Where would they be? Side by side in the car? Or had they stopped? Had they driven down one of the sandy tracks to a secret part of the long coast? Could it be that, even as he thought of it, the two of them were... He made a small anguished sound and struck the outside wall of the house with his fist, then studied the reddened knuckles.
The yellow of the sun was taking on a reddish hue as it set behind the house. Sandpipers ran fast-legged in the gentle wash of the small waves. A gull chuckled harshly, balancing, pivoting to sweep down toward the troughs.
He went down to the sea and swam out fifty yards slowly, floating for a time on his back. Then he swam in, harder and faster, disappointment shrill in him as he saw that the convertible was not yet parked beside his five-year-old sedan. He stood naked under the outside shower, toweled himself, dressed carefully in gray slacks and a white nylon sports shirt. He combed his dark hair carefully and studied his thin nervous face in the mirror as though it were the face of a stranger.
He would get in the car and look for them.
He stepped out of the house. The sun made the shadow of the house long. It stretched almost to the water’s edge. There was an odd oblong projection from one edge of the shadow. It puzzled him. He went out and looked back at the house. There was nothing that would cause the irregularity.
He turned and looked at the shadow and the hair prickled on the back of his neck as he realized what was wrong with it. Instead of stretching itself flatly along the ground the way a proper shadow should, this one stood upright.
He shut his eyes hard and opened them again. Some trick of the light, some vagary of the setting sun.
Also, the color of the shadow wasn’t quite right. As an amateur artist, Jerry Raymond had studied color. Shadows are not black. They are deep browns and purples and blues and greens. But try as he might he could see no color in this upright oblong shadow. It stood roughly eight feet tall and half that width. The edges were geometrically clear, with no fuzziness whatever.
He smiled without humor. It was like some damnable doorway.
Quinn French’s big hands made the steering wheel look frail. The car skittered on the edge of control on the curves. He was conscious of the woman beside him and when he had a chance he glanced over at her, taking in that fraction of a second the new heavy-lidded look of her eyes, the complete relaxation of the way she sat, her hands loosely linked in her lap, her body slumped so that her head rested against the back of the seat.
“Too fast?” he asked.
“No, Quinn. We stayed away too long. Much too long.”
“Sorry?”
“Not really.”
“Letting the air out of the spare was a stroke of genius, kitten. Are all women devious?”
“I don’t know about all women. I only know about me.”
The road curved again and flattened out. In the distance, in the clear grey dusk, they saw the house, the roof at its familiar crazy angle.
“Okay, kitten,” he said. “We make merry and laugh like everything.”
He bleated a fast rhythm on the horn. Shave and a haircut. He slewed into the parking space and cut the motor. She gave him one quick warm smile before getting out.
“Jerry!” they called.
He blatted the horn again. “Jerry! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
“Jerry, darling!” she called.
He had left the house open. They walked a mile down the beach. No Jerry. They walked a half mile in the other direction and then it was too late to go farther. She had found the crumpled watercolor and had examined it critically.
“Not very good, eh?” he said.
“Never very good, dearest. Never. There’s something cramped and little about his soul. It comes out when he tries to do this sort of thing.”
It was full night. Still no Jerry. The night was cool and the driftwood burned in the hearth. He did not come back. She cooked quickly and with competence, and they ate. He helped her clean up. When by accident their shoulders touched in the small kitchen she leaned heavily against him for a moment, turning away as he reached for her.
She had him light the other lamps, even put a Coleman lantern outside where its hard brilliance made deep shadows across the sand.
“He didn’t drown,” she said, “unless he went in wearing his new slacks and shirt. And Jerry is a man who would drown neatly if at all.”
“It’s a lonesome country back of here. Maybe he got lost.”
“That doesn’t sound right either. I don’t understand it. If Jerry is anything he’s predictable. Everything according to plan and according to schedule. Ugh!”
“Poor darling,” he said softly.
She sat on the cot under the windows. He stood by the fire, his elbow on the mantel, the dead pipe in his hand. She looked at him. He slowly and carefully put the pipe on the mantel and looked at her. Slowly her head drooped as though it had become too heavy for her. He saw the swelling of her lips and he took a slow step toward her.
“No!” she said. “Not here. Please!”
But her head remained heavy and she kept looking at him. He took another step toward her.
Outside, the harsh radiance of the lantern was a dot of light on the long coast. The sea, strengthening, moved slowly against the sand. A log collapsed on the hearth and for a time the embers pulsed red.
Jerry was pulled along the corridor. He tried to set his heels. They slid on the opalescent floor. For the first few seconds there was the clear idea of being pulled along the beach and then that was lost.
“Hey!” he said. “Hey!”
A man pulled by his wrist can attempt to twist free. A man pushed from behind can attempt to turn away from the thrust. But he was being pulled along without being touched.
Jerry Raymond detested physical violence above all else. He treasured his dignity and his rights as a citizen. The wonder of there being this lighted corridor beyond the odd shadow was lost in the anger that he felt.
“Leave me go!” he squealed, reverting to childish spite. “Leave go!”
He tried to sit down. If he had managed it he would probably have drummed his heels on the floor and sucked his knuckles. But the pressure didn’t admit of any sitting. All he could do was set his feet and slide. The man walking ahead of him was naked except for an abbreviated, lemon-yellow kilt, pouched on either side with pockets that swung as though they contained items of considerable weight.
Jerry Raymond decided to catch up with that man and grab his shoulder and swing him around. He trotted forward and found that he could not exceed his predetermined pace.
“Let me out of here,” he bawled. “Hey!”
His voice was deadened by the corridor. Anger was slowly overlaid with dread. His teeth chattered and his arm-pits ran moisture and his legs trembled.
The interminable journey continued. “They’re going to kill me!” he screamed. That scream was directed at his personal gods, at the president of the chemical company in Gulf City, at the FBI, at Fran, at the Governor of the State and at his own mother who had been dead for over eleven years.
None of the parties so addressed heard the cry for help.
She leaped from deep sleep to full consciousness in one bound. Through the open doorway of the bedroom Fran Raymond saw Quinn French sprawled on the couch, heard the deep rhythm of his breathing. Even in her panic she found it possible to like the look of him.
But Jerry was not here. He had not returned. When she made certain of that fact she came back in and sat down, weak-kneed.