John Saul - Cry for the Strangers

In Clark’s Harbor the natives stuck together.

The leaden sides over the Olympic Peninsula were dropping a soft mist on the small graveyard that overlooked Clark’s Harbor, but there were no umbrellas raised above the heads of the tiny group of people who watched as Rebecca Palmer was laid to rest.

Lucas Pembroke closed his bible and began reciting the prayers for Rebecca’s soul from memory, his eyes closed not only in reverence, but so that no one would see the sorrow he was feeling for Rebecca.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust …”

As the words droned automatically from his lips the minister wondered how much longer he would continue to come to Clark’s Harbor, how much longer he would be able to tolerate the coldness that emanated from the village, how much longer, and how many more deaths, it would take before he turned his back on the little settlement nestled by the harbor.

Glen Palmer, holding Missy and Robby close, stood bare-headed in the rain, with Brad and Elaine Randall flanking him. They stood at the end of the open grave, and as the coffin was slowly lowered into the pit Missy began sobbing quietly. Elaine immediately knelt beside the child and gathered her into her arms. Robby, his face frozen in stoic acceptance, watched impassively, but as the coffin disappeared from his view a tear welled in his eye, overflowed, and ran unnoticed down his cheek.

A few yards away, his hands fingering his gloves nervously, Chip Connor stood with his grandfather, Mac Riley. Every few seconds Chip glanced at Glen, nodding slightly, as if to encourage his friend. The gesture went unheeded. Glen’s eyes remained fastened on his wife’s casket, his features a study in confusion and anguish.

At the fringe of the group, not really a part of it but observing everything, Merle Glind and the village librarian stood clucking together under the protection of a newspaper, their inquisitive eyes darting from face to face, filing away the reactions of everyone there for future discussion and reference.

As the Reverend Pembroke finished his prayers and picked up a clod of earth to sprinkle over the casket, he noticed a flash of movement in the trees beyond the graveyard. But when he looked more carefully, hoping to see who — or what — was there, there was nothing. Pembroke bit his lip, crushed the lump of earth, and dropped it into the grave.

It was like pulling a trigger. Missy Palmer, her quiet tears suddenly bursting forth into loud sobs, clung to Elaine Randall; and Robby, his hand tightening in his father’s, suddenly looked up.

“I–I—” he began, but his words were choked off as he began to tremble and sob. Glen quickly sank to the ground beside him and held him.

“It’s all right, son,” he whispered. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

Then he scooped up a handful of damp earth, put it in Robby’s hand, and led him to the edge of the grave. Together, father and son back farewell to Rebecca.

“I’m so sorry, Glen,” Chip said softly when it was over. “If there’s anything I can do — anything at all—”

“Find out who did it,” Glen pleaded. “Just find out who killed her.”

Chip glanced quickly at Brad, who just as quickly shook his head slightly. Neither of them had yet told Glen of Brad’s suspicion, and this was not the time to do it.

“We’re working on it,” Chip assured him.

“Thanks for coming,” Glen said then. “I can’t really say I expected you to be here. Not after what Whalen put me through yesterday.”

“What Harney thinks is up to Harney,” Chip replied. “I asked you what happened Sunday night and you told me. I haven’t had any reason to change my mind.”

There was a sudden silence and Elaine picked Missy up, then tried to smile cheerfully. “Why don’t we all go out to our place,” she suggested. “I’m not sure what we have but I’ll scrape up something.”

Mac Riley, his ancient sensibilities serving him well, took up the suggestion immediately.

“You figure out how to make that old stove go yet?”

“I’m working on it but it still gets to me.”

“Nothing to it,” Riley quavered. He began leading Elaine away from the graveside, sure that the others would follow. “I been using one of those things all my life, and the trick’s in the wood. You got to have small pieces, and lots of different kinds. Some of ’em burn hotter than others. Once you know what’s going to burn how, it’s a lead-pipe cinch.”

Moments later they had reached the cars. The cortege drove slowly away from the graveyard, leaving Rebecca Palmer at peace under the protection of the earth. Glen Palmer glanced back once and for a split second almost envied Rebecca. For her, the horror was truly over.

He wondered if it would ever be over for him.

The gathering at the Randalls’ was a quiet one. Chip had begged off almost immediately, pleading business in town. While Elaine wrestled with the stove, encouraged only a little by Mac Riley’s advice, Glen and Brad stood nervously in the kitchen, trying to explain to the old man what they thought might be happening.

Riley listened patiently as they told him about the strange effect the beach and the storms had on Robby, and how they had come to the conclusion that Robby was not the only one to be affected by the storms. When they finished Riley scratched his head thoughtfully and turned the whole matter over in his mind.

“Well, I just don’t know,” he said at last. “Sounds to me like craziness, but then this beach has always been full of craziness. Maybe that’s what all the old legends were about.” Then he shook his head. “Afraid I can’t buy it though. I’m too old for these newfangled ideas. If you ask me it’s the sea. The sea and the past. They always catch up with you in the end. No way to get around it.”

“You think the sea is breaking people’s necks?” Brad asked incredulously. Riley peered at him sadly.

“Could be,” he said. “Or it could be the Indians. Some say they’re still here, out on the beach.”

“If they were we’d have seen them,” Glen objected.

“Maybe you would, maybe you wouldn’t.” Riley’s ancient voice crackled. “Only a few people can see the spirits, and even them that can, can’t always.”

Brad decided to play along with the old man. “Missy seems to think she sees things on the beach.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me a bit,” Riley replied calmly. “Children have better eyes for things like that.”

“And better ears for old men’s stories?”

“Think what you like. Someday you’ll know the truth.” He glanced over the window. “Rain’s starting up again. Big storm coming,” he observed.

Involuntarily, the Randalls and Glen Palmer shuddered.

Chip Connor spent the afternoon with Harney Whalen. It was a difficult time for both of them: Chip tried to pretend that all was as it had always been between them, but Whalen was not fooled. Finally, in midafternoon, he accused Chip of staring at him and demanded to know what was wrong.

“Nothing,” Chip assured him. “Nothing at all. I’m just a little worried about you.”

“About me? I should think you’d be worried about your pal Glen Palmer. He’s the one who’s gotten himself in a peck of trouble.”

Chip ignored the gibe, wanting to steer the conversation as far from Glen Palmer as possible. “I was just wondering how you’re feeling,” he said solicitously. “You look a little off color.”

“I’m fine,” Whalen growled. “Nothing wrong with me that won’t be cured by a little peace and quiet around here.” There was a pause, then Whalen went on. “Tell you what — why don’t you take off for a couple of hours, then come back around dinnertime, and spell me for a while.”