The Lighthouse: A Novel of Terror

by Bill Pronzini, Marcia Muller

  “Just what is it you want from me, Mrs. Ryerson?” he said.

  The question surprised her; she was still caught up in her emotions. Frowning, she said, “Understanding. Advice. A sympathetic ear.”

  “I can listen, but I can’t give you advice. Only you can know your own conscience, your own marriage—the dynamic that operates there.”

  “That’s the trouble—I don’t. The ‘dynamic,’ as you call it, seems to have changed in the last year.”

  But Olsen didn’t seem to want to listen to that, either. He sat on one of the benches, crossed one leg over the other, examined the toe of one well-worn sneaker. Finally, he said in a reflective voice, “As for the men in the village ... you must remember that most of them are fishermen and that they are under a severe strain. You do know their situation?”

  “I know the fishing has been bad, yes . . . ”

  “Some, such as Mitch Novotny, are living marginally,” Olsen said. “Mitch owns his home and boat, but both are heavily mortgaged and he is afraid of losing them. And he has another child on the way—did you know that?”

  Again she felt herself growing impatient. “What does that have to do with his harassment of my husband and me? I’m sorry he’s having financial problems, but that doesn’t give him or anyone else the right to victimize other people.”

  “Mrs. Ryerson, please try to understand—”

  “I might say the same to you, Reverend Olsen.”

  He blinked at her in his sad way, gave her a look that was almost pleading. But it touched her not at all. She had tired of his excuses and platitudes; they made her feel foolish, and very sorry that she had come here.

  “We’re being terrorized,” she said. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  “Of course it does . . . ”

  “But you don’t want to hear about it or do anything about it. All you want to do is protect your friends and neighbors.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is true. Take a good look at yourself, listen to yourself. You’re afraid to help us because we’re outsiders, because it’ll make you look bad in the eyes of your parishioners, and because you’re afraid what the gossip-mongers like Lillian Hilliard are saying might be true.”

  Olsen was silent, his expression both pained and troubled.

  “Well, think about this, Reverend. Think about how you’ll feel if something more serious than having our well polluted or our car riddled with bullets happens to us. Think about the consequences if one of us is shot instead.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Ryerson, I’m sure it will never come to that.”

  “Are you? Are you, really?”

  Olsen raised his pale eyes to her. And behind the torment reflected there, she saw clearly what had been masked in them before—the true essence of the man. It was weakness augmented by fear and self-doubt; it was cowardice. The Reverend Harvey Olsen was a poor excuse for both a minister and a human being.

  She stared at him for several seconds, letting him see her anger and her contempt. Then she turned abruptly and stalked out of his church.

  Alix

  When she came in sight of the lighthouse an hour later, she saw an old olive-colored humpbacked sedan parked just outside the gate. She didn’t recognize it—but she did recognize the woman walking across the yard. It was Cassie Lang, wrapped in a heavy brown sweater and matching scarf.

  Her surprise gave way to wariness as both she and Cassie neared the old sedan. Had Cassie come because she was still a friend? Or was she there for some other reason, one that confirmed she was on the side of Lillian Hilliard and the other villagers? A friendly face would be welcome, God knew . . . but even at that, her timing could have been better. It was Jan she wanted to talk to now.

  After she’d left the church she’d driven aimlessly for a while, following the coast highway nearly a dozen miles south before she turned back. Her anger and disgust had gradually faded, leaving her determined not to confide in anyone else, to deal with the situation strictly on her own from now on. And even more convinced that she and Jan must leave the lighthouse as soon as possible. Subtle argument hadn’t swayed him; neither had a more direct approach. But what about a direct approach in a less emotionally charged setting than Cape Despair? If she could persuade him to go someplace for dinner—anywhere but Hilliard—then maybe they could talk, really talk, and she could make him understand her position.

  As she neared the gate, Cassie waved and pulled it open for her. Alix drove through, stopped the Ford near the garage, and got out. Cassie had shut the gate again and was coming toward her, smiling in a friendly way.

  “Hi,” Cassie said. “I was afraid I’d missed you.”

  “I’ve been out for a drive.”

  “Where’s your husband? No one answered when I knocked on the door.”

  “He was working on his book when I left,” Alix lied. “He gets so involved sometimes, he doesn’t pay any attention to his surroundings.”

  “Well, I can understand that. I’m the same way.”

  “Yes, so am I.” Alix paused. “I stopped by to see you the other day, but the gallery was closed.”

  “I wasn’t feeling well—a touch of the flu, I guess. I spent the day in bed. Did you ring the bell at the house?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “I must have been asleep; I’m a heavy sleeper. I’m sorry I missed you.”

  “Me, too,” Alix said, and felt herself relax. So she did have one friend in the village after all. She’d all but written Cassie off for no good reason. She should have known better than to jump to conclusions, even in a place like Hilliard.

  Cassie said, “I should have called before I drove out, but I’m feeling so much better today and I decided an outing would do me good . . . I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “I thought if you’re not busy, I’d take you up on your offer of a tour of the lighthouse.”

  “Well . . . this isn’t a good day for it, I’m afraid. Jan’s working and I don’t like to disturb him.”

  “Oh, I understand. We could walk on the beach for a while, though, couldn’t we? Unless you have something you need to do?”

  Alix hesitated, glancing toward the light. “I don’t know . . . ”

  “Just for a little while? It’s such a nice day.”

  There was something plaintive in Cassie’s voice—a need for companionship that Alix understood all too well. And it was a nice day, at least as far as the weather was concerned: the last of the overcast had blown inland or burned off, leaving the sky cloudless, and there was very little wind. The sun transformed objects that had previously seemed drab or ugly, invested the patchy grass with a subtle green, the rocks with a rich brown, the sea with deep blues and turquoises. It was the kind of rare fall day made for a walk on the beach.

  Well, why not, then? It was early yet; what difference did it make if she talked to Jan now or an hour from now? Talking to him tonight, away from Cape Despair, was the important thing.

  “I guess I can spare an hour or so,” she said. “Can we get down to the beach from here?”

  “Oh, yes.” The plaintive quality was gone; Cassie seemed almost animated now, as if spending an hour with Alix—with anyone—meant a great deal to her. “I know a way down the cliffs you probably haven’t discovered. One of the women in the village told me about it. I’ve been there three or four times when the weather’s good, to pick through the driftwood.”

  The route down to the beach, it turned out, was only a short distance from the lighthouse gate—no more than four hundred yards. Cassie led her on a zig-zag course among dun-colored outcrops and boulders to a series of natural—and crumbling—“steps” that scaled the cliff wall. Alix paused as the gallery owner started down, feeling a brief flash of vertigo. But when she saw that Cassie didn’t seem to have any trouble keeping her balance, she took a deep breath and followed.

  It took almost ten minutes to make it all the way down the series
of knobs and outcrops and niches; in one steep place she had to scoot a couple of yards on the seat of her jeans. When she finally reached the beach she was a little winded. But Cassie, in spite of her recent illness, looked nearly as fresh as when they’d started out.

  The beach here was narrow, no more than fifty yards wide. A third of it was strewn with driftwood, all sizes and shapes, some of the jumbled pieces driven back and up into declivities in the rocks by the force of the wind and the sea. Here and there, the stark white and gray of the wood was garnished with brownish-green seaweed. Cassie set off at an angle through the coarse, pebbly sand, Alix at her side. The sea was remarkably calm this afternoon. Further down the beach, small shorebirds—sandpipers? grebes?—ran from the breakers, then turned to chase them as they receded. Cassie made no attempt at conversation, and neither did Alix. She breathed deeply of the salt air instead, feeling it relax her even more; even the strain of her thigh muscles as she slogged through the loose sand was not unpleasant.

  As they approached the waterline, the birds scattered in a great gray and brown and white cloud, screeching their disapproval of the human interlopers. Alix sat on her heels, let one of the waves break up close to her so she could test the water. It was icy enough to make her jerk back her hand.

  Cassie’s voice came from behind her right shoulder, startling her. “On days like this, I’m almost glad I moved here.”

  “Only almost?”

  “Yes.”

  Alix stood, drying her fingers on her jeans. Then in silent accord they both turned and began to move along the wet hard-packed sand toward where the beach narrowed and finally disappeared altogether. It was windier than it had been up by the lighthouse, and Alix buttoned her jacket to the neck and thrust her hands into her pockets. Beside her Cassie seemed to be lost in thought, perhaps trying to decide if she wanted to reveal any more about her feelings for this place and for the village.

  At length Cassie said, “I hated it here when I first arrived—the bleakness, the loneliness. Now it’s . . . home, I guess, as much as any place can ever be for me.”

  “What about Eugene? That’s where you used to live, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You weren’t happy there?”

  “Well, it’s a nice town. I had a lot of friends. Belonged to an art cooperative and had my studio there. Took courses at the university extension—cooking, French, calligraphy, whatever happened to interest me at the time. And there were concerts and plays. . . . ”

  “Then why did you leave?” Alix asked. “I know you mentioned you were divorced, but Eugene is a sizable town; surely you wouldn’t have run into your ex-husband very often.”

  “It wasn’t that. I had to leave, for my own peace of mind. Ron spoiled the town for me—all my memories as well as my enjoyment of the present. Staying there would have been more than I could bear.”

  “He must have really hurt you.”

  Cassie stopped walking and turned to face the water, standing still with her back to Alix. There was a fishing boat on the horizon, a small speck that barely moved; she seemed to be watching it. But Alix sensed she wasn’t.

  After a time Cassie said, “Ron is a professor at the university. Anthropology. There were women from his classes, girls really . . . a constant stream of them almost from the first year we were married. You’re a faculty wife; you know how some professors are, the temptations, sex in return for a decent grade. . . . ”

  “Yes, I know,” Alix said a little awkwardly. “I’ve seen it happen at Stanford.”

  “But not to your husband.”

  “No.”

  Thank God he’d never fallen into that trap, she thought. Not that she knew of, at least. The extension of the thought came as a mild surprise; she’d never suspected him of straying since the time she’d gone up to Boston and checked his closet for another woman’s clothing. Surely she’d have known if there had been someone else, wouldn’t she?

  But lately, in some ways, it seemed she’d never known him at all.

  “ . . . an old story, isn’t it?” Cassie was saying bitterly. “Happens all the time.”

  “More often than we care to think about.” But Alix’s mind was still on Jan.

  “I wouldn’t have cared about an occasional fling,” Cassie said. “I can understand temptation and weakness as well as the next person. But with Ron it was constant, one romance after another. ”

  “He didn’t tell you about them, did he?”

  “Oh no. He was very discreet; he had to be, because of his position. But I knew. I always knew.”

  “What finally made you leave him?”

  Cassie was silent for a moment. “I guess,” she said then, “he went one romance too far.”

  She turned, hugging her sweater closely about her, and continued on toward where the beach ended in a fall of rocks. Alix fell in at her side, wondering what she would have done in such a situation. The same as Cassie, probably. Only she wouldn’t have waited nearly so long. Or would she?

  They walked in silence until they reached the jumble of rocks. Then, as they turned and started back, Alix said, “Well, all that’s behind you—your life in Eugene, I mean. You’ve made a new start here, and it’s to your credit that you did it on your own.”

  “I suppose so,” Cassie said. But her smile was wry. “But is the past ever really dead? Don’t the bad things come back to haunt us sometimes, in one way or another?”

  Alix felt a small chill. “It doesn’t have to be like that.”

  “Not for you, maybe. I hope it never does. I hope all that’s happened here doesn’t come back to haunt you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Her voice was sharper than she’d intended it, and Cassie glanced at her, then glanced away. There was a pause, awkward now. Then Cassie said, “Well, one can’t help but hear things in a place this small. I told you before, Lillian Hilliard’s stock in trade is rumor and gossip and innuendo; she was in her glory when I went into the store this morning. I don’t put any stock in that kind of malicious tongue-wagging, but I can’t help wondering how it’s affecting you and your husband.”

  And suddenly Alix couldn’t help wondering if that was the real reason Cassie had come out here this afternoon, or at least part of it. She didn’t want to believe that; it would diminish the woman, make her less than the friend she seemed to want to be. But there was the evident fact that Cassie herself was something of a gossip, and that alone was enough to keep Alix from backing down on her resolve not to confide in anyone else in this area. A casual friend was one thing; an ally was another. And her only ally in this situation, the only person she could count on—at least until she could make Jan listen to reason—was herself.

  She smiled wanly at Cassie and said, “It’s not affecting us very much at all. It’s pure nonsense, of course.”

  “Oh, of course. But . . . well, there was that incident with Mitch Novotny’s dog. . . . ”

  “Accident, not incident,” Alix said. “Cassie, if you don’t mind, I really don’t want to talk about this.”

  “Well, if that’s how you feel.”

  “I’ve just got too many things on my mind, that’s all. And one of them is my current sketch for Jan’s book. It’s been pleasant, but I really should be getting back.”

  As they began to scale the cliff, Cassie’s expression was one of hurt, disappointment, and something else that might have been a mild irritation. Momentarily, Alix felt guilty for being so abrupt with her; after all, Cassie had confided in her. But Cassie’s problems were in the past, while hers were much more immediate. And, she reminded herself, she couldn’t be sure of Cassie’s motives in pursuing the friendship. As she’d decided earlier, it was better to keep her personal affairs to herself.

  Jan

  Writing was impossible; he hadn’t written anything for days now. Every time he sat down with his notes and his research material, his thoughts became disorganized, fragmented. He was capable of thinking of one perfectly good
sentence, but seldom of the one that followed it in a natural progression.

  Lately he’d spent most of his time either in the lightroom or up in the lantern working on the Fresnel lens. The lantern was where he’d gone after Alix left in the car. He had still been in the bathroom then, cleaning the tub and walls and floor with bottled water and disinfectants, and he’d heard the car and looked out and seen her driving away. She hadn’t even told him she was leaving. But she would be back before long; she would never leave him permanently without saying good-bye.

  He worked on the glass prisms and bull’s-eyes with cleaner and soft cloth. Catadioptric prisms refract and reflect; dioptric prisms and bull’s-eye lens refract. And what exactly does this mean, professor? Thus, the lens bends and magnifies rays so as to create a single plane of brilliant light. Very good. Two cohesive sentences in a row. Too bad he wasn’t downstairs at his typewriter. But then if he were, he wouldn’t be able to think of the next sentence. He didn’t even try now.

  It was cold up here, but he was sweating; a drop of perspiration rolled down his cheek, to the corner of his mouth. It tasted salty, like a tear.

  He moved the lens slightly on its ball-bearing track. He had spent half a day greasing and adjusting the track, so as to once again allow the lens to move smoothly and easily. Some large Fresnels were placed on wheels, others mounted on ball-bearing track, still others floated in beds of mercury. He turned the lens a bit more, to reach the rest of the catadioptric prisms near the bottom. He was almost done with the cleaning. Another few minutes would do it. This type of lens utilizes a set flash-and-eclipse pattern, which is known as the “light characteristic”; the interval of its repetition is known as its “period.” Ah, yes. And what did the Fresnel lens say to the approaching ship? Not tonight, dear, I’m having my period.

  The quality of light coming through the lantern windows brightened suddenly. He glanced up and saw a shaft of sunshine, saw pieces of blue scattered among the gray wisps outside. The fog was burning off, the sky becoming clear. He stood up, squinting against the glare. Out to sea, the sun reflected in quicksilver flashes off the ruffled water. Beautiful sight. Better enjoy it now, all simple things like this, while he still could.