The Lighthouse: A Novel of Terror

by Bill Pronzini, Marcia Muller

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  “Nameless Detective” Novels:

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  Nightshades

  The Lighthouse

  A Novel of Terror

  Bill Pronzini

  Marcia Muller

  SPEAKING VOLUMES, LLC

  NAPLES, FLORIDA

  2011

  THE LIGHTHOUSE

  Copyright © 1987 by Marcia Muller and Bill Pronzini

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

  9781612321080

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One

  Alix

  Alix

  Alix

  Jan

  Alix.

  Hod Barnett

  Alix

  Alix

  Alix.

  Jan

  Jan

  Mitch Novotny

  Alix

  Jan

  Alix

  Part Two

  Alix

  Mitch Novotny

  Alix

  Adam Reese

  Jan

  Alix

  Alix

  Jan

  Alix

  Alix

  Hod Barnett

  Alix

  Part Three

  Jan

  Alix

  Hod Barnett

  Alix

  Mitch Novotny

  Jan

  Alix

  Hod Barnett

  Alix

  Adam Reese

  Jan

  Alix

  Mitch Novotny

  Jan

  Hod Barnett

  Alix

  Jan

  Adam Reese

  Alix.

  Mitch Novotny

  Alix

  Jan

  Mitch Novotny

  Alix

  Adam Reese

  Jan

  Alix

  Jan

  Alix

  Jan

  Epilogue

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  For our good friend

  Margaret D. Haley

  Prologue

  Mid-October

  She ran through the night in a haze of terror.

  Staggering, stumbling, losing her balance and falling sometimes because the terrain was rough and there was no light of any kind except for the bloody glow of the flames that stained the fog-streaked sky far behind her. The muscles in her legs were knotted so tightly that each new step brought a slash of pain. Her breath came in ragged, explosive pants; the thunder of blood in her ears obliterated the moaning cry of the wind. She could no longer feel the cold through the bulky sweater she wore, was no longer aware of the numbness in her face and hands. She felt only the terror, was aware only of the need to run and keep on running.

  He was still behind her. Somewhere close behind her.

  On foot now, just as she was; he had left the car some time ago, back when she had started across the long sloping meadow. There had been nowhere else for her to go then, no place to conceal herself: the meadow was barren, treeless. She’d looked back, seen the car skid to a stop, and he’d gotten out and raced toward her. He had almost caught her then. Almost caught her another time, too, when she’d had to climb one of the fences and a leg of her Levi’s had got hung up on a rail splinter.

  If he caught her, she was sure he would kill her.

  She had no idea how long she had been running. Or how far she’d come. Or how far she still had left to go. She had lost all sense of time and place. Everything was unreal, nightmarish, distorted shapes looming around her, ahead of her—all of the night twisted and grotesque and charged with menace.

  She looked over her shoulder again as she ran. She couldn’t see him now; there were trees behind her, tall bushes. Above the trees, the flames licked higher, shone brighter against the dark fabric of the night.

  Trees ahead of her, too, a wide grove of them. She tried to make herself run faster, to get into their thick clotted shadow; something caught at her foot, pitched her forward onto her hands and knees. She barely felt the impact, felt instead a wrenching fear that she might have turned her ankle, hurt herself so that she couldn’t run anymore. Then she was up and moving again, as if nothing had happened to interrupt her flight—and then there was a longer period of blankness, of lost time, and the next thing she knew she was in among the trees, dodging around their trunks and through a ground cover of ferns and high grass. Branches seemed to reach for her, to pluck at her clothing and her bare skin like dry, bony hands. She almost blundered into a half-hidden deadfall, veered away in time, and stumbled on.

  Her foot came down on a brittle fallen limb, and it made a cracking sound as loud as a pistol shot. A thought swam out of the numbness in her mind: Hide! He’ll catch you once you’re out in the open again. Hide!

  But there was no place safe enough, nowhere that he couldn’t find her. The trees grew wide apart here, and the ground cover was not dense enough for her to burrow under or behind any of it. He would hear her. She could hear him, back there somewhere—or believed she could, even above the voice of the wind and the rasp of her breathing and the stuttering beat of her heart.

  Something snagged her foot again. She almost fell, caught her balance against the bole of a tree. Sweat streamed down into her eyes; she wiped it away, trying to peer ahead. And there was more lost time, and all at once she was clear of the woods and ahead of her lay another meadow, barren, with the cliffs far off on one side and the road winding emptily on the other. Everything out there lay open, naked—no cover of any kind in any direction.

  She had no choice. She plunged ahead without even slowing.

  It was a long time, or what she perceived as a long time, before she looked back. And he was there, just as she had known he would be, relentless and implacable, coming after her like one of the evil creatures in a Grimm’s fairy tale.

  She felt herself staggering erratically, slowing down. Her wind and her strength seemed to be giving out at the same time. I can’t run much farther, she thought, and tasted the terror, and kept running.

  Out of the fear and a sudden overwhelming surge of hopelessness, another thought came to her: How can this be happening? How did it all come to this?

  Dear God, Jan, how did it all come to this? . . .

  Part One

  Late September

  The rocky ledge runs far into the sea,

  And on its outer point, some miles away,

  The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,

  A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day.

  —LONGFELLOW

  Watchman, what of the night?

  —OLD TESTAMENT

  Alix

  Her first look at the lighthouse was from a distance of almo
st a mile.

  They jounced through a copse of pine and Douglas fir, and immediately the rutted blacktop road sloped upward to a rise. Off to the right, the land bellied out to a distant headland; beyond that she could see the ocean again, the treacherous black rocks that jutted above its surface. Back the way they’d come, the shoreline curved and gentled and formed the southern boundary of Hilliard Bay.

  She didn’t see the lighthouse when they first topped the rise; she had scrunched around a little and was looking back to the north, to where buildings and fishing boats were outlined along the shore of the bay. The distance and the steely afternoon light gave them an odd, unreal look, like miniatures set out on a giant bas-relief map. But then Jan said, “Look!” and swung the station wagon off onto the verge. She twisted around again to face forward. And there it was, at a long angle to the left, perched atop a second, much narrower headland.

  Jan set the parking brake and got out. “Alix, come on.” He went ahead past the front of the car and stood shading his eyes from the cloudy sun-glare.

  She stepped out, stretching cramped muscles; this was the first time they’d stopped since leaving the motel in Crescent City where they had spent the night. The wind was sharp here, and cold; it made the only sound except for the faint susurration of breakers. She zipped up her jacket and went to stand next to Jan, to peer with him at the lighthouse and its outbuildings. Her first thought was: God, it looks lonely. But it was just a thought; there was nothing negative in it. If anything, she was pleased. Cape Despair. The Cape Despair Light. With names like that, she had been prepared for a desolate crag topped by an Oregon lighthouse version of Wuthering Heights. No, this didn’t seem so bad at all.

  She began to view it in a different perspective, through her artist’s eye. A round whitewashed tower—vaguely phallic with its rounded red dome—poking upward out of a white, red-roofed frame building. One large outbuilding and two smaller ones that were not much more than sheds. Clouds piled up behind the tower, dirty-looking, like soiled laundry. Cliffs falling away on both sides, on the south to a narrow beach so far away it seemed hazy and indistinct. A few wind-bent trees. Cypress? Probably. Patches of green grass, dun-colored rocks, gray-bright sky. There was a melancholy aspect to the whole, a kind of primitive beauty. Nice composition, too, seen from this vantage point and with those clouds bunched up behind it. On another day like this, she thought, it would be a challenge to try capturing that melancholy aspect on canvas. The idea both pleased and surprised her, she hadn’t painted anything noncommercial in years.

  “Alix? You’re not disappointed?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “Do I look disappointed?”

  “Well. you were so quiet. What were you thinking?”

  “That I might like to paint this someday, if I have time. This view of the lighthouse.”

  Jan raised an eyebrow: the Alix Kingsley-Ryerson who had painted seriously was someone out of the past, someone he’d never known. But he said, “Good. That’s good,” and smiled at her, and she knew he was relieved that her first impression had been favorable. Behind his born-rimmed glasses, his eyes were bright—that electric-blue color that seemed so vivid when he was excited. They had been that way for almost a week now, ever since the packing and last-minute preparations for the move had begun. The boyish eagerness eased her mind. For much of the year he had been mired in one of his periods of depression, and more prone than ever to severe headaches—working too hard at the university for some reason known only to him. Unlike hers, his way was to bottle up things inside, so tightly sometimes—this last time—that she found it impossible to draw him out of himself. It hadn’t been until his application to the Oregon State Parks and Recreation Division had been approved that his depression started to lift. Now he seemed his old self again. The next year meant a great deal to him, more than she had imagined when he first broached the idea of an early sabbatical.

  Jan was looking out toward the lighthouse again, bent forward slightly, his flaxen hair streaming out behind him. The wind was in his lighter blond beard too, ruffling it and pooching it out on the sides. Not for the first time, she thought he must have Viking blood. He was headstrong, forceful, independent, tenacious—all Viking characteristics. And he looked like a Viking; it required very little imagination to picture him at the helm of a Norse ship out of Novgorod, leaning into the wind with his hair streaming behind him that way. Jan the Bold. Of course, he was getting a little thick around the middle—the re-suh of his fondness for beer. Jan the Paunchy.

  She laughed in spite of herself, and he said, “What’s funny?” with his gaze still on the Cape Despair Light.

  “Nothing, really. I’ll tell you later.” She felt a surge of affection for him and thought: It’s going to be all right. She squeezed his arm. “I’m freezing. Let’s get back in the car.”

  “Right.”

  He got them moving again. The road dipped down through a hollow where clumps of tule grass stretched away on both sides. Odd-looking grass: hundreds of big round tufts of it, like an army of porcupines with their backs arched, their quills drooping, their heads tucked down out of sight. As if waiting for something. Night? The right time to mass an attack on the few sheep that grazed among them? Fanciful thought, Ryerson—too many children’s-book illustrations.

  Once they came out of the hollow, climbing gradually again, the blacktop ended and the road degenerated into a gravel surface pocked with potholes. Jan had to slow the station wagon to a crawl. Still, there was no way to avoid all of the holes. The rough ride dislodged something in the mass of suitcases and clothing bags and cardboard boxes that jammed the back half of the station wagon; it made a clanging noise every time they rolled through one of the chucks.

  The terrain had changed too, grown more barren. There were few trees this far out on the cape—just a scattering of cypress and hardy evergreens. No meadowland, as there had been for most of the previous two miles from the county road, and consequently no more sheep. There were large sections of bare ground, rocky and dun-colored; the patchy grass was thicker, and weedier, the Oregon grape and prickly broom that covered the rest of the cape grew only in isolated clumps out here. Most of the leaden sea and part of the shoreline were visible to the south, less of the sea and little of the shoreline to the north. When Alix twisted around again she could no longer see either Hilliard Bay or the tiny hamlet along its inner shore.

  The lighthouse remained visible ahead of them, even though the road serpentined along the narrowing headland. She watched it grow, take on definition. Cape Despair Light. Built in 1860, when the cape bore its original name—Cap Des Peres, the Cape of the Fathers, after a pair of Basque sheepherders who had established the first homesteads on this lonely part of the Oregon coast and who each happened to have fathered eleven children. But Cape Despair was a much more appropriate name. Even after construction of the lighthouse, half a dozen ships had foundered and sunk in the savage storms that battered the cape and the rough, rock-strewn waters that lay off of it; close to a hundred men had died in those shipwrecks, forty-seven of them in 1894 when a coastal steamer ran afoul of the rocks in a dense fog. It was after that tragedy that mariners had dubbed it Cape Despair, and it was still commonly called that despite the Cap Des Peres designation on maps and in guidebooks.

  They were only a few hundred yards, now, from the flattish tip of the headland on which the buildings sat. Alix leaned forward, pointing. “What’s that big outbuilding on the left?”

  “Used to be housing for the maintenance crew,” Jan said. He had been here twice in the past three months for short visits. But he had known every detail of its history before that, of course; there was little about any North American lighthouse that he didn’t know. “Coast Guard built it in 1940. Garage, workshop, and storage now.”

  “The other two?”

  “The small one near the light is where the generator is housed. Cordwood, too. The one lower down, on the far side, is the pumphouse for the well.”

&nb
sp; “All the comforts of home,” she said.

  “It’s not so bad. The well pump is electric; runs off the generator. And there’s a phone line that got put in before the funding ran out. I told you that, didn’t I?”

  “Yes. And thank God for it. We won’t feel so cut off up here if we can talk with our friends and my family once in a while.”

  “Just so you don’t run up huge bills.” But his smile told her he was only teasing.

  The road petered out in a gravelly, rutted clearing that was supposed to have been widened and graded into a parking area for visitors. At the far end was a gate and a whitewashed board fence that extended in a somewhat erratic line past the buildings on both sides, almost to where the cliffs began their descent to the sea. The elevation here was a hundred and twenty feet. The tower rose another sixty feet; the light, when it had been operational, could be seen from a distance of twenty miles.