The Lighthouse: A Novel of Terror (18 page)

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 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 listen 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.

But what had he
done?
Nothing, that’s what. Only one who’d done anything was Adam, shooting up Ryerson’s car the way he had—
he’d
taken some action, even if it hadn’t done much good. Good old Mitch, though, he hadn’t done anything except blow off at the mouth. Story of his life: talk, talk, talk. Big plans, big talk, but when it came down to the crunch . . . nothing.

But it didn’t have to keep on being that way. He didn’t have to keep on being a blowhard, a loser. Things could change. Yes, and by Christ they were
going
to change! He was tired of being pushed around, sick and tired of it. He couldn’t do much about the bad fishing or Marie or her mother or all his debts, not right now he couldn’t, but he could do something about Ryerson.

He sat there a while longer, letting the wind rip at him, letting his anger build to a high, hot flame that insulated him against the cold. Then he got up and walked back along the beach and went into Mike’s Café. There was a public telephone back by the johns; he made sure nobody was around and then got the number of the lighthouse, put a quarter in the slot, put his handkerchief around the mouthpiece as he dialed.

“hell?”

“Ryerson?”

“Yes? Who’s calling?”

“Get out of Hilliard, if you know what’s good for you. You got twenty-four hours.”

Silence for four or five seconds. Then, “Who is this?”

“You heard me, you prick. Twenty-four hours, or we’ll come and drag you out. You and your wife both.”

Mitch slammed down the receiver, hard, before Ryerson could say anything else.