The Shore Read Online Free PDF Page B

which the claw-footed tub had been snared. So this is my life? He looked behind the shower curtain, then returned to the bedroom and checked the tight closet. It felt as though every cell in his body craved rest. Should do some work. He swayed for a moment before falling back into the chair as though shoved. He picked at knotted laces with dead fingers, then kicked off a shoe and watched it roll toward the bed. Pulling himself up with a grunt, he heaved himself onto the mattress just as the wall sconce buzzed and went out. Swell.
    The bedside lamp had been manufactured to resemble something roughly crafted from a jug. He switched it on, even that slight movement causing the bedsprings to protest like angry crickets. The lamplight made a perfect circle on the ceiling where the dust-thickened remnant of a cobweb trailed. Have to stay awake. Again he scrutinized the room. Both the wooden nightstand and the dresser had been painted white too many summers ago, and even in this light, wide swathes of glossy red still showed through. He examined the only picture, a seascape with gulls that sailed stiffly over greenish waters. It squarely missed obscuring a stain on the wall. The lumpish waves and the wings of the birds achieved crude symmetry, and despite the mediocrity of execution, something threatening seemed to lurk in the swirling tide. Letting my imagination work overtime. With a shiver, he turned away. Don’t need to invent monsters.
    He still felt dizzy. Can’t come down with something now. He covered his face with his hands and felt heat throb beneath his eyelids. Damn. Only gradually did something like warmth seep back into his arms and legs. Can’t get sick. Not now. A cough shuddered though him. But it never gets warm in here. The day he’d arrived with his suitcases, D’Amato, the proprietor, had bled air from the radiator for over an hour, running up and down the stairs and shouting to his wife, who’d clanged on a pipe somewhere below. The siphoned-off end product had been a pint of evil-looking fluid that smelled like liquid dust. Fetid and catlike, the smell lingered still. Never warm. Tonight, his body ached for a hot shower, but he didn’t feel up to enduring the pounding whistle of the pipes. Maybe I’ll take a bath later. Generally, that involved slightly less racket.
    He closed his eyes. Don’t. He leaned his head back against the wall. Don’t sleep now. Pulling his legs onto the bed, he stretched. Get the work out.
    After a moment, he felt under the bed. Go on. Straightening with a grunt, he shifted his legs and set the case on the bed before him. Get on with it. Solemnly, he tapped on the lid, then fished a key out of his wallet.
    In a clear plastic bag, the boy’s backpack nearly filled the suitcase, but other things had been crammed in around it. Next to his camera case lay a stack of Polaroids, bound with a rubber band, and beneath them bulged two cardboard folders. He pulled out the thicker folder and adjusted the lamp shade so that light spilled onto the bed.
    Opening the folder, he glanced at the first newspaper clipping.… torso found… He set it aside, extracted another.… evidence of sexual mutilation… He examined each yellowed clipping as though he’d never seen it before.… police sources say they have no information regarding… Searching for any detail he might have missed, he scanned the words, feeling the muscles of his face stiffen and grow numb—an old and familiar sensation. He fumbled for his notepad. On the first page, the name “Stella” had been underlined twice.
    If anything happens to me, so long as they find this, somebody else could take up the search. He found the notion oddly comforting. Leaning back against the wall, he paged through lists of names and dates, many crossed out or with check marks beside them. Some pages began with the names of towns in block letters at the top. Rock Harbor, Wildcrest, Leed’s Point. Many towns he could barely remember, the