The Lighthouse: A Novel of Terror

by Bill Pronzini, Marcia Muller

  “I don’t think anything.” She said it urgently, in a tone of voice he had never heard her use before. She kept looking out toward the empty highway, her head cocked to one side, listening. “I don’t want them to think anything either. I don’t want them to see you like this and I don’t want them to know you weren’t home last night.”

  “You mean . . . lie to them?”

  “That’s just what I mean. I’ll say you were at the lighthouse all night and you say the same thing. You were with me the whole time. Now go, hurry!”

  She was pushing him toward the car as she spoke. He wanted to resist and yet he didn’t, he couldn’t. He opened the door, bent his body in under the wheel.

  “Wash your face and change your clothes when you get there,” she said. “Try to get a grip on yourself.”

  “I’m all right now. Alix, I didn’t, I couldn’t . . . ”

  “I know. Just go, go!”

  She slammed the door, and he started the engine and drove away from her, out onto the still-deserted highway. In the rearview mirror he watched her grow smaller, less distinct in the mist; it was as if pieces of her were being consumed by it, so that only diminishing fragments—part of her face, one blue-coated arm, the lower halves of her legs—remained. And then they, too, were gone, and he was turning past the sign that said CAP DES PERES LIGHTHOUSE, 3 MILES, CLOSED TO THE PUB-Llc, jouncing along the rutted cape road, alone again in the darkening gray.

  I didn’t, I couldn’t . . .

  Could I? he thought.

  Did I?

  Alix

  She watched Jan closely as they talked with the state homicide detective, Frank Sinclair. He was sitting in the single chair near the woodstove, his head backlit by the side window. The comparative darkness of the room accentuated the paleness of the skin around his beard, made his cheekbones seem more prominent. His face was immobile as Sinclair posed his questions; only his eyes gave any hint of his inner upheaval.

  She wanted to believe that Sinclair saw Jan’s agitation as nothing more than the normal reaction of a man who has been awakened from a supposedly sound sleep to the unsettling news of another murder. Jan was adept at hiding his true feelings behind his professorial facade—from others, at least. What she saw in his eyes were emotions much more complex than simple shock. And one of them was fear.

  “Mrs. Ryerson?”

  She blinked at Sinclair, realizing she’d lost the thread of his questioning. He was a chubby man dressed in a gray tweed jacket and gray slacks; his mustache was the only distinctive feature in an otherwise bland face, and that only because it grew more fully on the right side than on the left. He seemed sensitive to the defect, because periodically he stroked the sparser side—as if it were a defenseless animal in need of comforting. To the casual observer, his appearance might have been deceptively reassuring, but her artist’s eye picked out the determined ridges of muscle around his mouth, the sharp intelligence concealed beneath the bland exterior and thick dark-rimmed glasses. When he’d questioned them after the murder of the hitchhiker, she had recognized and been made wary by those qualities. After close to an hour with him this morning, she had come to regard him as a man who would be a dangerous adversary.

  She cleared her throat and said, “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I didn’t hear what you said.”

  His mouth twitched reprovingly; he patted the left side of his mustache as if it were responsible for the twitch and he wanted to calm it. “I said that I’d like to go over the chronology of events another time, to make sure I have everything straight.”

  “All right.”

  Sinclair looked down at the notepad he’d been writing on. “Now, Mrs. Ryerson, you say you couldn’t sleep, so you got up early and went for a walk?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Was there any particular reason for your sleeplessness?”

  “No. I was just . . . restless. Things on my mind.”

  Sinclair cocked his head interrogatively.

  “The book my husband and I are working on,” she said.

  “Ah, yes. A history of North American lighthouses, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. He’s writing it and I’m illustrating it.”

  Sinclair nodded. “What time did you leave on your walk?”

  “Close to seven.”

  “And your husband was asleep at the time?”

  “He was, yes.”

  “Mr. Ryerson,” Sinclair said to Jan, “were you aware your wife had gone out?”

  “No. I’m a very sound sleeper.”

  “And you were stilj asleep when she came back and told you what she’d found?”

  “Yes.”

  Again Sinclair consulted his notepad, allowing the silence to build. Jan was also looking at it, as if trying to read what the detective had written there. Then his gaze flicked up and over to Alix. There was a vague glassy quality to them, she thought, as if they were filmed with a thin layer of ice. But Sinclair wouldn’t have noted that. Or had he?

  The questioning continued. Why had Alix walked so far this morning? Because she’d wanted to exercise. What had made her notice Mandy’s bicycle? Why had she gone as far as that circle of pines looking for the girl? On and on, some of the questions asked more than once, in subtly different guises. Then he shifted gears and asked again about the trouble they’d been having here at the light. Alix had explained it once, holding nothing back; it would have been foolish not to, and it diverted suspicion away from Jan, perhaps to where it actually belonged.

  “Mr. Ryerson,” Sinclair asked, “why didn’t you call us when these things started happening—the polluted well, the rats in the pantry?”

  “What could you have done without proof of who was responsible? What can you do now?”

  “Talk to Mr. Novotny, for one thing. Surely you could see the value in at least filing a report.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I think we might have done that today,” Alix said quickly. “Even if this terrible new thing hadn’t happened.”

  “Mandy Bamett’s murder, you mean?”

  “My finding her body. Yes.”

  “But that is why you told me about the incidents?”

  “Well, we didn’t want to hold anything back,” she said, “anything that might be important. Mandy’s death could be related to what Mitch Novotny has been doing to us, couldn’t it?”

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t know. But her father is a friend of Novotny’s. It’s possible he was involved in those malicious acts against us.”

  Sinclair made a note but said nothing.

  Alix went on. “And the girl was on her way to see me last night. She said on the phone she needed to talk to me. I don’t see what else she could have wanted to talk about except the harassment; there was no other connection between us.”

  “You think she wanted to tell you who was responsible? Or something else?”

  “I just don’t know.”

  Sinclair stroked his lopsided mustache. “You can be sure we’ll look into that possibility, Mrs. Ryerson. Among others. Meanwhile, I think it would be a good idea if you and your husband filed a report on the incidents as soon as possible.”

  “Yes. Whatever you say.”

  “Mr. Ryerson? Do you agree?”

  Jan nodded. “Yes, all right.”

  More questions. On and on, until the sound of his voice began to grate on Alix’s nerves. She continued to watch Jan closely, to see if he was starting to weaken under the constant barrage of questions. But he seemed the same as he had at the beginning, with his fear still masked beneath his calm exterior, just as Sinclair’s bulldog tenacity was masked beneath his calm exterior.

  It was another half hour before Sinclair finally seemed satisfied. He rose then, thanked them for their cooperation, and issued the standard warning not to leave the area without first notifying his office. His departure left them in an echoing silence that Alix broke by saying, “Thank God that’s over!”

  “I
s it?” Jan said. He gave her a bleak look. “I’d guess it’s just starting.”

  He was right, of course. There would be other interrogations, other questions. Sinclair was no fool; he could sense that something was wrong here. But that was not her immediate worry. Jan was.

  She refused to believe he was a murderer; if she even admitted the possibility, after the horrifying, elemental experience of finding Mandy’s body, she would be risking her sanity. And it wasn’t just blind faith in his innocence, either. There was physical evidence: she’d examined the front of the car at the rest area, found no scrapes or dents, no streaks of electric blue, as there would have been if he were the one who’d run Mandy down on her bicycle. No, the man she knew, loved, lived with was the same decent, harmless man he’d always been. It was something else, something profound, that had made him afraid, made him need her so much. Something to do with those headaches. She would find out what it was, and they would deal with it together.

  But not here. She couldn’t reach him here; he couldn’t seem to talk to her. They had to get away from Cape Despair first. If she knew nothing else, she knew that that was imperative for both their sakes.

  She was about to speak, to put her thoughts into words, when Jan raised his head—he had been staring at his hands—and looked at her. His eyes seemed to have lost their thin film, as if it had melted under some sudden heat—the heat of decision, of resolve.

  He said, “Alix, I think you should leave here. Right away.”

  It was almost an echo of her thoughts, and the last thing she had expected him to say. “Do you mean that?”

  “Of course I mean it. Go to Bandon, take a motel room for a day or two.”

  “Both of us?”

  “No. Just you.”

  She stared at him. “What about you?”

  “I’ll stay here.”

  “Jan, I don’t understand. . . . ”

  “We need some time apart. I need it . . . some time alone.”

  “But why?”

  “I can’t explain now.” He got to his feet, came over to stand in front of her. His eyes were almost pleading, now. “Please don’t argue with me, or ask me any more questions. Just pack a bag and leave. In a day or two . . . then you’ll understand. I promise you that.”

  Would she understand? She didn’t now; she felt again that they were on the brink of losing each other, of becoming strangers. The bond between them was so fragile. If she left him at this crisis point, it might snap.

  And what would he do out here alone? What if he had another bad headache? Or what if Novotny came back, retaliated further? She wanted to ask him, demand reassurances, but she couldn’t. He’d said, “Please don’t argue with me, or ask me any more questions.” It would be a breach of faith, another strain on the bond, if she ignored that plea. Might make the crisis even worse.

  His eyes were still pleading with her, filled with his need. She felt a sudden wrench of pain. Jan had seldom needed her at all, and now his need had become a negative one. Nonetheless, it was one she couldn’t ignore.

  “All right,” she said. “All right, I’ll go.”

  Hod Barnett

  Adam kept saying, “Poor Mandy. Jesus, that poor little girl.”

  Mitch kept saying, “It was Ryerson. Nothing like this ever happened around here until that goddamn psycho showed up. It was Ryerson, I tell you.”

  Hod didn’t know what to say, what to think. He felt numb.

  He felt as if somebody had scooped a big piece out of him somewhere inside. The place where it had been didn’t hurt yet. It would pretty soon, he knew that, but right now it didn’t. It was just numb, like the left side of his face had been numb that time he’d had the impacted wisdom tooth and the dentist in Bandon had shot him full of novocaine.

  Della wasn’t numb, though; better for her if she was. She’d screamed when they told her, and then collapsed, and Mitch’s wife and his mother-in-law had come over and calmed her down and put her to bed. They’d got a doctor to come from Bandon and give her something, a shot of something—Mitch said don’t worry, he’d pay for it—and now she was resting in their trailer, with Marie Novotny and her mother right there to keep anybody from bothering her. They were taking care of Tad and Jason, too. The boys didn’t understand what it was all about, they were too young, but they knew something bad had happened to their sister and they’d both been bawling their heads off when Hod had left with Mitch and Adam.

  And now here he was, sitting in Mitch’s living room—just the three of them, no more troopers, no more sheriff’s men, no more questions, and for the time being no more neighbors standing around gawking. Just him and his two best friends, drinking beer he couldn’t taste, listening to words that didn’t mean anything to him because of that big numb place inside that wouldn’t let him feel anything.

  “Poor Mandy,” Adam was saying, “that poor little girl.”

  “Troopers better arrest Ryerson damned quick, that’s all I got to say,” Mitch said. “Before anything else happens.”

  “Mad dog like that,” Adam said, “he ought to be shot. No trial, none of that crap where a smart shyster can get him off. Just take him out and shoot him.”

  “Shoot him or lock him up,” Mitch said, “just so he can’t hurt no other young girls.”

  “Jesus, poor Mandy. That poor kid.”

  “He’s a psycho, that’s what he is. Gets his kicks killing people, animals—just killing them.”

  “Son of a bitch ought to be shot dead.”

  “Hod,” Mitch said, “you okay?”

  “Yeah,” Hod said, “I’m okay.”

  “Another beer? Something to eat?”

  “No, not right now.”

  Mitch put an arm around him, the way he had two or three times today. “You sure you’re okay? You want to lay down or something?”

  “No,” Hod said, “I don’t want to lay down.”

  “Maybe be alone for a while? Go back to your place?”

  “No. I don’t want to be alone.”

  “Stay here with us, then, that what you want to do?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure you can. Stay as long as you want.”

  “We know how you feel,” Adam said. “Don’t we, Mitch?”

  “Sure we do. We know just how you feel.”

  Mandy’s dead, Hod thought, my daughter’s dead. And he still couldn’t feel anything.

  Alix

  She replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle and sat on the edge of the hard double bed, staring at the bland motel wallpaper. It was—what else?—a seashell pattern, dozens of turquoise cowries alternating with pink conches against a tan background that was probably supposed to be sand. When you looked at it for more than a few seconds it all merged into a muddy swirl, as if waves had engulfed the vinyl-coated beach.

  Her first act after setting her overnight bag down on the luggage rack had been to call Jan and give him the name and phone number of the motel. He had been pleasant, had sounded glad to hear she’d arrived safely, and yet she sensed that underneath the superficial normalcy he was withdrawn, brooding. Yes, everything was all right, he’d said. Yes, he would be talking to her again soon; in the meantime she wasn’t to worry about him.

  She was worried.

  Why did he need to be apart from her for a day or two, alone at the light? Did he have some romantic notion of defending it against Mitch Novotny, some dangerous plan that he didn’t want to risk involving her in? Or was it just that he wanted time to work out whatever was plaguing him, perhaps to make up his mind to confess it to her? She fervently hoped that was the answer. It was the one thing, more than any other right now, that would reinforce the fragile bond between them.

  She sighed and fumbled in her purse for Frank Sinclair’s card. The next order of business was to inform his office of her whereabouts. The card was a no-frills white with black lettering, and it bore an address in Coos Bay. She debated driving up there instead of calling—getting out of this room, which was
already beginning to make her feel claustrophobic. But a curious lethargy seemed to have taken hold of her, and the debate lasted only a few seconds before she again picked up the telephone receiver, punched the button for an outside line, and dialed.

  Sinclair was in his office, and she was able to give him her message personally. There was a pause—he was probably noting down the address and number—and then he said, “I think you were wise to leave Cap Des Peres, Mrs. Ryerson. And since you’re fairly close by, I’ll be expecting you and your husband to come in soon and file a report on those incidents you mentioned. ”

  “Would tomorrow be all right?”

  “Yes, fine.”

  “Is it . . . all right if I come alone? Or do you need both of us to sign the report?”

  “Isn’t your husband there with you?”

  “No. He . . . decided to stay at the lighthouse alone for a day or two. He seems to feel it shouldn’t be left unattended.”

  “I see.” She could picture Sinclair stroking the straggly side of his mustache.

  When he didn’t go on, she took a breath and said, “Mr. Sinclair, I’m concerned for my husband’s safety. Have you talked to Mitch Novotny yet?”

  “I have. He denies any harassment of you and your husband.”

  “Of course he does. But what if he tries something else?”

  “I don’t think that’s likely. I suggested to him that it would be a very unwise thing for anyone to do.”

  “I hope you’re right. Is there any chance . . . well, that he’s the one who killed Mandy Barnett and the other girl?”

  “We have no reason to think so. Do you, Mrs. Ryerson?”

  “No. It’s just that . . . well, he’d been at the light earlier, to put the rats in the pantry. What if he came back—to do something else, or to see what our reaction had been? Or what if he was the reason Mandy was so afraid . . . because he’d tried to attack her or something?”

  “Anything is possible at this stage of our investigation,” Sinclair said mildly. “However, Mr. Novotny has a very strong alibi for the approximate time of Mandy Barnett’s murder: he was home with his wife, children, and mother-in-law. They all swear to that fact. Also, he doesn’t own a dark-green automobile.”