The Lighthouse: A Novel of Terror (13 page)

The first rifle shots woke him immediately.

He sat up in bed, groggy at first, but as always when he was jerked out of sleep the disorientation passed in a few seconds and he was alert. Next to him Alix stirred, came half-awake, mumbled something incoherent. He looked past the shape of her, at the red numerals on the Sony digital clock radio. 3:18.

He had no idea at first what the noises were, didn’t identify them as gunshots until something made a metallic spanging sound outside—close outside, on the lighthouse grounds—and then he heard the hollow echo of the third shot. He thought: Jesus! and swung his legs out of bed, fumbled with hands and feet for his slippers. He was aware, now, that the room was not fully dark, that there was whitish moonlight coming through the window.

Glass shattered, faintly but unmistakably. And the reverberation of the fourth shot rolled like a small thunderclap, died away into a heavy silence.

Alix was awake now, sitting up; her voice reached out for him, frightened and confused, as he stood and groped for his robe. “Jan, what is it? What’s happening?”

“I don’t know. Stay here, I’ll find out.”

He ran out into the hall, pulling the robe around him, and half-stumbled down the stairs into the living room. The windows, like the one in the bedroom, faced seaward; there was nothing for him to see in that direction. The kitchen, then. He ran in there, leaned up to peer through the curtained window above the sink. The moonlight was bright out on the grounds: the cloud cover had broken up sometime earlier, leaving the sky clear and hazed with stars. The patch of grass that separated the lighthouse from the garage had a whitish cast, as if it had been dusted with talcum powder; the walls of the garage, the fence farther down, showed faintly luminous. He could see beyond the gate, all the way along the rutted cape road to where it jogged inland and disappeared into a hollow.

Nothing moved anywhere.

No sounds, either—no more shots. Just that intense silence, like a noise in his ears pitched too high for him to hear.

The breaking glass, he thought then. Window in the garage? But the station wagon caught and held his attention. It was parked thirty yards away, at the edge of the grass, swung around at an angle to the north; he could see that the front end was listing his way, that the left front tire was flat.

He swung away from the sink, hurried up the steps into the cloakroom for his coat, came back down and through the kitchen to the front door. Alix was standing at the foot of the stairs, clutching her old quilted housecoat around her. She had turned on the lights; they revealed the pallor of her face—the same color as the moonshine outside.

“Jan, those were shots. Was somebody—?”

“They shot the car,” he said grimly.

“What? They what?”

His head had begun to ache; he could feel the pressure starting to build again behind his eyes. “I’m going out there,” he said. “You stay here.”

“Jan, don’t—”

“Lock the door after me. Watch through the kitchen window.”

“No, wait . . . ”

But he didn’t wait; he opened the door and walked outside.

The wind had died down to a murmurous breeze; it occurred to him peripherally that that was why he had been able to hear the shots so clearly, the ricochet and the breaking glass. But it was still cold, not much above forty degrees. There was a crystal-like quality to the air, so that every object stood out in sharp relief.

He stopped five feet from the door, holding his coat bunched shut at his throat. Still nothing moving. The only sound was the gentled-down coupling of surf and rocks at the base of the cliffs. After a moment he began walking again. There was an awareness in him that he made a perfect target out here in the moonlight, that if they were still nearby they could shoot him as easily as they had shot the car. He fought down an impulse to turn back, kept moving forward instead at a slow walk. Never show fear. Never let anyone see how afraid you might be.

When he reached the Ford he saw that the right headlight had been blown out. That explained the breaking glass. He moved around the front of the car to determine if there had been any other damage. Furrow along one fender where the one bullet had ricocheted; that was all.

He turned to look back at the lighthouse. He couldn’t see Alix’s face behind the kitchen window but he was sure she was there. He lifted his hands, gestured to her that everything was all right. And it was—for now. They were gone, long gone, like the cowards they were.

He walked back across the grass at the same slow, measured pace. Alix had the door open for him; he entered and shut it and threw the bolt.

“One flat tire and one broken headlight,” he said. “I’ll put the spare on in the morning. Get the damage fixed while I’m in Portland. ”

She gripped both his arms. “Jan, you shouldn’t have gone out there. Suppose—”

“They’re gone, don’t worry.”

“We’d better call the sheriff.”

“In the morning. There’s nothing anybody can do tonight.”

“But who were they? Who’d do a thing like that?”

“Kids,” he said. “Just kids.”

But he was thinking: Mitch Novotny, that’s who.

After church on Sunday morning, Mitch went down to the boat slips to do some work on the
Spindrift.
It was a nice day, clear, ten degrees warmer now that the clouds had blown inland, and Marie had wanted to drive down the coast to Port Orford, where her sister lived. Sister knew somebody who had setter pups for sale, she said. But he wasn’t in the mood for a drive or looking at any damn setter pups. It was too soon; Red was still on his mind. Red, and that asshole out at the lighthouse. He’d snapped at her some, made her cry—Christ, you looked cross-eyed at a pregnant woman and she was like as not to bust out in tears. (Number three on the way, due in two months. He could barely provide for the five of them now; how the hell was he going to provide for a sixth? Should have had himself fixed, that was what he should have done. But Marie wouldn’t hear of it. Wasn’t natural, she said. Natural. Shit.
She
didn’t have to earn the money to pay the bills, did she?)

So then he’d left and come down here where it was quiet, where a man could have a little peace of a Sunday morning. Who could blame him? Marie bawling, her mother crooning to her and glaring at him like he was some kind of ogre—dried-up old bitch, he didn’t know why he let her keep on living with them; he should have sent her packing a long time ago—Tommy and Nita glued to the TV, sound up loud as hell so you couldn’t hear yourself think, some silly-ass cartoon show. Madhouse, that was what it was up there half the time. Damn madhouse.

He finished hosing down the worn decking, shut off the pump, and watched the last of the water run out through the scuppers. Thirty-two years old, the
Spindrift,
almost as old as him; his father had bought her new in Coos Bay. Good worker in her day, but out-of-date now and starting to rot. Outriggers too small, hydraulic winch too undependable. Old Jimmy diesel had developed problems, too; if it broke down so he couldn’t fix it, what would he do then? Bank in Bandon had already turned him down for a loan. Hang on, that was all he could do. Bust his ass hauling rockfish off the in-shore reefs—too many fishermen and not enough fish, except for perch and you couldn’t even make grocery money off perch. Yeah, and pray the goddamn salmon started running right again next season, a big run that fetched high prices from the cannery; then he could pay off enough of his debts to float a loan for an overhaul on the Spindrift, if not for a new boat altogether. New boat. Jesus, one of those fiberglass jobs with good refrigeration, an automatic depth-finder, maybe even a Loran navigation system and a hydraulic winch with an automatic trigger that pulled in a fish as soon as it hit the line—that was what he wanted, what he dreamed of owning. Never get it, though. All his life he’d had shitty luck, never got anything he really wanted. Born to lose, that was him. Just like the song.

He started to haul up the engine housing for a look at the Jimmy. What stopped him was somebody legging along the board float toward his slip. He straightened—and then he recognized who it was and he could feel his gut tighten up. Ryerson. Now what the hell? he thought. More crap about buying him a new dog?

Ryerson came down to the
Spindrift
’s aft gunwale and stopped there, a couple of feet from where Mitch was standing. Mitch didn’t move. Bastard’s hairy face was set tight, white around the nostrils, and his back was board-stiff. Pissed off about something. What did he have to be pissed off about? “You and I need to talk, Mr. Novotny.”

“We got nothing to talk about,” Mitch said. “Unless you come to admit you ran Red down on purpose.”

“It was an accident, I told you that. And I’m sorry it happened. But that doesn’t mean I’ll put up with any retaliation on your part. I want that understood right now.”

“You don’t make any sense, Ryerson. Go on back to the lighthouse, why don’t you? Leave me the hell alone.” Mitch put his back to the bastard and yanked up the engine housing.

Behind him Ryerson said, quiet, “You’ll talk to me now, or you’ll talk to the sheriff later.”

Mitch faced him again. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means, Mr. Novotny. Your little shooting spree last night.”

“Shooting spree?”

“You’re good with that rifle of yours—one smashed headlight, one ruptured tire, and some minor damage to one fender. By my estimate the repairs will cost at least two hundred dollars.”

“You’re crazy,” Mitch said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m willing to pay for the repairs myself, because of the accident with your dog. But if anything like last night happens again, I won’t put up with it. Do you understand?”

Mitch stared at him in disbelief and gathering anger. “I don’t understand none of this.”

“I mean what I say, Mr. Novotny. Stay away from the Cape Despair Light. No more nocturnal target practice, no more harassment. I called the sheriff this morning and told him about the shooting. I didn’t give him your name but if there’s any more trouble I will give it to him. I’ll swear out a complaint against you and have you arrested.”

Mitch had no words now; they were choked up in his throat. But Ryerson nodded as if he’d said something that had no answer, matched Mitch’s stare for a few seconds, then turned his back and stalked off. Mitch watched him go. He was so worked up inside, his hands started to shake when he lit a cigarette.

It took him a while to get his thoughts clear. All that shit about a shooting spree last night—crazy talk. Or was it? No, maybe not. Maybe somebody actually
did
shoot up his car. And Ryerson thought it was him, on account of Red. But who’d do a thing like that? Hell, nobody, not even kids with hot pants, went all the way out to the lighthouse at night—

Nobody except Adam Reese.

Out there on the cape lots of nights late, Adam was, looking to jacklight deer with that 30.06 of his.

Aloud, Mitch said, “Ah, for Christ’s sake.” He tossed his cigarette into the bay, coiled up the hose, put his tools away, and climbed off onto the float. He went straight from the cannery pier across the highway and up the hill to the trailer encampment.

First trailer he came to was Hod’s. Run-down old white thing with a green lattice border around the bottom and a cheap canvas awning rigged on one side—hell of a place for a man to have to live with a wife and three kids. He felt for Hod, losing his boat the way he had; but he felt for himself, too, and more. Six mouths to feed in another couple of months, not just five. And now this Ryerson coming around and threatening to have him arrested for something he hadn’t done. Jesus Christ!

Hod’s two boys, Tad and Jason, were tossing a half-flat football back and forth in the weeds out back. In front his oldest, Mandy, was sitting in the sun in a canvas-backed chair with her Sunday dress hiked up so far on her thighs you could damn near see her twat. She didn’t pull it down when he came by, either. Pretty little tease. Get herself knocked up for sure one of these days, just like Hod was always predicting.

“If you’re looking for my dad, Mr. Novotny, he’s back at Adam’s trailer.”

“Looking for Adam, thanks.”

“Sure is a nice day, isn’t it?”

“If you don’t catch a draft.”

She knew what he meant; she grinned at him bold as hell. Good thing he was Hod’s friend. Good thing he wasn’t the kind to chase around after tail, young
or
old . . . even with Marie all swollen the way she was and not wanting him to touch her in the last couple of months. A man could get himself in a lot of bad trouble over one like Mandy Barnett.

He went on past the other trailers, to the small humped old house trailer that Adam lived in. Adam had built a workshed on one side of it and a kind of covered areaway made out of wood and tin that connected it with the trailer. There was a table under the areaway, and some chairs, and Hod and Adam were sitting there with bottles of Henry’s, playing cribbage and listening to the 49er game on the radio.

Adam said, “Hey, Mitch. You want to sit in on a little crib?”

“No.”