Cry for the Strangers Read Online Free PDF

word nor a gesture of comfort. When they were gone and only Harney Whalen and the owner of the launch remained, Miriam finally stepped forward and peered down at her husband. She froze for a moment, then wailed his name and threw herself into Harney Whalen’s arms. He held her for a moment, then spoke quietly to the man who had brought Pete Shelling home. Finally he led MiriamShelling from the wharf, helped her back into the police car, and drove her away.
    “My God,” Elaine breathed softly. “How awful.”
    Brad nodded, his eyes still fixed on the wharf. Elaine grasped his arm.
    “Let’s get out of here,” she said. “Please?”
    Brad seemed not to hear her. “Did you notice?” he asked. “It was almost as if nothing had happened. They didn’t speak to her, they didn’t speak to each other, they didn’t ask any questions, they didn’t even seem surprised. It was almost as if they were expecting it.”
    “What?” Elaine asked blankly.
    “The fishermen. They didn’t react to that man’s death at all. It was almost as if they were expecting it, or it didn’t have anything to do with them—or something. But what happened to him could happen to any of them.”
    Elaine looked carefully at her husband. She knew what was coming. She tried to head it off.
    “Let’s leave, Brad,” she said. “Please? I don’t like Clark’s Harbor.” But it was too late, and she knew it.
    “It’s fascinating,” Brad went on. “Those men didn’t react like normal people at all. Not at all.” He took Elaine’s hand and squeezed it.
    “Come on,” he said, “let’s find that inn.”
    “We’re staying?” Elaine asked.
    “Of course.” Brad grinned. “What else?”
    Elaine felt a twist of fear deep in her stomach and forced it away, telling herself it was unreasonable. But deep inside, the fear remained, unreasonable or not.
    Far out on the horizon, a storm was gathering.

3
    The Harbor Inn, its Victorian façade painted a fresh white with sky-blue trim, perched almost defiantly in the center of a neatly tended lawn. It gazed suspiciously out over the water, as if it expected the sea to snatch it away at any second. From a room on the second floor Elaine Randall stared at the sea in unconscious imitation of the inn. She listened to the wind whistle under the eaves of the old building and marveled that the fishing boats, secured against the growing storm, rode so easily in the choppy water of the bay. As rain began to splash against the window she turned to her husband.
    “I suppose it will do for one night,” she said doubtfully, glancing around the room. Brad grinned at her.
    “You love it and you know you love it,” he chuckled. “If it hadn’t been for that drowning, you’d be happy as a clam.”
    Elaine sat down heavily in the slipcovered wing chair that filled one corner of the small room and tried to analyze her feelings. She knew Brad was right: if they hadn’t been on the wharf when that man’s body had been brought in, she would now be raving about the room, raving about the town, and excitedly planningto spend a year here. But the fisherman’s death had drained her enthusiasm, and now she looked bleakly at the antique furnishings of the equally antique inn and found herself unable to muster any positive thoughts at all.
    “It’s run-down,” she said sourly.
    “It isn’t at all,” Brad countered. “All things considered, it’s remarkably well kept up.”
    “If you like this sort of thing.”
    “Which you do,” Brad said emphatically. “Look at that washstand. Not a chip in the marble anywhere, and if that oak isn’t hand rubbed, I’ll eat it for dinner.”
    Elaine examined the washstand closely and had to admit that Brad was right—it was a genuine antique and it was flawless. Forcing her negative feelings aside, she made herself look at the room once again. She had to concede that it was charming. There was no trace of standard hotel furnishings, nothing to indicate it was