The single chair had been painted white so thickly that strands of wicker seemed molded into a single lump. He sat heavily and checked his watch. The numerals gleamed faintly.
Can’t call for hours yet.
Silence pooled in the low corners, stagnant and chilly.
Wearily, he got up again, pacing, his movements about the room growing disjointed, purposeless.
Is this all there is now?
Twice he opened and closed the same drawer; then he wandered into the bathroom. The clumsily rigged shower resembled a trap in which the claw-footed tub had been snared.
So this is my life?
He looked behind the shower curtain, then returned to the bedroom and checked the tight closet. It felt as though every cell in his body craved rest.
Should do some work.
He swayed for a moment before falling back into the chair as though shoved. He picked at knotted laces with dead fingers, then kicked off a shoe and watched it roll toward the bed. Pulling himself up with a grunt, he heaved himself onto the mattress just as the wall sconce buzzed and went out.
Swell.
The bedside lamp had been manufactured to resemble something roughly crafted from a jug. He switched it on, even that slight movement causing the bedsprings to protest like angry crickets. The lamplight made a perfect circle on the ceiling where the dust-thickened remnant of a cobweb trailed.
Have to stay awake.
Again he scrutinized the room. Both the wooden nightstand and the dresser had been painted white too many summers ago, and even in this light, wide swathes of glossy red still showed through. He examined the only picture, a seascape with gulls that sailed stiffly over greenish waters. It squarely missed obscuring a stain on the wall. The lumpish waves and the wings of the birds achieved crude symmetry, and despite the mediocrity of execution, something threatening seemed to lurk in the swirling tide.
Letting my imagination work overtime.
With a shiver, he turned away.
Don’t need to invent monsters.
He still felt dizzy.
Can’t come down with something now.
He covered his face with his hands and felt heat throb beneath his eyelids.
Damn.
Only gradually did something like warmth seep back into his arms and legs.
Can’t get sick. Not now.
A cough shuddered though him.
But it never gets warm in here.
The day he’d arrived with his suitcases, D’Amato, the proprietor, had bled air from the radiator for over an hour, running up and down the stairs and shouting to his wife, who’d clanged on a pipe somewhere below. The siphoned-off end product had been a pint of evil-looking fluid that smelled like liquid dust. Fetid and catlike, the smell lingered still.
Never warm.
Tonight, his body ached for a hot shower, but he didn’t feel up to enduring the pounding whistle of the pipes.
Maybe I’ll take a bath later.
Generally, that involved slightly less racket.
He closed his eyes.
Don’t.
He leaned his head back against the wall.
Don’t sleep now.
Pulling his legs onto the bed, he stretched.
Get the work out.
After a moment, he felt under the bed.
Go on.
Straightening with a grunt, he shifted his legs and set the case on the bed before him.
Get on with it.
Solemnly, he tapped on the lid, then fished a key out of his wallet.
In a clear plastic bag, the boy’s backpack nearly filled the suitcase, but other things had been crammed in around it. Next to his camera case lay a stack of Polaroids, bound with a rubber band, and beneath them bulged two cardboard folders. He pulled out the thicker folder and adjusted the lamp shade so that light spilled onto the bed.
Opening the folder, he glanced at the first newspaper clipping.…
torso found…
He set it aside, extracted another.…
evidence of sexual mutilation…
He examined each yellowed clipping as though he’d never seen it before.…
police sources say they have no information regarding…
Searching for any detail he might have missed, he scanned the words, feeling the muscles of his face stiffen and grow numb—an old and familiar sensation. He fumbled for his notepad. On the first page, the name “Stella” had been underlined twice.
If anything happens to me, so long as they find this, somebody else could take up the search.
He found the notion oddly comforting. Leaning back against the wall, he paged through lists of names and dates, many crossed out or with check marks beside them. Some pages began with the names of towns in block letters at the top.
Rock Harbor, Wildcrest, Leed’s Point.
Many towns he could barely remember, the names blurring together in his mind.
It seemed he’d spent his life in this realm, perhaps the strangest and most unnatural-seeming terrain ever to exist. The countless white sand trails of the Pine Barrens had at last given way to “construction.” In just a few years, most of the old shanty towns had vanished, a whole way of life disappearing as residents packed up and headed south, some to settle in the Appalachians, others to join the migrant labor force. And the landscape of parking lots and strip malls verged always closer, merging one into the other, desperately drab, broken only by the dismally uniform “developments,” encroaching on both the sad, shabby resort towns and on the affluent private beaches, on the ghettoed horror of Asbury Park to the north and on the ghettoed horror of Atlantic City to the south. A bizarre world. Different time lines seemed to overlap in this landscape, blanketing one another. He’d seen it everywhere—roadside stands sold homegrown produce beneath buzzing neon.
At last, he turned to a fresh page and, gripping the pen, carefully printed EDGEHARBOR. He stared at it a long time, then began scribbling in an erratic combination of print and script.
Strange, even for this part of shore. Old. Turn-of-century buildings, but falling apart. Some sort ruined factory-type (?) structure near water. Cordoned off, near abandoned dock. Cannery? And tenement buildings middle of town, probably for workers. Empty now.
He paused and read over his words.
Marina other side of peninsula. Deserted pretty much. Looks like tried convert tourism. Too small for resort. No easy access from highway. Some cottages by sea. Small boardwalk but almost no beach. And the woods creep into the streets.
Snapping the notebook shut, he replaced all the wrinkled clippings, then tossed the folder aside and dug into the suitcase again. Articles in the thinner file had been drawn from much less reputable sources—supermarket tabloids, digest-size publications with titles like
Strange Facts
and
Psychic Phenomenon
—but even the underscored passages in these dog-eared pages he studied.
Teenager Stirs Up Poltergeist Panic. Maryland’s Bog Monster Unmasked.
Finally, these too he put aside, suppressing a yawn.
From the bottom of the suitcase, he scooped up sheets of paper torn from a legal pad and gave a cursory glance to the rough charts. Feeling around in his jacket, he drew out a road map and hunched forward, spreading it across the bed and trying to smooth down the bunching wrinkles. The paper rattled loudly in his trembling hands. The map depicted most of south central New Jersey and part of the shoreline. Circles and
X
’s in red ink pocked the pinelands region, clustering where the woods encroached on the shore.
Edgeharbor.
He studied the tapering wedge of the peninsula until his vision blurred.
Enough.
Laboriously, he refolded the map and tossed it on top of the papers.
Won’t find him on any map.
He stacked the folders, carefully replacing everything in the case before shoving it back under the bed.
Just rest my eyes.
Stagnant air lulled him.
Just a little.
The drowsy chill made him yearn to pull up the blankets, and he considered switching off the lamp, then threw one arm across his face and let a sudden flush of weariness take him.
I miss her so much.
Wind rattled the window with a sound like ice cracking on a frozen river.
A brick wall blocked the street lamp, sinking the alley in darkness. Like a garish phantom, black and gray and orange, one ear tufted with white, the brute of a cat flicked in and out of the light. It stalked along the fence toward a spot where a snarl of dead weeds sprouted like straw through the concrete. Suddenly, the beast froze into taut stillness, only the tip of the tail twitching.
A grimy knot of life scuttled across the alley.
The cat trembled then burst forward, ripping into the tiny creature, lifting it and hurling it against the wall.
The mouse lay motionless. Already its life sapped away in agony. The cat inched closer, crouching, even the whipping of the tail stilled.
In a gray streak, the tiny rodent darted for the pile of debris. It left a mottled trail.
Leaping, the cat landed on the other side of the trash pile and halted again, ears flattened in consternation. The prey had vanished. A cardboard container lay on its side, slightly open at one end. The cat lowered its head quickly, but nothing moved. One paw struck loudly. Inside the container, something skittered. Then the claws began 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.”
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 the light of the dashboard, he examined his hands.
So they’re shaking. So what?
The green flicker made them look like the hands of some alien creature.
Usually he drove to a diner a few miles along the highway, but tonight…
I need to watch the streets.
The wind yowled like a dying wolf. Earlier, he’d spotted a shabby luncheonette but knew it would be closed at this hour, and other establishments he’d seen—variety store, pharmacy—had apparently closed forever. But he recalled a convenience store where he’d bought some coffee and figured they would have sandwiches at least. As he eased the car out of the lot, his teeth began to chatter.
He headed away from the beach, the Volks shivering through the deserted streets.
Could’ve sworn it was just down the block here.
The oil light blinked red, a permanent feature, and the speedometer glimmered too faintly to make out. No hint of warmth rose from below the dash. By the time he spotted the glare of the convenience store, his head throbbed from the cold.
A pickup truck without wheels angled at one corner of the lot, an oil spot spreading beneath it. Stepping out of the car, he turned up his collar. A decal on the glass door read
PULL, SO
he tugged several times before pushing inside.
He blinked at the sheer brightness. “How you doin’?” He coughed. “Bad out there tonight.” The clerk never looked up from a tabloid on the counter, but something like a sneer flickered on his lips. “Do you make sandwiches?” The clerk jerked his head at a hand-lettered sign that read
DELI CLOSED.
“Oh.” The deli apparently consisted of half an unlit case of packaged luncheon meats.
I’ll find something.
He wandered the tight aisles, but items on the shelves wouldn’t stay in focus.
No, I can’t get sick now.
And his vision seemed to blur.
I’m just hungry. That’s why I feel weak.
Under the fluorescent lights, all the packaged foods gleamed in queasy, garish shades.
Maybe I should try to talk to this guy again.
Empty-handed, he returned to the front of the store and leaned against the counter.
You never know who might tell you something useful.
Flakes of skin curled in the folds of the clerk’s face. “Yeah?” The protuberant eyes moved constantly, at first conveying an impression of active mental processes, then merely of habitual agitation.
“So how are you tonight?”
No response.
“Uh…do you have pipe tobacco?”
The man made a rude noise and reached behind him without looking. The packet he tossed on the counter was clearly labeled with a price more than double what it should have been.
He paid, disgusted with himself. “Uh…thanks.” A few months ago he’d have spoken with this man, possibly managing to draw from him some fact about the background or circumstances of the town, something that could have helped in his search, but now the energy seemed to have dried within him. He could barely force himself to talk, couldn’t shake this marrow-deep fatigue or the dizziness and the feeling of…
A form darted at the edge of the lot: he glimpsed it through the glass wall.
Don’t look.
He jerked his head down, trying to track the movement peripherally.
Behind the pickup truck…somebody crouching?
He pocketed his change. “Thanks again.”
Leaving the store quickly, he moved along the strip of sidewalk, casually strolling away from his car.
So now he’s stalking me.
The wind thrust at his back.
So let him.
Frost stung his ears.
Let him catch me even.
He quickened his pace.
Might be the only way.
Darkness thickened with every step as he plunged into a side street.
I’m invisible here.
But the driveway he picked his way across seemed to be graveled with shell particles that shone like freshly fallen snow, and his every tread crunched loudly.
He halted. Approaching, a noise like no human footstep grew louder until a paper bag blew past, scratching and scooping loudly along the sidewalk.
Shaking, he laughed aloud.
Christ, man.
He scanned the block behind him.
You’re losing it.
The houses here seemed smaller, closer together than most others he’d seen.
What am I doing out here in this wind?
He hurried back toward his car, deciding to drive out to the highway after all.
Find a diner. Then get some rest.
It had been days—he couldn’t remember how many—since he’d slept more than fitfully.
Got to be able to think straight tomorrow.
Confusion now could be fatal, he knew.
But where the hell am I?
He rushed to the corner.
Christ.
Nothing looked right in either direction. How could he get lost so fast?
Leave it to me to get turned around in such a small town.
He huddled onward.
I could get frostbite or something, wandering around out here.
The wind numbed his face, and it seemed the streets altered before him, became a maze of corridors. From every direction came the roar of the surf.
Maybe I’ve finally snapped.
Steam rose from a sewer grating to swirl like fog.
Maybe this is the end of the line for me.
Mist streaked as a blaze of cold struck at his face, and he clamped his hands over his ears. A few doors away, a thick gleam bulged at a mottled window, flickering: no frills, just
BAR
with specks crawling in the neon. Salvation.
Wet heat enveloped him the instant he opened the door, and he stood blinking. The lights, though precariously dimmed, still revealed more people gathered inside than he’d so far seen in all of Edgeharbor, and they all stared back at him.
Each stride drummed against the boards. Her toes ached in the running shoes, and despite the temperature, her chest and stomach grew damp with perspiration.
Damn, this wind.
She adjusted the earmuffs under her hood.
I’ve got to get off the boardwalk while I still have skin left.
Catching hold of the rail, she spun onto the stairs and quickstepped down to a landing.
Some nights, it dies away down lower.
She leapt the rest of the way to the beach, landing lightly in a crouch, then plodded across dense, choppy sand to the harder soil by the water.
Hell, this is no good either.
The chill drove her back like a whip.
I can’t believe it got so terrible so fast. Just last week I could still make it all the way to the cannery.
Turning her back to the sea, she sprinted.
If I cut under the boards here…
She came to a dead halt and stared into the dark as the feelings of dread she had been fighting for weeks engulfed her. For an instant, it seemed she had become part of the night somehow, part of an inky cloud that swirled up from the sea to threaten the town and the scattered human beings left in it.
I’ve got to keep moving.
Fighting off morbid fancies was a skill she had worked hard at acquiring.
Or I’ll cramp up.
She stepped closer to the boardwalk, and the hand she held out vanished as though chopped off.