The Lighthouse: A Novel of Terror (35 page)

He threw the bedding down, turned to the window glass again. The pain behind his eyes was worsening, not to the critical point yet but not far from it either. He pressed his forehead against the chilled glass, squinting, blinking, trying to bring the grounds and the terrain beyond into focus.

Somebody was running on the road.

Not toward the lighthouse; away from it. A man. One of the invaders? He couldn’t tell, couldn’t see clearly enough. Running . . . why?

His vision cleared completely for a few seconds, the way it did at intervals, and he realized the van was gone. Reese’s van, the one they’d all come in. It had been parked out there beyond the fence; he’d seen it earlier. Now it was gone.

And the man was running . . . running away, was that it? One drunken vigilante giving up his act of terrorism?

Or was he running
after
something, someone?

Alix, he thought.

He peered harder through the glass. Couldn’t see anything in the distance; the clarity was gone as suddenly as it had come and the distance was just a blur. The running man had become part of the blur: gone.

Jan struggled to think logically. Alix had been gone at least half an hour, more like an hour; the running man
couldn’t
be chasing her, not after all this time. But the van . . . how long had it been gone? He didn’t know, couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen it.

Maybe they’re not up to something, he thought. Maybe the running man is running because he’s running away.

The words chased themselves around inside his mind like a nonsense jingle. But they weren’t nonsense; they were a statement of fact. He wouldn’t let himself believe otherwise. The running man is running because he’s running away.

And somebody else drove the van away.

And there had only been four of them to begin with.

How many are still here?

He pushed away from the glass, went to the edge of the stairs. Bonner was still shouting obscenities below the trap, still pounding on it—but not so loudly or so often now, as if he were winding down. Jan listened. Bonner’s was the only voice, had been for some time. Hadn’t it? Yes, he was sure it had.

Just Bonner left, then? Or was somebody with him, somebody who didn’t make noise?

If it’s Bonner alone, he thought, I can handle him. There’s a way . . . there’s a way. Have to do it quickly, though, before the pain and my vision get any worse. No time to waste—make a decision!

It’s just Bonner, he thought, and started quietly down the stairs.

Her mouth was dry now. When she tried to swallow her throat spasmed and she felt as if she were choking.

Why? she thought. What earthly reason would Cassie have had to kill Mandy Barnett? Or that other girl, that hitchhiker . . . she
must
have been responsible for that murder, too, because of the similarities of the crimes—

Never mind that now. Jan, think of Jan. You’ve got to get help for him.

Hastily, she felt under the dash for a spare-key case, found none, and tried the glove compartment. Nothing there, either. She backed out of the car, started to shut the door.

Something made a sound behind her—a shuffling movement.

She whirled, saw someone move in through the shadows from the open side door. Her pulse accelerated; a cry rose still-bom in her throat.

It’s Reese, he’s found me!

But it wasn’t Adam Reese. The figure stepped to one side just as Alix threw the door shut to cut off the dome light, and before she could move away from the car, find a place to hide, a single naked ceiling bulb burst into light. And she was facing the tall wiry figure of Cassie Lang.

The gallery owner stood flat-footed, wrapped in a dark bathrobe, a look of surprise and dismay on her face. In her right hand she was holding a long-barreled pistol. “Alix! What on earth . . . ”

Then, as Alix flattened back against the cold metal of the car, Cassie saw the beaded headband that was still clutched in her hand. The surprise vanished and a different look, one of grim despair, replaced it. She raised the pistol, pointed it at Alix, bringing her left hand up to steady the weapon.

“So you know,” she said.

Alix licked at papery lips, tried to speak. But no sound came out.

Cassie stared at her along the barrel of the gun. Her stance was that of someone familiar with handguns, the “good shot” she’d once claimed to be—feet apart, weight evenly balanced, hands and arms and weapon steady. But her eyes . . . they were like windows in a house where neither lights nor fire burned. No one lived there anymore. No one to appeal to for mercy.

But Alix wouldn’t beg for her life, not even if begging would save her. She’d fight, she’d use the only weapon she had now: words. She swallowed, made herself speak, willed her voice to be steady as she did so. “You don’t want to shoot me, Cassie. We’re friends . . . I thought we were friends.”

No response, not even a headshake.

“You must have had a good reason for . . . for what you did. I’m your friend, I can help you—”

“No one can help me anymore.” Flat voice, emotionless. “I have no friends.”

“Not among the villagers, no. I know how those people are, they despise me too just because I’m an outsider—”

“Outsider. Yes, that’s right, that’s what I am.”

Keep her talking, Alix thought, try to get her to put the gun down. Or distract her, try to take it away from her.

Cassie said, “You’re afraid.”

“Of course I’m afraid. You’re pointing that gun at me. You’re the second person who’s done that tonight.”

“Second person?”

“The other one is Adam Reese. He’s outside somewhere, not far from here, and he has a rifle. That’s why I came in here, Cassie. I was afraid he’d shoot me.”

Cassie was frowning. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

“It’s the truth! He and Mitch Notovny and Hod Barnett and Seth Bonner showed up at the lighthouse tonight, crazy drunk. Reese shot out the windows, blew up our car, broke in—”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why would I lie? They tried to kill us, Cassie, I swear it to you. I got out, ran for help, but my husband’s still trapped out there. I’ve got to call the state police. Won’t you let me do that?”

“No!”

The gun wavered, and for a sickening instant Alix thought Cassie would fire. Then the woman’s head jerked slightly to one side, as if she might have heard something outside. She listened for only a moment, but when she again gave her full attention to Alix, the critical moment had passed.

“I don’t believe you,” she repeated. “You think you can put me off my guard. Why would those men do things like that?”

“They’ve been harassing us for a week, trying to force us to leave the lighthouse—all sorts of ugly tricks. Now . . . I think they believe it was my husband who killed Mandy.”

Cassie was silent.

Alix said softly, “Why, Cassie? Why did you do it?”

“Why? She wanted too much, that’s why. The first time she came here and said she knew about Miranda, I gave her the five hundred dollars she asked for. She said she’d go away, but she didn’t. She came back for more.”

Miranda, Alix thought. According to the newspaper stories, that had been the name of the murdered hitchhiker—Miranda Collins. Then she remembered another fact from the news stories: Miranda had been a student at the University of Oregon. The university located in Eugene, Cassie’s former home. The university where her former husband had taught.

“Mandy knew you’d killed Miranda,” Alix said. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why she tried to blackmail you.”

“She saw me put Miranda’s body out on the cape that night. God knows why
she
was out there. Wild little thing. She should have known better.”

Yes, Alix thought, she
should
have known better. But Mandy had wanted so desperately to get out of Hilliard, and her attempt to extort money from Alix—the information she’d wanted to sell must have been nothing more than things she’d overheard Novotny and her father and the others plotting to do against the outsiders at the lighthouse. How foolish she’d been. And how dearly she’d paid for her foolishness.

Alix said, “How much more did Mandy want?”

“A thousand dollars. I don’t have that much money. I told her that when she came here the other night, while I was working late at the gallery. But she didn’t believe me, oh no. She pranced around in there, saying I must have money, look at all the expensive artwork for sale, and then she started batting the windchimes, tossing one of the big driftwood birds in the air, and she dropped the bird and it broke one of my nice chambered nautiluses. I couldn’t let her get away with that. I took her by the throat, I slapped her, I told her I’d kill
her
if she didn’t leave me alone. It scared her. She pulled away and went running out of the shop.”

It must have been immediately afterward that the girl had called the lighthouse, probably from the phone booth at the rest area down the road. By then she’d realized she had mixed herself up in something she couldn’t handle. She’d been afraid to talk to her parents about what she’d done; she couldn’t call the police because it would have meant confessing to blackmail. So in her panic she’d called the one person she thought might help her, might perhaps give her the extra money she felt she needed to leave Hilliard—the woman who hadn’t turned her in for attempted extortion, Alix Ryerson.

“You didn’t go after her right away?”

“I didn’t go after her at all,” Cassie said. “No, I just wanted to get out for a while, go for a drive, try to think. But there she was, pedaling along the cape road; I could see the reflector lights on her bicycle. Even then I didn’t follow her, not for a while. Then I thought, why not go out there and talk to her, try to reason with her again about the extra thousand dollars. So I did. I didn’t intend to hurt her. It just happened, that’s all, like it did with Miranda.”

The woman’s expression was distracted now, her gaze jumpy. But the pistol was still steady in her two hands. Alix desperately wondered how far she could push her. And yet she had to keep trying, had to find some way to either make her surrender the weapon or try to take it away from her. Jan’s life as well as her own might depend on it.

“Did Miranda want money too?” she asked. “Is that why you killed her?”

The question seemed to surprise Cassie. “Money? Oh, I suppose it would have come to that. What she
claimed
she wanted when she showed up here was advice. Advice, help, succor, sympathy. She wanted to keep the baby, she wanted Ron to pay child support. She thought I might be able to give her some . . . what did she call it? Insight. Some insight into how to get him to acknowledge her—that was the word she used,
acknowledge
her and the baby.”

Now Alix remembered two more seemingly unrelated facts. Miranda Collins had been four months pregnant when she died. And Cassie’s ex-husband, the anthropology professor who had a weakness for coeds, was named Ron.

“She’d been sleeping with Ron for two years, the little bitch,” Cassie said. “All very secret, of course, because he was such a
fine
,
upstanding
faculty member. Very secret from everybody except me. The wife always knows.”

“But why did she come to you?”

“Who knows? I don’t understand these young people; their morals aren’t like ours. Maybe she thought that since I was another woman Ron had treated badly, I’d understand her plight and we’d form a united front against him. But how could I do that, after what she’d done to me?
She
was the one who put an end to my marriage;
she
was the one who’d conceived the child I could never have with Ron.”

Cassie was breathing raggedly now. Alix clenched her fists, watching the woman’s jumpy, frightening eyes. Cassie wasn’t going to relinquish that pistol without a fight, that was clear now; and in her worked-up state, she might decide to pull the trigger at any moment. If Alix hoped to survive, she would have to make some kind of move against her and would have to do it very soon. Maybe she could drop down, throw herself at Cassie’s feet . . . but not from where she stood now, there was too much distance between them. Move away from the car, then, one slow step at a time. And keep Cassie talking while she did it. . . .

“But you didn’t mean to kill Miranda,” she said, and eased one foot out in front of her. “Isn’t that what you said?”

“Oh no. It just happened. I don’t even remember doing it. Funny, though—afterward, the next day, I knew Ron would realize I’d done it, even though he didn’t know she’d come down here to see me. Because of where her body was found, so close to here. I should have taken her a long way from Hilliard, a long, long way, but I was so scared that night, I just wanted to get rid of her. But Ron never said a thing to the police. I kept waiting for him to call and accuse me and he didn’t do that, either.”

Alix had moved one full step away from the car and was about to take another. But when Cassie paused, she stood very still. She would need at least two more steps before she was close enough to hurl herself at the woman’s feet—