Cry for the Strangers Page 0,124

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.”

Chip couldn’t think of a good reason not to, so he left the police station—reluctantly—and went looking for Doc Phelps. He found him at the inn, sitting on the stool Chip usually occupied, a half-empty beer in front of him. He started to get up when Chip came in, but Chip waved him back onto the stool.

“Order one for me and I’ll fill yours up,” he said cheerfully, sliding onto the stool next to Phelps.

“What about me?” Merle Glind piped eagerly from the stool on the other side of Phelps.

“You could buy your own just once,” Chip teased. “But what the hell. Might as well be a big spender.”

The beers were drawn and set up in front of them when Phelps asked about Harney Whalen.

“Whalen?” Chip said carefully. “What about him?”

“Well, I ordered him to come in for some tests, but he hasn’t showed up. I guess he must be feeling better.”

“What kind of tests?” Chip asked, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

“Oh, just some things I’d like checked out,” the doctor replied cautiously. “He hasn’t been feeling too well, you know.”

“Told me it’s just indigestion.”

“Indigestion?” Dr. Phelps gave the word a sarcastic twist that riveted Chip’s attention. “Damnedest kind of indigestion I ever heard of. Most people remember indigestion.”

Chip felt his heartbeat skip and a knot of anticipation form in his stomach.

“You mean he’s having memory problems? Like blackouts?”

“That’s what he told me,” Phelps said. “Wanted me to keep it to myself, and I suppose I ought to. But if he isn’t going to obey doctor’s orders, seems to me something ought to be done.”

Chip didn’t hear what Phelps had just said—his mind was racing.

“Doc, tell me about the blackouts. It might be important. Very important.”

Phelps frowned at the young man and tugged at his lower lip. He didn’t like these kids trying to push him around.

“Well, I don’t know,” he