Cry for the Strangers Page 0,100

the kids going?” she asked.

“Let them sleep a few more minutes. I’ll take them in when I go and drop them at school.”

“What’s the rush this morning?”

“There isn’t any really. Except that Chip might show up and I don’t want to miss him.”

“I like him.”

“So do I,” Glen grinned. “I especially like the way he works. We’ll have the place open by the end of the week. And I’m going to give him that painting.”

“Painting? Which one?”

“The one of the old house where the Randalls live. He really likes it. It seems like the least I can do.”

They fell silent, but it wasn’t a comfortable silence.

“Something’s bothering you,” Glen said at last. Rebecca nodded.

“I keep having a feeling something’s happened, or is about to happen.”

Glen laughed. “Maybe you’d better go see Brad Randall along with Robby.”

“Robby?” Rebecca said blankly. “What about Robby?”

“Nothing, really,” Glen replied, trying to pass it off. “He just asked me if he could look Robby over. I think he wants to try to figure out what happened to him when we came up here. But if you ask me, he’s wasting his time.” Then his voice grew more serious. “What about you? This feeling you have?”

“Oh, it’s probably nothing,” Rebecca said, though her tone belied the statement. “Just nerves, I guess.” She paused a moment, then: “When was the last time Missy had a nightmare?”

Glen frowned, trying to remember. Then he saw what Rebecca was getting at. “Never, I guess. But that doesn’t prove anything.”

“Except that she said someone was outside last night and you found a footprint.”

“I found something that might have been a footprint,” Glen corrected her. “Let’s not make a mountain out of a molehill. One nightmare doesn’t mean anything.”

“But she thought she saw someone outside before, remember?”

“That happens to all kids. They have vivid imaginations. You know that as well as I do.”

Rebecca sighed. “I suppose so,” she said reluctantly. “But I still have this feeling.” Then she forced a smile. “I suppose I’ll get over it. Why don’t you get the kids out of bed?”

Glen dropped the children off at the tiny Clark’s Harbor school an hour later, then went on to the gallery. He knew something was wrong as soon as he opened the door.

The display cases, finished only the day before, had been smashed. All the glass was shattered, and the framing had been torn apart and scattered around the room. The shelves, securely anchored to the walls by Chip Connor only a few days before, had been ripped down.

The back room was even worse. The shelves on which Rebecca’s pottery had been stored were empty; the pottery itself was on the floor, heaped against one wall, every piece smashed beyond recognition.

And the paintings.

They were still in their frames, but they too had been destroyed, viciously slashed. Every canvas was in tatters, made even more grotesque by the undamaged frames.

Glen stared at the wreckage, first in disbelief, then in grief, and finally in rage. He felt the anger surge through him, felt a towering indignation take possession of him. He turned away from the wreckage, walked through the main gallery and out the front door. Without pausing at his car, he started walking into the village, staring straight ahead.

Fifteen minutes later he stalked into the police station.

Chip Connor looked up when he heard the door open. At the look on Glen’s face, his greeting died on his lips and he stood up.

“The gallery—” Glen began. Then he choked on his own words and stopped. He stood quivering in front of Chip, trying to control himself, trying to force himself neither to scream nor to cry. He breathed deeply, sucking air into his constricted lungs, then let it out in an immense sigh.

“Someone broke into the gallery last night,” he said at last. “They wrecked it.”

“Come on.” Chip grabbed his hat and started out of the office.

“Where are you going?” Glen demanded.

“I want to see it,” Chip said. There was an icy quality in his voice that Glen had never heard before.

“Not yet,” Glen said. “Let me sit down a minute.” He felt suddenly weak, and let himself sink into a chair. “Do you have any coffee around here? Or maybe even a drink?”

The coldness immediately left Chip’s manner. He closed the office door, poured Glen some coffee from the huge percolator that was always ready, and sat down at the desk again.

“Sorry,” he said. “I guess that wasn’t very professional of me. What happened?”

“I don’t know. I walked in