Cry for the Strangers Page 0,121
stacks of books as he searched for an explanation for the madness around him. He looked up distractedly when he heard Elaine come into the room, then put his book aside when he realized who was with her.
“What brings you out here? If you’re looking for Glen I think he’s up at his place.”
“I need to talk to you.” Chip sank into one of the chairs around the table and Elaine quickly left the room, sensing that whatever Chip had to say, he wanted to say it only to Brad. When she was gone Brad gave Chip a searching look.
“What is it? Has something else happened?”
“I don’t know,” Chip said unhappily. “In fact, I’m not even sure I should be here. But I had to talk to someone and you were the only person I could think of.”
“What is it?” Brad urged him again. “Is it about Glen?”
“Only indirectly,” Chip replied. “I guess mostly it’s Harn—Harney Whalen.”
“What about him?”
“I’m not sure,” Chip said, squirming in the chair. Then, almost as if to change the subject, he said, “Did Glen tell you about what happened today?”
“No. He came in a couple of hours ago, but went right out again. He said he had some thinking to do.”
“I’ll bet he did,” Chip said. “I wish I knew what he was thinking.”
“Well, you might go ask him,” Brad suggested dryly. “You two seem to get along pretty well.”
“Maybe I will after a while,” Chip agreed. A silence fell over the two men.
“You said you wanted to talk about Whalen,” Brad said at last.
Chip nodded glumly. “I think something’s gone wrong with him.”
“How do you mean, wrong? You mean physically?”
“I wish it were that simple,” Chip hedged.
Brad’s fingers drummed on the table and he decided to wait Chip out, let him get to the point any way he wanted to. He wasn’t surprised when Chip suddenly stood up and started pacing the room.
“Something’s been nagging at me for quite a while now,” he said finally. “Harn’s attitude, I guess you might say.”
“You mean the way he feels about outsiders?”
“That’s it,” Chip agreed. “But up until today I’ve always been able to convince myself that it wasn’t anything particularly serious—that it was sort of a quirk in his personality.”
“But something happened today that changed your mind?”
“Glen Palmer. He came in to tell Harn what happened last night.”
“And—?”
“And Harn didn’t give him a chance. Instead he told Glen what happened.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“It was crazy,” Chip said. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since and the only word I come up with is crazy. Harn didn’t ask Glen any questions at all. Instead he accused Glen of killing Rebecca himself.”
“Just like that?” Brad asked.
“Close enough so that it doesn’t make any difference what the exact words were. He must’ve spent most of the night last night dreaming up a story about how Glen found Rebecca and Jeff Horton making love and killed Jeff, then Rebecca. Apparently you’re out of it,” he added, smiling humorlessly. Brad ignored the comment.
“What did Glen have to say?”
“What could he say? He said it was ridiculous but Harn wasn’t even interested in hearing what happened last night. He just kept after Glen, repeating his idea over and over, as if he were trying to convince Glen. I think he wanted Glen to confess.”
“I hope he didn’t.”
“Of course not,” Chip said. “And even if he had it wouldn’t have made any difference. The way Harney was acting, any court I’ve ever heard of would disqualify the whole thing.”
“But why? Why would he want to put the whole thing on Glen?”
“I don’t think it has anything to do with Glen personally,” Chip said. “For a while I thought it did, but I talked to my grandfather a few days ago, and he told me some things that made me wonder.”
“What sort of things?”
“Stories. Stories about things that happened around here a long time ago. Long before I was even born. For instance, he told me why Harn hates strangers so much.”
“You want to tell me?”
“It’s a pretty ugly story.” He paused a moment, then swallowed. When he spoke again, his voice was strained.
“Harney watched his grandparents being murdered when he was a little boy.”
Brad’s eyes widened. “Say that again, please?”
“When Harn was a little boy—maybe seven, eight years old—his grandparents were murdered on the beach. Harney watched it happen.”
“Holy Christ,” Brad muttered. “Who did it?”
“Nothing was ever proven but everyone seemed to think it was a group of people who were