The Lighthouse: A Novel of Terror

by Bill Pronzini, Marcia Muller

  Mitch hadn’t been trying to keep his voice down; everybody else in the Sea Breeze had heard him too. Seth Bonner got off his stool and came over halfway and said, “Plain dirt meanness, that’s what it was. Looked at me once like he wanted to kill me, too. Crazy California queer. We don’t want his kind around here!”

  He was getting himself worked up, but Mitch wasn’t paying any attention to him. Nobody was except Barney Nevers. Barney said, “Pipe down, Seth, will you?”

  “Don’t have to do what you tell me,” Bonner said.

  “You want me to ring up Emma?”

  Old Seth said, “Wouldn’t do that,” but he went back to his stool and sat down.

  Adam said, “What’d you do, Mitch? Go after him?”

  “No. Too late for that.”

  “What, then?”

  “Took Red up to the house and called the sheriff.”

  “What’d he say?” Hod asked.

  “Said there wasn’t much he could do. Said I didn’t see the whole thing, said it was dark and easy to make a mistake about intent. Said Ryerson could claim he didn’t know he hit Red and that was why he didn’t stop, and you couldn’t prove otherwise.” Mitch whacked his thighs again and his next words came out bitter. “Said it just ain’t much of a crime to hit-and-run a dog.”

  “You could swear out a complaint anyway,” Barney Nevers said from behind the plank. “Malicious mischief or something.”

  “Sheriff said that too.”

  “You going to do it?” Hod asked.

  “No. No damn point in it. Law ain’t worth a shit when it comes to this kind of thing.” Mitch sat heavily against one corner of the pool table. “Hod,” he said, “get me a drink, will you? Double shot of sour mash.”

  “Sure. Sure thing, Mitch.”

  Hod went to the bar, paid Barney Nevers for a double Jack Daniel’s—cost him his last dollar but the hell with that—and brought it back. Mitch drank it off neat. Then he made the shot glass disappear inside his big fist; squeezed on it, real tight, like he was trying to break it. His face had a funny dark look, a look Hod had never seen before.

  “That son of a bitch,” Mitch said. His voice was funny and dark like this face. “He ain’t going to get away with murdering Red.”

  Adam was cradling his cue stick again, rifle-like. He asked, “What’re you gonna do, Mitch?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Mitch said. “But I’ll do something, you mark me plain on that. Ryerson just ain’t going to get away with it.”

  Alix

  Lang’s Gallery and Gifts housed one of the worst collections of pseudo-art Alix had ever seen.

  The space itself was pleasant: a large rectangular room with white walls and polished wood floors. Natural light poured in through a huge central skylight. But the cool simplicity of the place was spoiled by the objects offered for sale.

  To the left of the front door was a three-foot-high raised platform, also painted white, displaying a group of driftwood birds. Each was composed of a single piece of wood, perched on spindly coathanger legs. Beady eyes, which were actually bits of broken glass, stared blankly. The beaks were made of bluish-black mussel shells; the wings of seagull feathers, several of which made the birds look as if they were molting. Alix shook her head and turned to the right, where a similar platform held a collection of items made from shells. Some of these weren’t bad: simple, gracefully formed nautiluses and conches—undoubtedly ordered from a supplier rather than plucked from the hazardous local beaches—mounted on plain wooden bases. Others, however, were standard tourist fare: coasters and trays with shells laminated under plastic; abalone-shell ashtrays; oven-proof dishes made from what a clam had once called home. A larger, taller central platform directly under the skylight held other grotesqueries: driftwood lamps with hideous pleated shades; ceramic sea lions and brass whales; redwood burl clocks. Above all this, suspended from hooks around the edges of the skylight, were garishly glazed pottery windchimes. The breeze that had followed Alix inside caught them, making them clank and jangle.

  The place was deserted. But after a few seconds, a slender, wiry woman with long dark hair pulled back in a severe knot appeared in an open doorway behind the sales desk. “Be with you shortly,” she called.

  “Don’t hurry. I just want to browse.”

  Alix moved to the wall at the left as the woman disappeared again and examined the paintings there. They were of different types: standard seascapes, poorly done, almost of a paint-by-the-numbers quality; cutesy depictions of birds, seals, and sea lions that imparted almost human qualities to the creatures; photographs of the neon-light school, sentimental iridescent scenes of lovers wandering the shoreline. But interspersed among these were occasionally startling canvases, abstract oils that were close to being good—good enough to make her stop in front of one and then another.

  True primary colors. Crisp lines. Hard-edged forms. Slick, sophisticated Cubism, reminiscent of the work of American abstractionists of the twenties. Too slick, though. And there was something else wrong with them too. . . .

  She moved on to a third canvas, a study in red, yellow, and blue, with occasional stiff intrusions of black and white. Something disturbing about this one, too. But what? On the surface, sterility. Too strict an adherence to color and form. Didn’t express anything. But underneath . . . yes, strong emotion tightly reined. It made her wonder what the work would be like if he—she?—really let go.

  Alix leaned forward to read the small signature at the bottom of the canvas: C. Lang. Lang’s Gallery and Gifts. Most likely the work of the owner. She wondered if the dark-haired woman who was working in back—she could hear vague sounds coming through the open doorway—was C. Lang, or merely an employee. It would be interesting to find out—to perhaps talk shop with someone who had at least a measure of talent.

  She owed herself some pleasure this morning, which was the reason she’d stopped here in the first place. She’d been on her way into Hilliard with a load of dirty laundry when she’d spotted the gallery and decided to stop in and put off her chores a little longer. Not that anything she experienced today would be truly pleasurable; she was tired and had one of those scratchy headaches that come from a restless night. Jan had not returned until almost midnight, long after she had crawled into the four-poster; and when he’d come in he had tiptoed around, obviously thinking her asleep and trying not to wake her. If she could have asked him why he’d lied to her, perhaps found out that he’d simply overlooked the half-full tobacco pouch, then she might have rested better. But somehow she had preferred uncertainty to the prospect of a long middle-of-the-night confrontation. And now she was paying for it with a headache.

  Ignoring the pain, she stepped back and studied the canvas from a different angle. No, it wasn’t really good, but she had to admire the artist’s raw talent. She herself had that talent, a compulsion to translate her perceptions and thoughts into lines, shapes, and colors. Once, when she’d first moved to New York after graduating from Stanford, she’d thought she might become a serious painter. But there had been a semi-famous painter (married) under whom she had studied (in more ways than one). He had claimed to understand and appreciate her talent, but what she had taken for professional ardor had in reality been simple middle-aged desperation and need for sexual reassurance. When their affair had ended (back to wife, reassured), she had emerged wiser and a touch cynical. She had set aside her dreams of serious work, studied and learned the craft of a commercial artist. She was good at it, too, she’d always known that, even if it had taken her a long time to become established.

  The years they’d spent on the East Coast had been lean ones professionally. Jobs were few, commissions for free-lancers even scarcer. But once they’d returned to California, her career had taken an upward turn. Over the years she’d done whimsical watercolors and bold sketches for children’s books; botanically accurate pastels of regional plants and trees for a series of textbooks; pen-and-ink drawings for a special edition of a Jack London nove
l; illustrations for trade magazines and house organs. Once she’d even illustrated a crochet book—endless diagrams of wool being manipulated with a hook, until she could have crocheted an afghan in her sleep. And next there would be the partnership in the design firm, and the new challenges that would bring. But first there were the drawings for Jan’s book—a challenge also, if not a particularly difficult one. What appealed to her about the project was the chance for the two of them to work together, bringing one of Jan’s dreams to fruition. They’d never had anything they could work together on before. . . .

  Alix turned as the dark-haired woman reappeared and came around the sales desk. She was about forty, handsome in a strong-featured way, and the lines of her face spoke more of worldly experience than of age. In spite of her wiry appearance, she had large breasts and gracefully curved hips that were evident even though she wore a loose brown tunic top. Alix noted her full figure with a certain envy; she’d always wished she’d been better endowed.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” the woman said. “I was wrapping a painting for shipment. A couple from Washington bought it this morning, for their daughter.”

  “Sounds as if business is good.”

  “Not really. Even the summer is slow. Trouble is, I’m too far off Highway One.” The woman shrugged and then smiled. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Yes and no. I’m not a customer. Actually, I’m one of your new neighbors. My name’s Alix Ryerson; my husband Jan and I moved into the lighthouse last week.”

  “Oh, of course. You’re from California, aren’t you?”

  “Palo Alto. My husband teaches at Stanford.”

  “Stanford,” the woman said. She sounded impressed. “Well . . . don’t you find living conditions out on the cape awfully primitive? I mean, compared to what you’re used to.” “No, it’s surprisingly comfortable. Not an interior decorator’s dream—challenge is more like it—but quite liveable.” “I’m surprised, what with old Seth Bonner living there the past three years. Nothing against Seth,” she added at Alix’s inquiring look. “He’s all right once you get used to him. But he’s mildly retarded and I wouldn’t guess much of a housekeeper. But I’m being rude. My name’s Cassie Lang, I’m the owner of this place.”

  Alix clasped the hand extended to her and found it strong, almost sandpapery in texture. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Same here.” Cassie seemed to mean it, which was a relief. “Look, why don’t we have a cup of coffee? Or tea, if you’d prefer?”

  “Coffee sounds good.”

  “I have a pot going in back. We can sit and talk back there, if you like.”

  “Fine.”

  Cassie led the way through a door behind the sales counter, into a narrow back room half-full of shelves piled with cardboard cartons. A worktable cluttered with tools, pieces of driftwood, and other items took up most of the remaining floor space; but at the back, next to a window that gave a good view of the nearby Victorian house and garage and the bay beyond, was a table supporting a Mr. Coffee. A yellow paisley armchair flanked the table and matching curtains were hung in the window. Cassie motioned for her to sit, then bustled around collecting cups, inspecting them for cleanliness, pouring and serving.

  Alix asked, “You are the C. Lang who did the paintings out front?”

  Cassie set her cup down and pulled a swivel chair, the kind secretaries use for typing, over from the worktable. Her expression was guarded as she said, “Yes, they’re mine.”

  “I found them very interesting. They grab your attention.” Alix paused, then decided to lie for kindness’ sake. “I like them.”

  Cassie relaxed and smiled, pleased. Like many artists of modest talent, she had probably been hurt many times by casual and thoughtless criticism. “Thank you. They’re the main reason this gallery exists. All the rest of the stuff—well, you’ve seen it.”

  “Where do you get your seascapes?”

  “A fellow up the coast. He turns them out to order.”

  “And the shell things?”

  “Most are from a mail-order house in Portland. The nicer ones come from Florida.” She gestured at the worktable. “I do the driftwood birds myself. They’re awful, but easy to make; and they sell better than anything else I stock.”

  Alix shook her head sympathetically and sipped her coffee. Her headache had lessened, and she felt warmed by both the hot drink and the company. “You’re somewhat isolated here,” she said. “Do you live alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doesn’t it worry you sometimes?”

  “Not really. I have a handgun and I’m a good shot.”

  “Oh. I’m afraid of guns myself.”

  “I grew up handling them. My father belonged to the NRA.” Fortunately for Alix—who was pro-gun control—Cassie did not want to discuss the subject any further. She said, “But tell me about you. Are you interested in art?”

  “Actually, I’m an artist myself.”

  “You are? For heaven’s sake!” The woman seemed genuinely pleased. “What kind of work do you do?”

  Alix told her, describing some of her more interesting projects and mentioning both her sketches for Jan’s book and her future business venture. When she had finished, Cassie looked so impressed and wistful that she quickly said, “But that’s enough about me. Tell me how you came to start this gallery. Have you always lived in Hilliard?”

  The other woman looked startled, almost shocked. “Oh no! I was born in Eugene, lived there most of my life.”

  “When did you move here?”

  A certain reticence had come into Cassie’s expression, a kind of closing off. “Only a year ago. I . . . I was divorced, and I’d always liked this part of the coast. Hilliard seemed like a good place to start over.” She smiled wryly. “Too bad I didn’t know about the lack of tourist trade.”

  “You’re making ends meet, though?”

  “Just barely. I own the house and the gallery outright—I bought them with my divorce settlement. And it doesn’t cost much to live here.”

  “Have you made many friends among the locals?”

  “Acquaintences, yes. I know almost everyone in the village. But no, I’m not friends with anyone.”

  “Are they such hard people to know?”

  “Oh yes. Hard to know, hard to talk to. Particularly when you don’t have much in common with them—and I don’t. Hilliard’s a cultural wasteland. High culture to the people here is watching the Super Bowl on the widescreen TV at the Sea Breeze Tavern.”

  “I’d gathered as much.” Alix looked down into her coffee cup, thinking of her last visit to Hilliard. “Tell me, do you know a couple of local fishermen named Mitch Novotny and Hod Barnett?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  It didn’t seem as though Cassie had heard about Jan’s run-in with Novotny, and Alix didn’t care to enlighten her. “My husband and I saw them at the general store last week,” she said. “I’ve been curious about them.”

  “Oh. Well, Mitch’s family has been in Hilliard for generations, and as far as I know they’ve all been fishermen. It’s a funny thing about villages like this.”

  “What is?”

  “People just keep on doing the same things, generation after generation,” Cassie said. “I don’t suppose Mitch’s way of life is much different than his father’s or grandfather’s, except now they have TV. And higher taxes, of course.”

  “Is the same true of Hod Barnett?”

  “No. He moved here several years ago from Coos Bay, I gather. He owned his own boat for a while but lost it just after I moved into town; couldn’t make the mortgage payments. Now he works as a deck-hand for Mitch, not that that makes him a living wage. Mitch can barely make ends meet himself. The fishing all along the coast has been poor the past three seasons.”

  “Yes, that’s what my husband told me.”

  “Hod lives in a little trailer in that encampment on the north end with his wife and three kids. Must be awful to have to live like that. Th
ere are no utility hookups, and they have to haul water from a central faucet. Adam Reese has made some improvements since he moved in, most of them for free, but the conditions are still primitive.”

  “Adam Reese?”

  “The local handyman. Lillian Hilliard has him building shelves in her storeroom these days; she’s the only one in the village with any money. You’ve met her, I’m sure?”

  “Yes,” Alix said.

  “I guess you could say Lillian epitomizes the spirit of Hilliard—if it has any. She’s the last living member of the founding family, and so proud of it that when she married she insisted on keeping the family name. There’s a consensus in the village that the husband—Ben Gates, I think his name was—died young because it was the path of least resistance, certainly easier than standing up to Lillian. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was true.”

  “She does seem to rule that store with an iron hand.”

  Cassie smiled, not warmly. “Oh, she does. Collects gossip, dispenses charity—when she feels like it—and pronounces judgment on everything that goes on in town. If there’s ever anything you need to know about anyone in Hilliard, just see Lillian.”

  Alix nodded, vaguely uncomfortable, thinking that Cassie—given the chance—might rival Lillian Hilliard in the gossip department. She hoped she hadn’t been too candid about herself, imparted too many personal details to a virtual stranger.

  She finished her coffee and then looked at her watch. “Oh, it’s getting late. I’ve got to get moving—laundry day.”

  “Please stay. Have another cup of coffee—”

  “I’d love to, but I do have to go. Perhaps we can get together soon, though. Have you ever been to the lighthouse?”

  “Out near it, but never inside.”

  “I’ll show you around, then, if you’d like to come out.”

  Cassie smiled. “I’m already looking forward to it.”

  As she got into the station wagon, Alix realized her headache was gone. It had been more from tension than from anything else—a tension that probably stemmed from too much worry and introspection. Inconsequential chatter—and even gossip—over coffee had proved good for her, and she resolved to call Cassie soon and reemphasize her invitation to visit the lighthouse.