.
Darkness had solidified, and he peered downward into a blank flatness where the bay must be.
Never stop the killing this way. Why did I think something would be waiting here?
Wind stirred wetly.
Because I dreamed it? Pathetic.
A fecund stench of brine rolled over him: for a moment his mind drifted irresistibly on seaside memories of his childhood…until the odor thickened into a putrid miasma.
Dear Lord, is that just the bay?
Breathing shallowly, he edged closer to the water, forcing himself through a stench like that of the decomposing carcass of some huge sea creature.
What must this smell be like in summer?

The shore road ended abruptly at a low fence, and the earth dropped steeply to frosted silt.
Just as well I didn’t try to drive this at night.
Scruffy dunes hemmed the marsh, and he struggled up a hillock to gaze down on a debris-choked channel.
One wrong turn…

Cold seared his flesh. Icy leaves crunched underfoot, and his shoes scuffed quietly as he clambered onto a boulder.
So close.
On one side of the road, the docks. On the other…

The bay whispered. He felt another tremor begin in his shoulders.

Hovering over moon-burnished whorls of water, coldness became a vaporous presence. It surrounded him, icing his lungs. Gradually, he made out the docks below, and the wobbling slabs of small boats.
How many pieces was she in when they fished her out?
Just below the road, the ground appeared firm, but he knew the marsh swirled through reeds and grasses, knew the narrow channels that cut the vegetation into islands marked only deeper places.

Even this far away, he could hear waves lapping at the docks, though it sounded strangely hushed, as though the tides had died away forever. The noise of a passing car faded around him, and he quickly stepped aside. His shoe sank, and he pulled his foot up with a loud suck of water. He waited, squinting against the wind.
Not a bad view from here.
The opposite shore seemed as featureless as a storm cloud. Even after all these years, the fear rasped within him.
I can feel them.
With a long sigh, his dread seemed to spread along the surface of the water, and he felt muddied with the sediment of years of sadness.
Out there.
A dull wind snapped, and the cold cracked in his knees.
The creatures.
It tore around him, a sea wind seamed with the thin scent of rot.
Waiting.

Blind as the eye of a dead fish, the moon hung over the water.

He decided against heading down to the dock where the body had been found—he’d taken enough chances lately. What would the nets and gulls have left anyway? And, even on a night like this, anyone might be watching. Instead, he picked his way down the slope and strolled past the foot of the pier, as though heading for one of the houses just beyond. Dampness penetrated him. One circle of the area, he decided, not sure what he was looking for.
Then back to the car.
He followed the road away from the glittering water and strained to make out some detail of the dwellings he approached.
It’s like a cemetery.
Even at this hour, he thought it odd that no lights showed at all.

That’s it for tonight. May as well start back.
He couldn’t risk letting this paralyzing depression swell in him again, not with so much at stake.
Go out again in the morning and…

A snarl ripped at him, and claws skittered fiercely on the ice.

“Down, Queenie, you be good now.”

He stumbled backward on the slick sidewalk, clutched at a tree trunk.

“Behave, Queenie.” Fear clouding her face, a woman dragged the fat little dog away. The animal strained at its leash with moronic malevolence, and they disappeared around the side of the nearest house.

He hung on the tree for a long time, one arm held up to shield his throat.

“Perry, please, why are you doing this to me?” The fabric of the chair chafed stiffly through her clothes. “Answer me. You can untie me. I promise.”

“Shut up. I mean it.”

“We’ll always stay together.” Though she knew the penalty for making him angry, her voice wheedled. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? Perry? Talk to me, please.”

At first, it seemed he wouldn’t answer. With a frayed kitchen towel, he methodically wiped the knife in his hand. “If I untie you, you’ll try to run away and stuff.”

“I promise I…”

“You know what happened the last time I let you loose. Quit talking about it.”

Her chest heaved deeply, and she pressed her head back against the chair to keep from shaking. “…want to be somewhere…” With a flush of something like relief, she felt her sanity crack a little. “…anywhere else…I…” She shut her eyes hard, until she seemed to feel the chair fall away beneath her, then the floor, then the room, as she imagined herself floating to the window and…

“Stell?”

Her eyes snapped open.

He stood before her. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You’re getting just like him.” The words came out of their own volition, as though she had no power to stop them. “Just like Ramsey.”

“You shut up!”

She throttled the sobs down inside herself, felt them burst in silence. “You’re getting just like he got before he killed her.”

The knife shook in his fist. “Don’t you never say that!” His face clotted darkly. “Don’t you never say that to me!”

“Don’t! Oh please. No! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it!” She bowed her head, trying to double over against the ropes. “Help me, somebody.” It came out like a prayer, and her shoulders quivered. “Please.”

He slammed the knife on the counter and stalked to the window, grabbing his jacket from the chair as he passed. Trembling, he shoved the window up and clambered onto the fire escape. The wind growled in his ears. As he stabbed an arm into the sleeve of his jacket, he stamped up the metal stairs until they narrowed and became a sort of ladder. At last, the tar and tin of the roof crackled underfoot.

Faint ripples of sound drifted up the airshaft: a passing car, a distant boat horn. Behind him, a hinge creaked, and a metal door banged in the wind. He’d have to remember to fix that door soon. But now the wind buoyed him like a tide, until he seemed to float. The whole town glittered beneath him, jagged and flattened, and he sucked the evening chill in deeply and wondered if he’d ever feel warm again.

Last summer had become a dream, a dissipating ghost of sunlight and breezes that grated hotter until the blood throbbed in his temples. Would he live to see another summer? Would either of them? He remembered his face wet in the heat and his hands sticky, clotted grayness on his shirt. The fever always came worse in summer. Now, the winter encased them, hid them, kept them safe.

The wind pierced him, and he fumbled at his jacket pockets. His hands shook so badly he could barely open the cigarette pack, and the first few matches went out instantly. Finally, cupped by his palms, one gave off a bead of warmth, diminishing his vision to just the bright cave of his fingers. Before he’d taken his second drag, his ears stung. Already, the familiar, jangled feelings had settled in his stomach again, and in vain, he tried to recapture that sensation of soaring on the night wind, above the hunt, above the terrible change that…

Pacing to the edge of the roof, he imagined he could make out words in the whispering hiss of the wind. Below, a few streetlights fought back the night. Nothing moved. But their enemies were out there somewhere in the night, he knew, searching, hunting…for them. It made him think of one of his brother’s old books, especially the one about the only person left alive on a planet full of vampires. He surveyed the streets as he paced the perimeter, cigarette slanting from his lips. Blowing smoke through his nose, he started to choke and wheeze. At last he stood still, allowing his vision to glide across the antennas and roofs and wires, until he stared straight into the sea, an undulating blackness that encircled his world.

So he’s started smoking, has he?
On the roof across the courtyard, a red dot brightened, and the man in the window watched, smiling.
Naughty boy.
Up on the roof on a night like this—something only a dumb kid would do. He’d never tried smoking himself, perhaps because he’d not been allowed matches after having tried to burn the house down at the age of nine. Nine had been an especially rough year—he remembered it vividly…and his fingers strayed to the pale line of scars across his forehead.

Naked except for the parka around his shoulders, the big man trembled.
And the dear boy is growing careless as well.
In the apartment across the way, all the lights were lit and chintz curtains trailed through the open window.

It must be getting terribly chilly in there, and anyone might see.
He didn’t worry about being observed himself: he’d painted the windowpane black except for a roughly circular area over which he’d taped a sheet of newspaper. Holding the paper in one hand, he leaned his face to this porthole and strained to catch a glimpse of her, but flapping curtains revealed only fragments of the kitchen.
Only let me see you, my love.
He lifted the paper higher.
Show me you’re still alive in there.

Beside him on the wall, his own shadow bowed grotesquely.
If he’s hurt you…

The candle on the cold radiator guttered, swinging shadows up from the floor until they merged with a greater darkness near the skylight.
No, I mustn’t even consider that possibility. That’s why I’m here.
Objects in the room, the wooden crate that served both as stool and table, and the sleeping bag, bunched in the corner with some clothing, seemed to sway in unison with the candle flame, as icy air trickled up his legs.
To protect her. To rescue her from him.
Shivering again, he pulled the parka closer. He’d taken it from a man who’d bought him dinner at a truck stop, and it fit him perfectly, as though the man had simply been delivering it. Certainly, his need had been greater. In addition, there’d been enough cash in the man’s wallet for the few purchases he’d needed to make in order to ensure that he looked like the rest of them. Or close enough at any rate. He ran his fingers across the leather toiletry kit he’d taken from the man’s luggage. Wouldn’t do to attract attention. Not now.

Night rattled at the painted glass, getting in around the frame, and the newspaper fluttered between his fingers.
So close.
Glittering dimly, the hairs on his legs stood straight, while his testicles, shriveled from the chill, pulled close beneath his overhanging stomach. The air in the room circled, a faint echo of the wind outside, and his breath steamed the clear oval of glass that candlelight coated with a filmy gloss. The damp patch spread, trickled, a single drop rolling down the pane. As the candle sputtered, his doppelganger capered on the wall. Shuddering at his post, he felt that he knew every molecule of this window: the dust clot in the corner, the plaster crumbs on the fallen strands of cobweb.

Across the way, the red point of the cigarette rose, brightening.

He slapped the sheet of paper down as a sudden draft made the candlelight in the room swell.
Mustn’t let him see me.
The flame swayed tenderly, and the shrinking tongue trembled.
No, that would never do.
He took his glasses off and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. When he stared too closely at the flame, the rest of the room blurred into rough shapes, ever more indistinct, until at last the world became a deep brown cave, this hot point its center. His chattering teeth sounded like the rattle of the glass, and again, he felt the chill stir harshly up his legs. Yanking a blanket from the pile of bedding on the floor, he wrapped it about his waist, then snapped up the parka’s hood.

He brought the heel of his hand down on the candle, and blackness fell from the skylight. Tearing aside the paper, he leaned to the glass. Even through the paint, the freezing pane burned his palm.
Ah, the nick of time, as they say.
Arcing from the roof, the cigarette scattered embers as it plunged along the lattice. He watched a dim form pitch recklessly down the fire escape; then the curtains thrashed briefly. He could see nothing more, barely any hint of light now, and another shudder sluiced through him, a damp tremor that seemed to begin in the floor beneath his feet.
She was smoking too, the morning I killed her.
He let his vision drift out of focus, while the memory curled around him.

Where had everyone gone that morning?
Oh yes.
Another excursion. Some dull museum perhaps, or a matinee concert, another thinly disguised reward for placid behavior. But he hadn’t been allowed to go with them that day. Dr. Leland had requested he stay behind for an interview—an unscheduled interview—and any break with routine alarmed him then.

“Mr. Chandler, do come in. You don’t mind if I call you Ramsey? You didn’t really mind not accompanying the others today, did you? No, I shouldn’t think you would. You don’t really enjoy these outings the way the others do. That’s been evident for some time, to me at least. Of course, you feign a certain enthusiasm, but then you feign a great many things, do you not?” She sucked on the cigarette, her eyes glinting like those of a shrewd rodent. “Is that not the case?” She exhaled an impressive cloud of smoke and leaned into it.

Even then, he tried to smile, nodding affably and shuffling his big feet.

“And you can stop that playacting, Ramsey. At least, I assume you can. Correct me if I’m mistaken.” A prideful fascination lay behind her stare, as though she’d discovered some new and astonishing germ beneath her microscope. “And don’t simply lean there in the doorway. Take a seat.” She stubbed her cigarette out in a marble bowl, immediately lighting another. “Does the smoke bother you? No, that’s right, you never complain about anything, do you? The perfect patient. So cooperative.” She smiled thinly. “Small wonder your treatment has progressed so remarkably.”

He kept his face blank while he studied her expression for clues as to how this scene should progress. Her features bore their customary expression of brittle intellect and slight malice, but a new line etched the flesh around her mouth, as if those muscles strained to suppress a smirk.

“I asked to see you here, away from my office”—she gestured vaguely at the bay window—“because I thought you might be more comfortable on your own home ground, so to speak.” She waited for him to meet her gaze, but his eyes had followed her gesture, straying to the window, then to the main building on the hill. “I’d hoped that, here, you might feel more inclined to, shall we say, a certain candor.” She emphasized the last word with a wave of the cigarette, and ashes dribbled. “I realize you’ve a battery of behavioral tricks upon which to fall back, answers you’ve trained yourself to give. Amazing”—she nodded—“all this time, you’ve been getting away with that. Truly amazing. It must have involved a tremendous amount of study on our part, did it not? I wonder how much of it was observation and how much reading and research.” Her tone of voice might have been appropriate to a lecture hall. “Hmm? Still we can’t expect explanations for everything right away, can we? We have time. A great deal of time in fact. And you’re a great deal more intelligent than you’ve ever let anyone realize, isn’t that so?” Despite the smile, her voice held only speculation, edged with just a touch of eagerness.

Outside, the trees swayed, flaming with color in the autumnal sunlight: flashes of gold, a surge of red on the gray hospital grounds.

“…for your own good. Don’t you agree?”

“I beg your pardon, Dr. Leland. I’m afraid I was admiring the trees. What were you saying?”

The soft rustle of his voice startled her, as it often startled people, emerging from his immense bulk as though some hapless child he had swallowed suddenly spoke. She sat back. “You do see that, do you not?” she repeated with a visible attempt at patience. “You’ve not really helped yourself through these pretexts, have you?” She tapped a cigarette pack gently against the arm of the chair. “What you’ve in fact accomplished is precisely the opposite—the evasion of help. But we’re going to correct that situation now, are we not? I intend having you transferred out of this residence and back into the main wing, where you’ll be under my direct supervision. I believe that’s best. We’ll meet daily. And I believe we will make significant accomplishments. Don’t you agree?” She paused, as though counting off the seconds. “Ramsey? I asked you how you felt about this.”

He turned from the window, his attention fixed on a massive and ornate mirror that covered most of the sunroom wall behind her. “Ridiculous name, sunroom.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He examined himself in the mirror. The smile, taut on his lips, added a far from reassuring note to his otherwise harmless visage. He adjusted it, nodded at the results. “Yes, that’s much better.”

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

He continued to assess his reflection dispassionately. “Yes.” The blond hair had receded so evenly from his forehead that his unlined face appeared disproportionately large, gaining an infantile quality, bland and cheery. “Hardly prepossessing.” His shoulders slumped, almost perfectly rounded, and after years of starchy hospital food, his stomach had grown too soft to stay properly in his pants. “Who could be afraid?” He smiled harder, showing his teeth, revealing just a hint of the ferocity that his padding cushioned from the world.

“…nothing to be gained by refusing to cooperate. I’d hoped you’d be more…”

“Dr. Leland, I hope you won’t mind my asking you a question.”

She waved her cigarette dismissively. “I’m glad to see you’ve joined me.”

He nodded an acknowledgment of her little joke. “For eight years, I’ve been a model patient here. What in my behavior first triggered your suspicion that all was not—so to speak—as it seemed?” The thin pitch deepened abruptly. “My motives in asking this, you understand, are purely academic.”

Never before had she heard his true voice, and shock rippled across her features. He also seemed taller suddenly—as though through some internal adjustment—and she stiffened in her seat. “Well, if you must know, something in the way you’ve responded to therapy has been troubling me for some time now and I—”