Charles L. Grant (ed), page 10
“Too late?”
“Cathy says the Bakers are new management here. There was some sort of unpleasantness ten years ago and the place closed down for a while, then it reopened as a sort of tattered resort and just kept going downhill. The Bakers bought the place a couple of years ago, renovated—this is their first season.”
“What sort of unpleasantness?” He had a pleasant voice.
“A string of murders or something, some psychopath killed a lot of single women and dumped them in the marshes. I don’t think they ever caught him.” She frowned. “Gory stuff. Cathy was all ready to go into detail, but I didn’t want to hear about it.”
“I don’t blame you. Still, ten-year-old murders are hardly news, although that dreadful music is. You could leave.”
“Not really. They don’t refund deposits and I don’t have much mad money, on a secretary’s salary. And I haven’t seen the marshes yet.” She paused. “And you?”
He gestured widely, a swing more felt than seen in the darkness, but didn’t try to touch her. “A mistake too, but a dumber one. I just moved to the city six months ago, and 1 knew San Francisco was a pretty place, but not how lonely it is. I’m not much of a joiner, the other folk at the office are married or attached, I don’t feel comfortable in singles’ bars, and I’m not gay. Out here, that seems to be a pretty hopeless combination. So 1 guess I thought that, maybe being around other singles for a couple of weeks, I’d find some, well, companionship. Someone to talk to. I didn’t know I was signing up for compulsory hot tubs and mandatory disco.”
She laughed, relaxing. “Yes, I know. But with a little planning you can probably avoid the peacock-feather stuff.”
Light and voices spilled from the bar and over the umbrella-sheltered tables on the patio. Janet bit her lip again, unwilling to go inside.
“Tell you what,” Al said quickly. “I’ll get us something and we can sit out here.”
He’s not a maniac and I’m supposed to relax, she reminded herself firmly. “Fine. A gin and tonic.”
“Got it.”
She slid into a chair as he hurried away. The late—spring air was cool and smelled of the sea; beyond the faint thumps from the ballroom she heard the cry of a marsh owl. The patio lights were off; overhead a few stars glimmered from the dark branches of trees. Al pushed open the door with his shoulder and came across to her, holding a drink in each hand.
“Met up with General Alice.” She smiled and took her drink. “Had to pretend I had a hot date in the bushes. My God, do you think that woman owns the local contraceptive concession?”
“No. She’s probably just got a rather horizontal concept of happiness.”
Al laughed. He’d blend right in with the Montgomery Street troops, she thought. Light hair fashionably long, neatly dressed, clean shaven. But his smile was easy and his manner relaxed, and he did appear to have a brain. She decided that she approved of Cathy’s taste in men and that made it all perfectly safe; if he was Cathy’s, he was as unavailable as Janet herself. He put his glass down.
“1 may live after all,” he announced. “You’re a secretary? What kind?”
“Glorified. 1 manage a law office.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“It’s not, but it is secure. I spend most of my time stone bored, but that’s the breaks. You?”
“Oh, brokerage firm. I get up early and work late, and the firm keeps me traveling around. Atlanta, Houston, Seattle, and now San Francisco. Don’t you find it lonely? The city, I mean?”
“No.” She wasn’t going to elaborate, but saw his raised eyebrows and smiled. “I’m the oldest of seven children,” she said, “and I raised them all, more’s the pity. It’s given me a long-lasting respect for peace, quiet, and solitude.”
“And a grave disrespect for disco.”
“That it has.” She finished her drink.
“Another?”
“No, thanks. I want to be on the beach by dawn.”
“May I walk you to your cabin, then?” He put his hand up quickly, palm out. “I won’t bite. I promise. It took me years to work up enough courage to shake hands on the first date.”
She shrugged and let him walk beside her, listening to him talk about California weather, his first earthquake, the taste of real sourdough french bread. And, standing in the puddle of yellow light before her cabin, he shook her hand, thanked her, and turned to leave. She bit her lip.
“Al.” He turned in place. “Would you—are you interested in birds at all? You could come with me tomorrow, if you like.”
He grinned. “I’d love to. You can watch birds and 1 can protect you from psychopaths.”
She smiled back. “It’ll be early—”
“For a stockbroker on the West Coast, nothing’s too early. Dawn? Crack of?”
“Five-thirty, in the kitchens? Someone can fix us breakfast.”
“I don’t eat breakfast,” he said. “I know, it’s a reprehensible habit and I’ll die of it at an early age. Pick you up at the kitchen instead, at about six?”
“Six it is.”
“Great.” He waved and went away.
She stepped inside, locked the door, and smiled. Easy to listen to, easy to talk to—and Cathy was interested in him, she remembered. “A real hunk,” Cathy had said. “Good moves, good mouth; I can hardly wait to get my hands on him.” Janet found that slightly predacious, but perhaps the girls did have some solid interest in Al. And after all, Janet hadn’t come to Silver Dunes for romance. Messy, uncomfortable stuff, romance; miserable alone and dangerous if reciprocated. She’d talk to Cathy about it; if Cathy objected to a bird-watching morning, Janet could just as easily let it slide. She changed into nightgown and robe and sat before the fireplace with her book, listening for Cathy’s footsteps in the cabin next door.
Janet woke at midnight, cramped and chilly. Cathy’s cabin was silent and dark. Janet closed the curtains again and stumbled off to bed.
“Over there,” she whispered, pointing into the white morning. “Pelican.”
The grave brown bird looked like a pterodactyl. It hovered over the waves, dove, and emerged soon after, pouch empty and expression glum. Janet raised herself on her elbows. “Watch this.”
The bird peered suspiciously at the waves, raised its long-beaked head, and took off, wings pounding and legs paddling frantically on the water. Once airborne, it strove mightily for dignity again. They laughed, watching it. Janet lowered her binoculars. A high fog bleached away the day’s colors; the Pacific looked big and cold and grey, and Janet watched it with appreciation.
“You really love this, don’t you?” Al said.
“Yes.” She put the binoculars away. “1 grew up outside of Atwater. You’ve never heard of it; it’s a small town in the San Joaquin Valley.” She tugged at the sleeves of her jacket and smiled at him, comfortable and unwilling to wonder why. “Flat and boring and dull. By the time 1 left high school, Dad had a good job and my mother could stay home with the younger kids, so I lit out for the ocean.”
“San Francisco? College?”
“Both. Worked nights, studied days, got a master’s in history, and discovered there weren’t any jobs. And went to work as a secretary.”
“You could have gone into orthi—ornth—”
“Ornithology? No jobs there, either.” She brushed a strand of brown hair from her forehead. “Any more interrogatories, your honor?”
Al grinned. “Millions of them. I like to pick people’s minds.”
“Do you? It’s your turn now, Mr. Hamilton. Tell the court all about it.”
He groaned and twisted to sit beside her, staring as she had done out to sea.
“City boy, born and bred. New York. Grew up there, went to school there, got a job there, got married there, got divorced there, got out of there, and here I am.”
“Married?”
“At twenty-one. It was a mistake, but we kept at it for three years. No kids, thank God. You?”
She shook her head. “It never seemed appropriate. Peace and quiet and solitude.”
“You’ve never even lived with anyone?”
“Not that way, no.” He looked surprised. “Never wanted to. I don’t even have a roommate now, I just prefer living alone.”
“No wonder it’s impossible to find good women in the Bay Area. You’re all in hiding.”
“Not entirely. And the theory I hear most is that all the good men are either married or gay.”
“Janet,” he said gravely, “there seems to be a serious error in communication here.” He reached for her. She jumped up, grabbed her binocular case and field guide, and marched down the dune. He scrambled after her.
“Janet, wait. Please.” He took her arm and swung her around. She shook his hand away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—hell I did mean to, but I didn’t mean to jump you. Please?”
Her anger faded marginally. “I’m sorry too, Al. I don’t like being grabbed—I hate being grabbed.” She stuffed the field guide into her pocket. “I thought you were different.”
He spread his hands. “I am different. I like you. I like women who think. I like attractive women who think. I don’t generally grab—I guess I’m more desperate than I thought.”
“Lovely.” She started toward the trail head. “Desperation makes the heart grow fonder.”
“Please.” He fell into step beside her. “You’re awfully sensitive, aren’t you?”
“Nonsense. I’m realistic,” she said coldly. “I don’t believe in fairies or vampires or little green men or love at first sight or living happily ever after. You put one foot in front of the other and keep your eye out for potholes, and if you’re lucky, you come out the other end with relatively few wounds. And that’s the best you can hope for.”
Al was silent for a moment. “That’s not too damned much, is it?” he said finally.
“It’s sufficient.”
“Sufficient. And where does imagination fit into that? Or love?”
“They don’t.”
They made the rest of the walk in silence.
It wasn’t really Al, she told herself later as she lay in the bathtub, trying to conquer feelings of angry disappointment. Companionship, attractive women who think—it was a line, no more, and her fault for almost falling for it. A sparrow chittered from a bush outside and steam coated the window. Sweet words and promises, and what did it come down to, finally? Helen, back in high school, dead of a botched abortion. Bette, dropping out of college to put her husband through medical school, now divorced at thirty-two with three children, working temporary jobs to keep the family together. All the marriages that disintegrated and the relationships that disappeared, women losing careers to men or men to careers, and all too often losing both. Sitting on the stools at singles’ bars on a Friday or Saturday night, wondering how they’d pay the babysitter and trying not to look desperate. Janet watched them from the background and decided early on to travel fast and travel alone, keeping the world at arm’s length, safely away. It may not have been the life she dreamed of at seventeen, she thought as the bathwater drained away, but she had survived. Many had not. She pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a fresh shirt. Al Hamilton wanted to be friends—very well, they could be friends. Very distant friends. Ignoring the disappointed hollow in her chest, she tied a scarf around her wet hair, picked a book, and took it with her to lunch.
Neither Cathy nor Al was present. Janet propped her book against the breadbasket and began reading and eating, ignoring the other diners until Alice Baker slid into the seat across from her. Janet closed her book and raised her eyebrows.
“You’re Janet Murphy, aren’t you?” Alice touched her red hair with carefully manicured fingertips. “I really don’t get to know our guests as well as I should, but we do give it our best shot, absolutely.” She smiled uneasily and Janet glanced over her shoulder. Evan’s place at the front table was empty, the plates clean. “Are you enjoying Silver Dunes?” Alice said as though by rote.
“Very pleasant,” Janet lied diplomatically. “Perhaps, though, if you didn’t make some activities so— compulsory?”
“Well, I’ll certainly look into that.” Alice twisted the tablecloth around her fingers. “Have you seen Cathy Gordon today?”
“Cathy? No. Why?”
“You usually eat with her, don’t you?”
“I was on the beach this morning and missed breakfast. Is something wrong?”
“Oh no, not at all.” Alice smiled warmly. “I just noticed that she wasn’t around this morning. Lovely girl, isn’t she?” Alice pushed her chair away and stood. “Well, thanks so much,” she said, already looking around the room. “And we’ll consider your recommendations; I’m sure they’ll be so helpful.” Janet watched her walk away. No Cathy, no Al, no Evan Baker. Perhaps he’d misplaced his grin-wrinkles, she thought meanly, and was busy hunting for them. She went back to her book.
She strolled by the pool after lunch—and by the tennis courts—but Cathy wasn’t at either of them. Nor did she answer when Janet knocked on her door. She frowned, drumming her fingertips on her thigh. Cathy was such a child. Mid-twenties, pretty, gregarious, intelligent, self-involved. She’d probably gone to one of the other beaches, or into town. Wherever she was, she wouldn’t be alone. Cathy’s chatter of ancient murder had gotten to her, Janet thought angrily. There were no psychopaths at Silver Dunes, except whoever picked the music, and no reason to be worried. But instead of changing into her hiking boots and going to the marsh, she pulled on her bathing suit. Intuition and hunches were both just superstition, but Cathy’s absence bothered her, and the bother wouldn’t go away. One day away from the birds wouldn’t make that much difference. Besides, the pool lay between the main buildings and the cabins, so she’d spot Cathy as soon as the girl showed up. Partially reconciled, Janet spread her towel over a chaise lounge and covered her legs with tanning lotion. The fog rode high above the trees, but its white light was deceptive; one could still burn. Bikinied bodies of both genders lay attractively displayed around the pool. Janet sniffed and lifted her book.
A few minutes later Al Hamilton pulled up a chair and sat, smiling tentatively at her. To her vast annoyance, her chest tightened.
“No birds this afternoon?”
“No.” She put the book down, deliberately casual. “Have you seen Cathy around?”
He shook his head. “But from what I hear, she was dancing pretty close to Evan Baker last night. Maybe they—” He gestured vaguely. Janet nodded, feeling sorry for Alice. This probably happened all the time; it would be Evan’s fault for encouraging it. “I’ll bet they both show up for dinner,” Al said.
“Probably.” She looked at his sandals. “No tennis?”
He spread his hands. “Well, no. I’d rather join you, but … Hell, Janet, every time there’s something 1 really—am interested in, I screw it up.” He made a face. “I am sorry about this morning. I feel like an ass.”
She smiled. “Forget it, Al. Maybe I was a bit abrupt, too. Come on, get your suit and I’ll buy you a beer.”
He grinned, transforming his face. “Make it a Perrier and you’ve got a deal,” he said, rising. Janet turned to flag down a waiter.
Within half an hour she stopped making excuses and simply enjoyed his company. They lay near each other on the lounges and made up histories for the other bathers, each story more scurrilous than the last. Al imitated a cable car gripman driven to wit’s end by a load of tourists. They joined a game of tag in the water and she forgot about Cathy and marsh birds and her own soapy promises in the bathtub before lunch. In the laughter and motion of the game she even forgot to jerk away from the occasional touch of Al’s body against her own. And, finally, they lay side by side in the waning sunlight, silently watching each other’s eyes.
“I like you, Janet Murphy,” he whispered. She closed her eyes, hearing it as a promise. “God, it’s late. I’ve got to call the office.” He pulled his watch from his shirt pocket, looked at it, and groaned. “Damn. See you later?”
“Sure.”
He bent suddenly and touched her eyelids with his lips, so quickly that she had no time to pull away. He walked away and she put her fingertip to her eye. Something in his kiss had felt cold, a little hard, like a finger—nail. A tooth, she thought sleepily, and the sensation faded. She lay still a moment longer, then stood briskly, wrapped her towel around her waist, collected book, lotion, and sunglasses. Nitwit, she told herself without emphasis. Her lips tingled.
A few minutes before dinner he called to say he was still tangled in office business but would join her later. Feeling disappointed, she knocked on Cathy’s door. No answer. The afternoon’s formless anxiety returned. She tightened her lips and went into the dining room.
Cathy wasn’t at dinner either, but Evan was. He wore tight forest-green pants, a patterned silk shirt, and an expression caught between self-satisfaction and contrition. Alice, beside him, looked grim and a young brunette at a nearby table kept stealing longing glances at Evan. Janet drew some obvious conclusions, but if Cathy hadn’t been with Evan, where was she? Janet pushed food around her plate, pretending to listen to the young man across from her as he nattered on about est and jogging. Content free conversation. She stood.
“Be right back,” she told the young man and went out of the room and down the hall to the registration desk. She tapped on the bell until the evening clerk appeared.
“1 want to know if a friend has checked out,” she said. “Cathy Gordon, Cabin A-5.”
The clerk consulted the register. “No, she’s paid through until Saturday.”
“That’s what I thought. Listen, 1 promised to leave some books in her car, but I’ve forgotten the license number. Could you …”
“Sure. Here it is; green Mustang, 859 SCN. Should be in the lot out front.”
“Thanks.” Janet left a dollar on the desk and ducked out the main doors into the parking lot.
Floodlights lit the main gate, but left the parking lot in darkness. Janet started down the first row, wishing for a flashlight and peering at license plates. When she arrived at her own car, she took the flash from the glove compartment and went through the lot again, but Cathy’s car wasn’t there. She returned the flashlight to her car. It can’t happen here, an annoying little voice sang in her head. The Zebra Killers took potshots at San Francisco pedestrians; the Trailside Killer murdered women in the parks … she banished all the terrifying names impatiently. I’ll get as bad as an old woman, she thought angrily as she returned to the lodge. Burglars in the shower and rapists in the closet and everyone on the street a sniper or a mugger or—I don’t need this. Cathy’s a grown woman, no idiot; she can take care of herself. She’s safe. No reason to assume that, just because she’s been gone for a while, that she’s been— she pushed that thought away, too, and slid into her seat just as the waiter came with coffee.
