The Lighthouse: A Novel of Terror (28 page)

“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.

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had sounded glad to hear she’d arrived safely, and yet she sensed that underneath the superficial normalcy he was withdrawn, brooding.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.”

“Dark-green?”

“There were green paint scrapings on the bicycle. Whoever ran Mandy Barnett down did so in a green vehicle headed toward the lighthouse, not away from it.”

“How do you know that?”

“Physical evidence—tire marks, for one thing.”

Sinclair’s news relieved her in one way. Their station wagon was brown—the final piece of evidence, if she really needed it, to prove that Jan hadn’t been responsible for Mandy’s death.

And then she thought of the first time she’d seen Mandy: smoking grass on the headland with a young man several years older, her “connection for dope.” The car they’d been leaning against had been green.

She said as much to Sinclair. And he said, “Yes, we know. His name is Mike Wilson and we’ve already questioned him. His car is the wrong green, and undamaged, and he also has an alibi for the approximate time of the girl’s death.”

“Oh,” she said, and paused, and then said, “May I ask you one more question? A . . . favor, actually.”

“What sort of favor?”

“Can you give my husband some sort of protection while he’s staying alone at the lighthouse?”

Sinclair hesitated. When he spoke, his tone was softened, almost apologetic. “No, Mrs. Ryerson, I’m sorry I can’t.”

She’d expected as much, but still she said, “Why not? It would only be for a couple of days. I think he’ll make up his mind to leave by then.”

“My office is working on two homicide investigations,” Sinclair said patiently, “as well as a number of other cases. We’re understaffed. I can’t spare anyone without at least some evidence that your husband’s life is in danger. And I can’t request a patrol officer for the job for the same reason.”

“You’re saying my fears are groundless?”

“Not exactly. I’ll do this for you: I’ll have one more talk with Novotny, just to strengthen the suggestion I made to him. That’s all I can do.”

“Thank you.”

“You could try the sheriff’s department,” Sinclair said, “but I’m afraid they’ll tell you the same thing I have. The only way to insure your husband’s safety is to convince him to leave Cap Des Peres.”

And she couldn’t seem to do that, she thought as she ended the conversation. At least not yet. Nor was she convinced, despite Sinclair’s reassurances, that Jan was in no danger from Mitch Novotny.

She considered calling her father. Matthew Kingsley would know what to do in a situation like this. He had connections everywhere, including Oregon; he could bring pressure to bear on the state police. After all, he’d always told her that when you don’t receive satisfaction at one level, you should go higher with your demands—to the top, if necessary.

The idea of picking up the phone and calling the familiar number in Palo Alto was a tempting one. But it was also a thoroughly bad one, she decided. For one thing, Jan would never forgive her for bringing her father into what he considered a personal problem; such an action would probably provide the severing blow to the thread that bound their marriage. And what if Matthew behaved with his characteristic bluster, chartered a plane, and showed up here demanding action? That would not only enrage and alienate Jan, but would further strain matters in Hilliard.

No, it was better for both her and Jan if they weathered this particular crisis alone. Jan had claimed he would be all right, had wanted her to trust him. And trust him she would, even if it involved a terrible risk.

Mitch was surprised when he saw the state police car come up the hill, park next to Hod’s old Rambler, and the plainclothes homicide detective, Sinclair, get out of it. What the hell was he doing here, half an hour before Mandy’s funeral? Unless he had some news about Ryerson . . . maybe that was it. Maybe he’d come to tell Hod and Della that the law’d finally quit diddling around after two days and arrested the psycho.

Mitch had been helping Marie unload food from the trunk of their car—potato salad, cold cuts, deviled eggs—for the funeral supper. He handed her the last covered dish as Sinclair approached. “You manage that all right, hon?”

“I can manage.” She seemed to want to hang around, to see what Sinclair wanted, but he shooed her away. She waddled when she walked now, like a damn duck. Still a couple of months before she was due, and already she was big as a house.

Sinclair stopped and took off his hat. Behind those thick glasses of his, his eyes flicked over Mitch, over Hod’s trailer, over the handful of villagers who’d already showed up to pay their respects to the bereaved. He looked a little uncomfortable, as if he hadn’t realized they were getting ready to have the funeral.

Mitch said, “Hod’s inside getting dressed, if you’re looking for him.”

“Actually, I came to see you, Mr. Novotny.”

“About what?”

“Jan Ryerson and his wife.”

“What about them? You finally arrest Ryerson?”

“No.” Sinclair ran a finger over one side of his mustache. “We have no cause to arrest him, I told you that before.”

“No cause. Christ. Just let him keep running around loose, murdering young girls, is that it?”

“There’s no evidence Mr. Ryerson murdered anyone,” Sinclair said. “This is the United States of America, Mr. Novotny. A man is innocent until proven guilty. That goes for Jan Ryerson, and it also goes for you.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.”

Mitch felt himself getting hot inside his Sunday suit; little trickles of sweat had started to ooze down his sides. “That why you’re here? That crap again? How many times I have to tell you I didn’t have nothing to do with what’s been happening out at the lighthouse?”

“Mr. Ryerson thinks you did.”

“I don’t give a damn what he thinks,” Mitch said. He was really hot now; it was all he could do to keep himself from shaking. “He make some other complaint against me? That why you’re here, hassling me right before poor Mandy’s funeral?”

“I didn’t know the funeral was today; if I had I would have waited until tomorrow to talk to you again.”

“Yeah, sure you would. You didn’t answer me about Ryerson. He make another complaint?”

“No. There’s been no complaint.”

“Then why’re you here? Tell me again to stay away from the Ryersons?”

“Do I need to tell you that, Mr. Novotny?”

“No,” Mitch said, and then he remembered something and all at once he knew what this was all about. This time he did start to shake. He could feel the blood all hot and pounding in his head. “Now I got it,” he said. “His wife’s old man is a politician, right? She went crying to papa and he made some calls and now you’re here.”

“That’s not it at all—”

“Sure it is. That’s why you haven’t put Ryerson in jail where he belongs. Man’s got the right connections, he can get away with anything in this lousy country.”

Sinclair was mad, too, now. His chubby face was pinched and his eyes looked dark and swollen behind his thick glasses. But he had himself under control just the same. He said, “Nobody gets away with any crime if I can help it. Not murder, not malicious harassment either. Just remember that, Mr. Novotny. ”

He turned on his heel, walked back to his car. You fucking Gestapo, Mitch thought, and he wanted to shout the words aloud; but he didn’t do it. He just stood there shaking, glaring, as Sinclair got back into his car and made a U-turn and drove on down the hill out of sight.

“Christ, Mitch, what was that all about?”

Adam Reese had come up beside him, with Seth Bonner at his heels; they’d been over by the trailer getting an eyeful. Mitch couldn’t talk for a minute, he was so worked up. When he finally started to calm down he told them what it had all been about.

“It ain’t right,” Adam said. You could see it festering on him, too, making him fidget from one foot to the other. “It just ain’t right.”