The Lighthouse: A Novel of Terror

by Bill Pronzini, Marcia Muller

  The full implication of the woman’s words registered. Alix’s first reaction was shock. Then her anger flared, turned to rage coupled with a fierce defensiveness. Her fingers bit into her palms as she struggled to calm herself.

  “Are you trying to say my husband had something to do with that girl’s murder the other night?”

  “If I am, I’m not the only one.”

  “Damn you, I—”

  “Don’t you curse me in my own store.”

  Alix could no longer control her rising fury. She said, “You’re a disgusting woman, Lillian Hilliard. Your mind is small and your morals even smaller. I wouldn’t have anything you’ve touched in my house!” And she grabbed the nearest bag of groceries, shoved it violently across the counter.

  The storekeeper almost fell backward off her stool as she clutched at the bag. It slipped through her hands, crashed to the floor. Alix shoved the other two bags after it and then turned toward the door. Lillian Hilliard shouted after her, angry words that she didn’t listen to and that she cut off by slamming the door.

  She was at the car, fumbling in her purse for her keys, when she became aware of a man coming toward her. It was the wiry little workman who had been installing shelves in the store several days before—Adam something. This morning he was wearing a red headband to hold back his longish blond hair, and there was a smile on his sharp-featured face that did not reach his eyes.

  “Morning, Mrs. Ryerson.”

  I don’t know you, she thought. I don’t want to know you. She gave him a vague smile and continued to rummage in her purse for her keys.

  The man was not put off by her silence. He maneuvered between her and the door of the station wagon, directly in her path. His grin was broader now, showing yellowed teeth, a chipped incisor.

  Alix faced him in annoyance. “Is there something I can do for you?” she asked.

  “Why, I’m just being neighborly, Mrs. Ryerson. My name’s Adam Reese.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Reese, but I really have to be going.” She tried to edge around him, but he bounced over to block her again.

  “This is a real neighborly town,” he said, still smiling. “Just thought I’d stop and ask how everything’s going out there on the cape.”

  “Everything is fine.”

  “Sure about that?”

  “Just what is it you want, Mr. Reese?”

  Reese kept smiling, but it was a smile that meant nothing—a mere reflexive stretching of mouth and facial skin. “Now, Mrs. Ryerson, like I said, I was just being neighborly—”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  “Sure thing. It’s just that out there at the light, you’re pretty isolated. Things can happen to people who live in lonely places like that.”

  She could feel her rage rekindling. “Things such as somebody shooting at our car in the middle of the night?”

  Reese’s eyebrows rose, meeting the wispy fringe of hair that escaped from his red headband. “Well, now, why would anybody want to do a thing like that?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Can’t say. Seems a waste of good ammunition to me.”

  Alix tried to step around him again. And again he moved into her path. “’Course, that’s nothing,” he said, “now there’s been a murder practically in your front yard. Found that dead girl’s body no more’n a couple of miles from the light, wasn’t it?”

  She said nothing, just glared at him.

  “Not that that means you folks know anything about it. Or had anything to do with it. Sure is funny, though. I mean, you folks move in out there at the light, my friend Mitch’s poor old dog gets run down, and next thing there’s this poor young girl found strangled in a ditch—”

  “Get out of my way, damn you!” She pushed around him and yanked at the door handle.

  “Hey,” Reese’s amused voice said behind her, “don’t go away mad.”

  She got into the car, ground the starter, finally got the engine going and the transmission into reverse. Once on the road she slammed the gearshift into drive and accelerated with such force that the tires threw up a spray of gravel. When she looked into the rearview mirror, Adam Reese was still standing there, hands on hips, the grin splitting his face like a wound.

  It wasn’t until she turned off onto the cape road that she slowed down, and when she pressed on the brake pedal, her leg began to shake. She pulled onto the verge, switched off the ignition, and leaned forward against the steering wheel, spent by her rage.

  God, how I hate those people! she thought. Small-minded, insular, suspicious of anyone who’s not like them. As if anyone would want to be like them.

  She sat there for what seemed a long time, forehead against her folded arms. After a while, when the last of her anger was gone, a new feeling rose, one of unease.

  Why was she letting them get to her this way? She’d lost control in the general store, and she would have struck that handyman if he hadn’t let her past him. And over what? Nasty innuendo that she should have laughed off as small-town rumor-mongering.

  Still . . . when a person allowed gossip to upset her like this, it was usually because she felt there might be some truth in it. Underneath was she afraid that Jan might be a murderer?

  Instantly she rejected the notion. It was ridiculous. Jan was her husband, the man she had lived with every day of the past eleven years. She might suspect him of minor faults but never of a crime, much less one as monstrous as cold-blooded murder.

  She raised her head and looked out at the flat gray joining of the bay and sea that lay beyond the barren reach of the headland. In spite of herself, her thoughts went back to that night in Boston, the one and only time Jan had spoken of the murder of the girt in Madison. Had he been unduly traumatized by finding the body of someone he’d known only a few hours? Horrible as the experience had been, had his reaction and subsequent de-pmssioo indicated a deeper involvement in the crime? No, she refused to believe that. The real trauma came later, from the way he and his friends had treated Ed Finlayson and the inevitable disintegration of the group.

  Then her thoughts shifted back to the present . . . to Mitch Novotny’s dog. It had been an accident; Jan hadn’t even known he’d hit the dog because he’d been having one of his headaches . . . just as he’d had one of his headaches the night the hitchhiker was murdered and her body left on the cape. The hit-and-run killing of a dog, the strangulation murder of a young woman. Hardly equivalent, and yet . . .

  Those headaches and his sudden mood changes over the past year—it was almost as if he had undergone a personality change. And the way he seemed to be keeping something from her. At times it was like living with a stranger, someone she really didn’t know or understand. And all because of those headaches.

  He’d minimized them upon his return from Portland, had claimed the doctor there had found no organic cause. But now she began to wonder if he might have been lying to her. No, not lying . . . trying to protect her from some kind of disturbing knowledge. She had to find out more about those headaches, for her own peace of mind. But their own doctor—and close friend—had refused to discuss them with her; and if Dave Sanderson wouldn’t reveal the nature of the problem, surely the Portland specialist would be even more reluctant to do so. Perhaps if she called Dave, explained the urgency of the situation. . . .

  And if he still refused? If he didn’t even know how serious the headaches were because Jan hadn’t told him?

  Over the past few years she’d become accustomed to keeping her problems to herself, taken pride in her ability to cope with and solve them on her own. But now she wished she had someone to confide in, to give her advice. Her best friend, Kay? No, theirs wasn’t that intimate a relationship. Alison, her future business partner? Impossible. Her mother? It would merely frighten her, Mom was strong in her way, but she didn’t deal well with emotional issues. Her father? God, no. If she alarmed him, he’d want to fly up here and take over. Alix shuddered at the thought of the chaos that would result.

/>   No, she’d have to deal with this on her own, too, in her own way. And the first step was to call Dave Sanderson. She wouldn’t be able to do that from the lighthouse, of course; even though Jan had taken to spending most of his time up in the tower, sound carried so easily in the place that he’d be certain to overhear every word of the conversation. The best thing would be to drive to Bandon—they still needed groceries and she would never go back to the Hilliard General Store—and make the call from a pay phone.

  She reached for the ignition key, started the engine again. A plan of action always made her feel better, more in control of a situation and of her own emotions. And now more than ever, until she found out what was causing Jan’s headaches and was able to rid herself of her nagging doubts, she needed to maintain control.

  Mitch Novotny

  Mitch stubbed out his cigarette and gestured down the bar. “Another bottle of Henry’s, Les.”

  “Kind of early, ain’t it?”

  “You my goddamn wife or something?”

  “Don’t get sore, Mitch. I was only—”

  “Yeah, you were only. Another Henry’s.”

  “Sure. You’re the boss.”

  That’s a laugh, Mitch thought moodily. I’m not the boss of anything these days, including my own frigging life. Not enough of a catch this morning to pay for another tankful of diesel; barely enough this week to buy groceries and pay the mortgage on the house. Old Jimmy engine acting up worse every day, quit on him any day now; he felt it every time he cranked the son of a bitch up for another run. Things weren’t bad enough, he’d come in at nine-thirty, hungry and drag-ass tired, and Marie and her old lady had started in on him. Hadn’t even let him pour himself a cup of coffee, get a bite of toast. Just started right in on him soon as he walked in the door.

  “Doctor says I might have to have a cesarean, Mitch. How are we going to pay for that?”

  “Can’t you get another job, Mitch? You got to take better care of Marie and my grandkids.”

  “There’s no milk in the house, Mitch. Kids are crying for milk.”

  “Mrs. Hilliard looks at me with pity, Mitch. You think I like people to look at me that way?”

  “Mitch, what are we going to do?”

  “Mitch, you better do something.”

  “Mitch, Mitch, Mitch . . . ”

  Jesus, it was enough to drive you crazy. He’d got out of there. Hadn’t even had his breakfast; they took the appetite right out of a man, harping, all the time harping. It wasn’t his fault. He was trying, wasn’t he? Doing all he could?

  He lit another cigarette as Les Cummins, the Sea Breeze’s day bartender, set down the fresh bottle of Henry’s. Fifth beer since he’d come in, and it was only ten-thirty. Keep this up, he’d be shit-faced by mid-afternoon. No sense in that. What good did it do? You sobered up, you still had the same problems and a hangover on top of them. He couldn’t afford to get drunk, that was another thing. Couldn’t afford the five bottles of Henry’s he’d had already. Or the ten cigarettes he’d smoked. Half a pack and it was only ten-thirty and he was supposed to be rationing himself to a pack a day. Pretty soon he’d have to give up smoking and drinking altogether. Then what would he have? Nothing, not a frigging thing. Couldn’t even get laid, with Marie all swollen up like a balloon. Maybe wouldn’t get any nookie for months, if she had to have a cesarean and took a long time to mend.

  What the hell was the use? Man had to have some hope, see some light at the end of the tunnel; man had to have something to live for. What did he have? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.

  Mitch poured his glass full and drank half of it. Les was down at the other end of the bar, reading the Coos Bay paper; he knew Mitch didn’t feel like talking—he damn well better know it. There wasn’t anybody else in the Sea Breeze this early. Or there wasn’t until half a minute later, when the door opened and Seth Bonner blew in.

  Shit, Mitch thought. He knew Bonner would come straight over and start babbling at him, and sure enough, there he was perched on the next stool, saying, “You’re early today, Mitch. How come? You got something to celebrate?”

  “Go away, Seth.”

  “What’s the matter? You don’t want company?”

  “You’re smarter than you look.”

  “Huh?”

  “Go bend Les’s ear. He likes it; I don’t.”

  “Hell, Mitch . . . ”

  “You want me to shove you down the bar?”

  Bonner got up and went down to where Les was, looking hurt. Well, fuck him, Mitch thought. He drained his glass, refilled it with what was left in the bottle.

  “What’s in the paper?” Bonner asked Les. “Anything new about the murder?”

  “If there is, it ain’t printed here.”

  “No story at all?”

  “Short one. They identified the girl—Miranda Collins, student up at the U. of Oregon.”

  “What was she doing down here?”

  “They don’t know. No family in this area or anywheres else in the state. She’s from up in Idaho.”

  “Hitchhiking to California, maybe,” Bonner said. “Everybody wants to go to California, seems like.”

  “Not me. I like it here.”

  “Me too. California’s full of queers and weirdos.”

  “Miranda,” Les said. “I knew a girl named Miranda once. Pretty little thing.”

  “This one wasn’t pretty, not when they found her.”

  “Yeah? You see her, Seth?”

  “Seen her picture, the one they printed in the paper.”

  “Can’t tell much from that kind of picture.”

  “Tell enough,” Bonner said. “She wasn’t pretty dead and she wasn’t so pretty alive, neither. Maybe that was why she wasn’t raped.”

  “How do you know she wasn’t raped?”

  “Talked to Deputy Frank Pierce over to the café last night. He stopped by for coffee while I was having dinner and I asked him and he said she wasn’t raped. Just strangled, that’s all.”

  “Pierce tell you anything else?”

  “Well,” Bonner said, real sly, “she was pregnant.”

  “The hell she was.”

  “That’s what Frank Pierce said. Four months pregnant.”

  “Wonder who the father was.”

  “Some college kid. Who cares?”

  “Maybe he’s the one killed her.”

  “Way over here on the coast?”

  “Why not? Maybe she wasn’t hitchhiking at all. Maybe he brought her down here and strangled her because she got herself knocked up.”

  “Wasn’t any college kid strangled her,” Bonner said. “I told Frank Pierce who I think done it, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “Who do you think done it?”

  “Ryerson, that’s who. Out at the light.”

  “Why’d he do a thing like that?”

  “He’s crazy, that’s why. One of them homicidal maniacs. He run down Mitch’s dog, didn’t he?”

  “Big difference between running down a dog and strangling a woman, Seth.”

  “We never had no murder around here before he come,” Bonner said. “No murder in thirty-seven years, that’s what the papers said. Thirty-seven years and then Ryerson shows up and now Red’s dead and we got us a girl strangled right here in Hilliard, not more’n two miles from the Cape Despair Light.”

  “Seems funny, sure. But that don’t necessarily mean Ryerson killed the girl.”

  “Does as far as I’m concerned. Hey, Mitch, you think I’m right, don’t you? You think Ryerson killed that little girl?”

  Mitch didn’t say anything. He was tired of all this talk—all morning, ever since he’d brought the Spindrift in, nothing but talk, talk, talk. His head was pounding: the beer and the cigarettes and the talk. He needed some air, some peace and quiet. He could get that much, by Christ, if he couldn’t get anything else.

  He climbed off his stool, told Les to put the beers on his tab, and went out with Bonner calling something after him that he didn’t l
isten to. It was a cold day, cold and gray; the sky had a dead look, like the way he felt inside. He walked down along the bay, away from the boat slips and the cannery because he didn’t want to run into Hod or Adam or any of his other buddies. They’d ask him what was wrong, try to cheer him up. He didn’t want that; it would only make things worse.

  He walked out near the southern headland. Where the thin strip of beach began to curve, he stopped and sat down on a driftwood log and looked out to sea. There wasn’t anybody else around. The wind lashed at him, but he didn’t mind that. Didn’t mind the cold either. Out here his head didn’t hurt nearly as much as it had in the Sea Breeze.

  After a time he found that he wasn’t looking at the ocean anymore; he was looking out at the rocky shore of the cape. You couldn’t see the lighthouse from here, but he was seeing it inside his head. Ryerson, too, out there all smug and satisfied, like some king in his little private castle. What did he have to worry about, the bastard? He had plenty of money—he had everything a man could want. Red’s blood on his hands and he had everything and you couldn’t touch him, a man like that, couldn’t touch him at all. It wasn’t right. It just wasn’t right.

  Hey, Mitch, you think I’m right, don’t you? You think Ryerson killed that little girl?

  Talk, that was all. Bullshit talk. Or was it? Ryerson had killed Red, run him down that way, in cold blood; man who’d do a thing like that was capable of murdering a human being, wasn’t he? Maybe old Bonner was right. Maybe Ryerson had strangled that girl.

  But then why hadn’t the state troopers arrested him? Didn’t know what the hell they were doing, could be. Hamstrung by a lot of legal crap. That was why they hadn’t arrested him for murdering Red, wasn’t it? Man was a killer and they hadn’t done anything about it. Weren’t going to do anything about it, way it looked. Just let him keep on sitting out there, smug and satisfied, safe, until he felt like killing somebody else’s dog—somebody else’s kid, too, maybe.

  Something ought to be done, by God. He’d been going to do something himself, even before that girl turned up dead. Wasn’t that what he’d said to Hod and Adam? That bastard won’t get away with it, he’d said. I’ll see to that, he’d said, I’ll fix his wagon. There are ways, he’d said.