John Saul - Cry for the Strangers

Once more the faint sounds echoed through the night: “Missy … Robby!”

The children crouched uncertainly in the sand, straining to hear better, but it was useless. The wind increased, howling in from the ocean, carrying the acrid smell of salt water with it.

They began climbing over the pile of driftwood.

Harney Whalen also heard the voices calling. But stronger in his mind was his grandmother’s voice, whispering to him, urging him on, reassuring him.

We are with you. We will help you. You are a child of the storm. You belong to us .

He stood up, facing the storm, and exultation swept through him. His grandmother cried out to him. Vengeance! Vengeance!

The lightning flashed.

The instant of electric brightness seemed to last an eternity, and the three figures froze, staring at each other across the driftwood.

And Missy knew.

“It’s him,” she screamed. “He’s here, Robby. He’s going to kill us.”

Harney Whalen didn’t hear the words Missy cried out — only the sound. He peered malevolently at the two figures, seeing not two small and frightened children, but two faceless figures from the past, two unidentifiable forms, laughing at him, laughing at what they had done to his grandparents.

He had to destroy them.

He started over the driftwood.

The two children, suddenly coming to life, began running up the beach.

The lightning faded and the roll of thunder began.

“I see them,” Brad cried as the night closed around him once more. “North. They’re north of us, right near the woods.”

On either side of him, the pinpoints of light that were Chip and Glen suddenly began bobbing in the darkness as all three of them broke into a run. Then they began hearing Missy’s frightened cries, leading them through the night.

The children tore through the night, hearing the pounding of feet behind them. Then Robby stumbled and fell, and Missy tumbled on top of him.

Harney Whalen, his breath coming in fitful gasps, caught up with them, towering over them, glowering down upon them like a furious giant.

Missy saw him first and her eyes widened in terror as she screamed out into the night. Then she felt a hand clamp over her mouth and her scream was cut off.

Robby scrambled free from the tangle of limbs, but his mind was confused and nothing was making any sense to him. He moved aside, staring helplessly at his struggling sister, then began to scream.

“My God, he’s got them,” Glen shouted as he heard first Missy’s choked-off scream of terror, then Robby’s mindless howling in the night. The three men were running together now, shining their lights into the darkness, praying that they would get to the children before it was too late.

And then they found them. Chip Connor hurled himself onto Harney Whalen’s back, grabbing the chief by the neck. Whalen let go of Missy and began struggling with Chip, desperately fighting off his unseen assailant.

Glen grabbed Missy and held the sobbing child close to him, stroking her head, patting her, trying to calm her. Then Robby too flung himself onto Glen, and the three of them held each other, unmindful of what was happening around them.

Brad stood helplessly, wanting to come to Chip’s aid but unsure if it would do any good. Then, before he could make up his mind, Whalen broke free of Chip’s grasp and ran.

Chip started to follow him, but Whalen disappeared into the darkness.

“Which way did he go?” Chip cried. “I can’t find him.”

“Toward the water,” Brad called.

They began running, Brad shining his light ahead, the wind clutching at them.

And then they saw him.

Harney Whalen was in the surf, wading out to sea.

Chip started in after him, but Brad stopped, holding his light steadily on the retreating figure of the police chief.

“Let him go,” Brad called.

Chip stopped, instinctively obeying the command.

As the two men watched, an immense wave swept in from the sea, breaking over Harney Whalen’s head.

He struggled against the force of the water for a moment, his arms waving ineffectually in the air.

Then he was gone, taken by the sea.

Chip walked slowly back to where Brad stood, still playing the light over the spot where Harney Whalen had vanished.

“Why did you stop me?” Chip asked softly.

“It’s better this way,” Brad answered. “This way we know it ends.”

Then they turned away from the sea and started back toward Glen Palmer.

Behind them the tide turned and began to ebb.

An hour later the storm broke.

Sod Beach was quiet.

“It’s over,” Chip Connor said as he walked into the Randalls’ living room.

Brad and Maine looked at him expectantly, but Glen Palmer didn’t seem to care.

Two weeks had passed, two weeks during which the strange story of Harney Whalen had passed through Clark’s Harbor in whispers, two weeks during which the people of the village had come to accept what had happened.

Today it had been finished. The coroner’s inquest had been held. It had been a strange inquest.

There were few facts to be discussed. Much time had been spent on speculation, on trying to decide exactly what had happened to the police chief.

In the end it had been decided that Harney Whalen had died a suicide. Nothing was said about the other deaths in Clark’s Harbor, the deaths that dotted its history like a pox. But outside the inquest the people talked, and wondered, and clucked their tongues in sympathy.

Sympathy for those who had died — and for Whalen, who apparently had killed them.

“They want me to take over Harney’s job,” Chip said when he had finished telling them the results of the inquest.

“Are you going to?” Brad asked.

“I don’t know,” Chip said uneasily. “It makes sense, I suppose, but I don’t know if I want the job.”

“You’d be good at it,” Glen Palmer offered.

“That’s not what worries me,” Chip replied. “It’s the memories. Too many memories. I’d probably do too many things differently from Harn.”

“Would that be so bad?” Elaine asked.

Chip shook his head. “That’s what I don’t know. Harn wasn’t all bad. For a long time he ran things very well. If it all hadn’t gone wrong for him …” He let the thought go, then turned to Brad. “What happened?” he asked. “Isn’t there any explanation?”

“A theory,” Brad said. “But I’ll never be able to prove it. There was a connection between Bobby and Harney Whalen.”

“I don’t understand—” Chip began, but Brad stopped him.

“I’m not sure I do either. It has to do with bio-rhythms, and bio-rhythms are elusive things. We know they affect us, but we don’t know why. For that matter, we aren’t even sure what they are. Everyone has a set pattern of rhythms that begins the day he’s born, and the pattern only repeats itself every fifty-eight years and sixty-seven days. As it happens, that’s exactly how much older Whalen was than Robby. Both of them, apparently, had a bio-rhythmic pattern that’s affected by the storms out here. For Robby the effect is good. For Whalen — well, coupled with the trauma he had when he was a boy, the effect was disastrous.”

Chip stared at the psychiatrist. “How come you didn’t think of that before?” he demanded. “If you knew something like that could happen, Harn could have been—”

Again Brad cut him off. “I’m sorry, Chip,” he said gently. “There’s nothing that could have been done. In fact, I don’t even know if my theory is right. All it is is a theory, but it fits the facts. And with bio-rhythms that’s most of the story. You can’t predict what’s going to happen, but they often explain what did happen. You might call them a good tool for hindsight,” he added wryly.