Oddments Page 7

  The source of the light was a glassed-in cubicle toward the middle of the warehouse. Shadowy shapes—crates of some kind—loomed toward the ceiling on either side. He advanced in hesitant, wary steps, seeing no sign of movement in the gloom around him. At last he reached the cubicle, stood in the light. A watchman's office. He stepped up close to look through the glass.

  A cry rose in his throat when he saw the man lying motionless on the floor inside; he managed to stifle it. Blood stained the front of the man's khaki uniform jacket. He had been shot twice.

  Dead, murdered! Get out of here, call the police!

  Mr. Conway turned—and froze.

  A hulking figure stood not three feet away, looking straight at him.

  Mr. Conway's knees buckled; he had to put a hand against the glass to keep from collapsing. The murderer! His mind once again compelled him to run, run, but his legs would not obey. He could only stare back in horror at the hulking figure—at the pinched white face beneath a low-brimmed cloth cap, at rodentlike eyes and a cruel mouth, at the yawning muzzle of a revolver in one fist.

  "No!" Mr. Conway cried then. "No, please, don't shoot!" The man dropped into a furtive crouch, extending the pistol in front of him.

  "Don't shoot!" Mr. Conway said again, putting up his hands.

  Surprise, bewilderment, and a sudden trapped fear made a twisted mask of the man's face. "Who's that? Who's there?"

  Mr. Conway opened his mouth, then closed it again. He could scarcely believe his ears. The man was standing not three feet away, looking right at him!

  "I don't understand," Mr. Conway said before he could stop the words.

  The murderer fired. The sudden report caused Mr. Conway to jump convulsively aside; the bullet came nowhere near him. He saw the gunman looking desperately from side to side, everywhere but at him—and in that instant he did understand, he knew.

  "You can't see me," he said.

  The gun discharged a second bullet, but Mr. Conway had already moved again. Far to one side of him a spider-webbed hole appeared in the glass wall of the cubicle. "Damn you!" the murderer screamed. "Where are you? Where are you?"

  Mr. Conway remained standing there, clearly outlined in the light, for a moment longer; then he stepped to where a board lay on the floor nearby, picked it up. Without hesitation, he advanced on the terrified man and then struck him on the side of the head; watched dispassionately as the other dropped unconscious to the floor.

  Mr. Conway kicked the revolver away and stood over him. The police would have to be summoned, of course, but there was plenty of time for that now. A slow, grim smile stretched the corners of his mouth. Could it be that the remarkable collecting feat he had performed, his devotion and his passion, had stirred some supernatural force into granting him the Power that he now possessed? Well, no matter. His was not to question why; his was but to heed the plaintive cries of a world ridden with lawlessness.

  A deep, chilling laugh suddenly swept through the warehouse. "The weed of crime bears bitter fruit!" a haunting, Wellesian voice shouted. "Crime does not pay!"

  And The Shadow wrapped the cloak of night around himself and went out into the mean streets of the great metropolis...

  Out of the Depths

  He came tumbling out of the sea, dark and misshapen, like a being that was not human. A creature from the depths; or a jumbee, the evil spirit of West Indian superstition. Fanciful thoughts, and Shea was not a fanciful woman. But on this strange, wild night nothing seemed real or explicable.

  At first, with the moon hidden behind the running scud of clouds, she'd seen him as a blob of flotsam on a breaking wave. The squall earlier had left the sea rough and the swells out toward the reef were high, their crests stripped of spume by the wind. The angry surf threw him onto the strip of beach, dragged him back again; another wave flung him up a little farther. The moon reappeared then, bathing sea and beach and rocks in the kind of frost-white shine you found only in the Caribbean. Not flotsam—something alive. She saw his arms extend, splayed fingers dig into the sand to hold himself against the backward pull of the sea. Saw him raise a smallish head above a massive, deformed torso, then squirm weakly toward the nearest jut of rock. Another wave shoved him the last few feet. He clung to the rock, lying motionless with the surf foaming around him.

  Out of the depths, she thought.

  The irony made her shiver, draw the collar of her coat more tightly around her neck. She lifted her gaze again to the rocky peninsula farther south. Windflaw Point, where the undertow off its tiny beach was the most treacherous on the island. It had taken her almost an hour to marshal her courage to the point where she was ready—almost ready to walk out there and into the ocean. Intothe depths. Now...

  Massive clouds sealed off the moon again. In the heavy darkness Shea could just make him out, still lying motionless on the fine coral sand. Unconscious? Dead? I ought to go down there, she thought. But she could not seem to lift herself out of the chair.

  After several minutes he moved again: dark shape rising to hands and knees, then trying to stand. Three tries before he was able to keep his legs from collapsing under him. He stood swaying, as if gathering strength; finally staggered onto the path that led up through rocks and sea grape. Toward the house. Toward her.

  On another night she would have felt any number of emotions by this time: surprise, bewilderment, curiosity, concern. But not on this night. There was a numbness in her mind, like the numbness in her body from the cold wind. It was as if she were dreaming, sitting there on the open terrace—as if she'd fallen asleep hours ago, before the clouds began to pile up at sunset and the sky turned the color of a blood bruise.

  A new storm was making up. Hammering northern this time, from the look of the sky. The wind had shifted, coming out of the northeast now; the clouds were bloated and simmering in that direction and the air had a charged quality. Unless the wind shifted again soon, the rest of the night would be even wilder.

  Briefly the clouds released the moon. In its white glare she saw him plodding closer, limping, almost dragging his left leg. A man, of course—just a man. And not deformed: what had made him seem that way was the life jacket fastened around his upper body. She remembered the lights of a freighter or tanker she had seen passing on the horizon just after nightfall, ahead of the squall. Had he gone overboard from that somehow?

  He had reached the garden, was making his way past the flamboyant trees and the thick clusters of frangipani. Heading toward the garden door and the kitchen: she'd left the lights on in there and the jalousies open. It was the lights that had drawn him here, like a beacon that could be seen a long distance out to sea.

  A good thing she'd left them on or not? She didn't want him here, a cast-up stranger, hurt and needing attention—not on this night, not when she'd been so close to making the walk to Windflaw Point. But neither could she refuse him access or help. John would have, if he'd been drunk and in the wrong mood. Not her. It was not in her nature to be cruel to anyone, except perhaps herself.

  Abruptly Shea pushed herself out of the chair. He hadn't seen her sitting in the restless shadows, and he didn't see her now as she moved back across the terrace to the sliding glass doors to her bedroom. Or at least if he did see her, he didn't stop or call out to her. She hurried through the darkened bedroom, down the hall, and into the kitchen. She was halfway to the garden door when he began pounding on it.

  She unlocked and opened the door without hesitation. He was propped against the stucco wall, arms hanging and body slumped with exhaustion. Big and youngish, that was her first impression. She couldn't see his face clearly.

  "Need some help," he said in a thick, strained voice. "Been in the water. . . washed up on your beach. . . ."

  "I know, I saw you from the terrace. Come inside."

  "Better get a towel first. Coral ripped a gash in my foot. . .blood all over your floor."

  "All right. I'll have to close the door. The wind. . ."

  "Go ahead."

&nbs
p; She shut the door and went to fetch a towel, a blanket, and the first-aid kit. On the way back to the kitchen she turned the heat up several degrees. When she opened up to him again she saw that he'd shed the life jacket. His clothing was minimal: plaid wool shirt, denim trousers, canvas shoes, all nicked and torn by coral. Around his waist was a pouch-type waterproof belt, like a workman's utility belt. One of the pouches bulged slightly.

  She gave him the towel, and when he had it wrapped around his left foot he hobbled inside. She took his arm, let him lean on her as she guided him to the kitchen table. His flesh was cold, sea-puckered; the touch of it made her feel a tremor of revulsion. It was like touching the skin of a dead man.

  When he sank heavily onto one of the chairs, she dragged another chair over and lifted his injured leg onto it. He stripped off what was left of his shirt, swaddled himself in the blanket. His teeth were chattering.

  The coffeemaker drew her; she poured two of the big mugs full. There was always hot coffee ready and waiting, no matter what the hour—she made sure of that. She drank too much coffee, much too much, but it was better than drinking what John usually drank. If she—

  "You mind sweetening that?"

  She half-turned. "Sugar?"

  "Liquor. Rum, if you have it."

  "Jamaican rum." That was what John drank.

  "Best there is. Fine."

  She took down an open bottle, carried it and the mugs to the table, and watched while he spiked the coffee, drank, then poured more rum and drank again. Color came back into his stubbled cheeks. He used part of the blanket to rough-dry his hair.

  He was a little older than she, early thirties, and in good physical condition: broad chest and shoulders, muscle-knotted arms. Sandy hair cropped short, thick sandy brows, a long-chinned face burned dark from exposure to the sun. The face was all right, might have been attractive except for the eyes. They were a bright off-blue color, shielded by lids that seemed perpetually lowered like flags at halfmast, and they didn't blink much. When the eyes lifted to meet and hold hers something in them made her look away.

  "I'll see what I can do for your foot."

  "Thanks. Hurts like hell."

  'The towel was already soaking through. Shea unwrapped it carefully, revealing a deep gash across the instep just above the tongue of his shoe. She got the shoe and sock off. More blood welled out of the cut.

  "It doesn't look good. You may need a doctor—"

  "No," he said, "no doctor."

  "It'll take stitches to close properly."

  "Just clean and bandage it, okay?"

  She spilled iodine onto a gauze pad, swabbed at the gash as gently as she could. The sharp sting made him suck in his breath, but he didn't flinch or utter another sound. She laid a second piece of iodined gauze over the wound and began to wind tape tightly around his foot to hold the skin flaps together.

  He said, "My name's Tanner. Harry Tanner."

  "Shea Clifford."

  "Shea. That short for something?"

  "It's a family name."

  "Pretty."

  "Thank you."

  "So are you," he said. "Real pretty with your hair all windblown like that."

  She glanced up at him. He was smiling at her. Not a leer, just a weary smile, but it wasn't a good kind of smile. It had a predatory look, like the teeth-baring stretch of a wolf's jowls.

  "No offense," he said.

  "None taken." She lowered her gaze, watched her hands wind and tear tape. Her mind still felt numb. "What happened to you? Why were you in the water?"

  "That damn squall a few hours ago. Came up so fast I didn't have time to get my genoa down. Wave as big as a house knocked poor little Wanderer into a full broach. I got thrown clear when she went over or I'd have sunk with her."

  "Were you sailing alone?"

  "All alone."

  "Single-hander? Or just on a weekend lark?"

  "Single-hander. You know boats, I see."

  "Yes. Fairly well."

  "Well, I'm a sea tramp," Tanner said. "Ten years of island-hopping and this is the first time I ever got caught unprepared."

  "It happens. What kind of craft was Wanderer?"

  "Bugeye ketch. Thirty-nine feet."

  "Shame to lose a boat like that."

  He shrugged. "She was insured."

  "How far out were you?"

  "Five or six miles. Hell of a long swim in a choppy sea."

  "You're lucky the squall passed as quickly as it did."

  "Lucky I was wearing my life jacket, too," Tanner said. "And lucky you stay up late with your lights on. If it weren't for the lights I probably wouldn't have made shore at all."

  Shea nodded. She tore off the last piece of tape and then began putting the first-aid supplies away in the kit.

  Tanner said, "I didn't see any other lights. This house the only one out here?"

  "The only one on this side of the bay, yes."

  "No close neighbors?"

  "Three houses on the east shore, not far away."

  "You live here alone?"

  "With my husband."

  "But he's not here now."

  "Not now. He'll be home soon."

  "That so? Where is he?"

  "In Merrywing, the town on the far side of the island. He went out to dinner with friends."

  "While you stayed home."

  "I wasn't feeling well earlier."

  "Merrywing. Salt Cay?"

  "That's right."

  "British-owned, isn't it?"

  "Yes. You've never been here before?"

  "Not my kind of place. Too small, too quiet, too rich. I prefer the livelier islands—St. Thomas, Nassau, Jamaica."

  "St. Thomas isn't far from here," Shea said. "Is that where you were heading?"

  "More or less. This husband of yours—how big is he?"

  "Big?"

  "Big enough so his clothes would fit me?"

  "Oh," she said, "yes. About your size."

  "Think he'd mind if you let me have a pair of his pants and a shirt and some underwear? Wet things of mine are giving me a chill."

  "No, of course not. I'll get them from his room."

  She went to John's bedroom. The smells of his cologne and pipe tobacco were strong in there; they made her faintly nauseous. In haste she dragged a pair of white linen trousers and a pullover off hangers in his closet, turned toward the dresser as she came out. And stopped in midstride.

  Tanner stood in the open doorway, leaning against the jamb, his half-lidded eyes fixed on her.

  "His room," he said. "Right."

  "Why did you follow me?"

  "Felt like it. So you don't sleep with him."

  "Why should that concern you?"

  "I'm naturally curious. How come? I mean, how come you and your husband don't share a bed?"

  "Our sleeping arrangements are none of your business."

  "Probably not. Your idea or his?"

  "What?"

  "Separate bedrooms. Your idea or his?"

  "Mine, if you must know."

  "Maybe he snores, huh?"

  She didn't say anything.

  "How long since you kicked him out of your bed?"

  "I didn't kick him out. It wasn't like that."

  "Sure it was. I can see it in your face."

  "My private affairs—"

  "—are none of my business. I know. But I also know the signs of a bad marriage when I see them. A bad marriage and an unhappy woman. Can't tell me you're not unhappy."

  "All right," she said.

  "So why don't you divorce him? Money?"

  "Money has nothing to do with it."

  "Money has something to do with everything."

  "It isn't money."

  "He have something on you? Then why not just dump him?"

  You're not going to divorce me, Shea. Not you, not like the others. I'll see you dead first. I mean it, Shea. You're mine and you'll stay mine until I decide I don't want you anymore. . .

  She said flatly,
"I'm not going to talk about my marriage to you. I don't know you."

  "We can fix that. I'm an easy guy to know."

  She moved ahead to the dresser, found underwear and socks, put them on the bed with the trousers and pullover. "You can change in here," she said, and started for the doorway.

  Tanner didn't move.

  "I said---"

  "I heard you, Shea."

  "Mrs. Clifford."

  "Clifford," he said. Then he smiled, the same wolfish lip-stretch he'd shown her in the kitchen. "Sure—Clifford. Your husband's name wouldn't be John, would it? John Clifford?"

  She was silent.

  "I'll bet it is. John Clifford, Clifford Yacht Designs. One of the best marine architects in Miami. Fancy motor sailers and racing yawls."

  She still said nothing.

  "House in Miami Beach, another on Salt Cay—this house. And you're his latest wife. Which is it, number three or number four?"

  Between her teeth she said, "Three."

  "He must be what, fifty now? And worth millions. Don't tell me money's not why you married him."

  "I won't tell you anything."

  But his wealth wasn't whyshe'd married him. He had been kind and attentive to her at first. And she'd been lonely after the bitter breakup with Neal. John had opened up a whole new, exciting world to her: travel to exotic places, sailing, the company of interesting and famous people. She hadn't loved him, but she had been fond of him; and she'd convinced herself she would learn to love him in time. Instead, when he revealed his dark side to her, she had learned to hate him.

  Tanner said, "Didn't one of his other wives divorce him for knocking her around when he was drunk? Seems I remember reading something like that in the Miami papers a few years back. That why you're unhappy, Shea? He knock you around when he's drinking?"

  Without answering, Shea pushed past him into the hallway. He didn't try to stop her. In the kitchen again she poured yet another cup of coffee and sat down with it. Even with her coat on and the furnace turned up, she was still cold. The heat from the mug failed to warm her hands.

  She knew she ought to be afraid of Harry Tanner. But all she felt inside was a deep weariness. An image of Windflaw Point, the tiny beach with its treacherous undertow, flashed across the screen of her mind—and was gone again just as swiftly. Her courage, or maybe her cowardice, was gone too. She was no longer capable of walking out to the point, letting the sea have her. Not tonight and probably not ever again.