The Shore by Robert Dunbar Read Free Book Online

the outer door.
    Lord. As the wind struck, he swayed on the doorstep. Feel sort of wobbly all of a sudden. He looked around. Only a blue van shared the small lot with his Volkswagen. Better eat something. An empty can rattled across the ground.
    The boy could be anywhere by now. The muted rush of surf seemed to drift in the wind, to drone from the sky, to reverberate from the wall behind him. Around any corner. He unlocked the car and checked the backseat before getting in. The engine stuttered to life, but the headlights barely penetrated the night. The heater would kick in once he got started, he told himself, letting the motor idle. By the light of the dashboard, he examined his hands. So they’re shaking. So what? The green flicker made them look like the hands of some alien creature.
    Usually he drove to a diner a few miles along the highway, but tonight…
    I need to watch the streets. The wind yowled like a dying wolf. Earlier, he’d spotted a shabby luncheonette but knew it would be closed at this hour, and other establishments he’d seen—variety store, pharmacy—had apparently closed forever. But he recalled a convenience store where he’d bought some coffee and figured they would have sandwiches at least. As he eased the car out of the lot, his teeth began to chatter.
    He headed away from the beach, the Volks shivering through the deserted streets. Could’ve sworn it was just down the block here. The oil light blinked red, a permanent feature, and the speedometer glimmered too faintly to make out. No hint of warmth rose from below the dash. By the time he spotted the glare of the convenience store, his head throbbed from the cold.
    A pickup truck without wheels angled at one corner of the lot, an oil spot spreading beneath it. Stepping out of the car, he turned up his collar. A decal on the glass door read PULL, SO he tugged several times before pushing inside.
    He blinked at the sheer brightness. “How you doin’?” He coughed. “Bad out there tonight.” The clerk never looked up from a tabloid on the counter, but something like a sneer flickered on his lips. “Do you make sandwiches?” The clerk jerked his head at a hand-lettered sign that read DELI CLOSED. “Oh.” The deli apparently consisted of half an unlit case of packaged luncheon meats.
    I’ll find something. He wandered the tight aisles, but items on the shelves wouldn’t stay in focus. No, I can’t get sick now. And his vision seemed to blur. I’m just hungry. That’s why I feel weak. Under the fluorescent lights, all the packaged foods gleamed in queasy, garish shades. Maybe I should try to talk to this guy again. Empty-handed, he returned to the front of the store and leaned against the counter. You never know who might tell you something useful.
    Flakes of skin curled in the folds of the clerk’s face. “Yeah?” The protuberant eyes moved constantly, at first conveying an impression of active mental processes, then merely of habitual agitation.
    “So how are you tonight?”
    No response.
    “Uh…do you have pipe tobacco?”
    The man made a rude noise and reached behind him without looking. The packet he tossed on the counter was clearly labeled with a price more than double what it should have been.
    He paid, disgusted with himself. “Uh…thanks.” A few months ago he’d have spoken with this man, possibly managing to draw from him some fact about the background or circumstances of the town, something that could have helped in his search, but now the energy seemed to have dried within him. He could barely force himself to talk, couldn’t shake this marrow-deep fatigue or the dizziness and the feeling of…
    A form darted at the edge of the lot: he glimpsed it through the glass wall. Don’t look. He jerked his head down, trying to track the movement peripherally. Behind the pickup truck…somebody crouching? He pocketed his change. “Thanks again.”
    Leaving the store quickly, he moved along the strip of sidewalk,