The Lighthouse: A Novel of Terror (37 page)

Alix could hear her now, no longer making an effort to be quiet as she felt her way around the hood of the car at the back wall. Alix moved too, away along the side wall toward the front, keeping on the balls of her feet, knees bent, hands touching the exposed studding for balance. Ahead she could make out the faint outline of the big double doors, a lighter gray-black against the clotted darkness within.

Were the doors locked? Even if they weren’t, they might be difficult to open and get through quickly. Still, they were the closest means of escape: she would have to try them.

Behind her, Cassie was still moving. It sounded as if she was now feeling her way along the side of the car, on the other side of the line of boxes.

If she sees or hears me at the doors, Alix thought, will she try shooting in the dark? She might; or she might want me to get outside, where the light is better. How many bullets does a gun like hers hold? Six? Don’t most pistols hold six? Two on Adam Reese (God!), another intended for me. That leaves three, if the gun was fully loaded to begin with. Three too many. . . .

She continued to make her way blindly toward the faint outline of the doors, her hands picking up prickly little splinters from the rough studding. Somewhere, she realized then, she had lost Mandy’s headband. Why she should even think of that she didn’t know. Abruptly, the studding ended and she touched something that felt like pegboard. She paused, listening to Cassie’s movements and trying to gauge the distance to the double doors. Not more than ten feet.

It sounded as if Cassie had reached the rear of the car. Her breathing was more ragged now, almost asthmatic. Alix suspected she wouldn’t be able to hear small sounds; she shifted her weight, moved forward, testing. Cassie remained where she was.

Alix felt the wall again. It was definitely pegboard, the kind of material people use to hang things on. Tools, garden tools. Maybe—

“You can’t hide from me, Alix. You can’t! You’ll just make me kill you and I don’t want to do that.”

The hell you don’t, Alix thought.

She inched along, her fingers touching the tines of a bamboo rake. No weapon, that.

“I didn’t want to kill Adam, either. He made me. They all made me. I never wanted to kill
anyone
.” The words trembled with pathos and self-pity.

Go ahead, Alix thought, keep on maundering. Keep on listening to the sound of your own voice so you won’t hear what I’m doing.

She kept moving, groping along the pegboard. A broom hung there, and a mop. A row of smaller toots—pliers, screwdrivers. She took the largest of the screwdrivers, tucked it into the back pocket of her jeans. Hardly adequate, but at least it was something sharp.

Behind her Cassie had begun to whine. “I didn’t want any of this to happen! I just wanted to be left alone!”

Alix’s fingers touched something more sharply pointed than the screwdriver—hedge clippers, heavy iron with solid wood handles. She felt for the hook, timing her movements to Cassie’s now-loud rantings. Took the clippers, slid them upward and out—

The metal hook slipped from the pegboard, fell to the concrete floor with a ringing metallic noise. Alix caught her breath. Lowered the clippers, brought them up in front of her.

Cassie had stopped speaking and was coming her way quickly. But she misjudged the distance and crashed into the pegboard a couple of feet away. Tools rattled, something else clattered to the floor. Cassie gave a dismayed cry; Alix felt the woman’s arms flail, lashing out at the air around her.

Gripping the hedge clippers by their handles, she reeled backward, her feet slipping on an oil slick. In the next instant she slammed into the double doors. Over by the wall, Cassie was grunting and thrashing about. Alix turned, threw her weight against the doors, felt them buckle outward but not come open. She heard someone else grunting and realized it was herself.

She lunged at the doors again, and again they bowed but held. Through the foot-wide crack that appeared between them, she could see moving wisps of fog—a glimpse of freedom.

Now Cassie was on her feet. Coming toward her. She tried to dodge, but the woman collided with her; Alix felt the gun in her hand, smashed at her wrist, but didn’t have enough leverage to dislodge the weapon. Cassie had no leverage, either, when she tried to use the pistol as a club. Instead, she managed to loop an arm around Alix’s neck, began squeezing.

Alix’s breath came shorter; the pressure caused blackness to swirl behind her eyes. She dropped the clippers, clawed at Cassie’s arm. The gallery owner’s grip was steel-hard. Alix’s legs broke at the knees and she sagged against Cassie, and they fell together against the doors.

Weakened by the previous battering, whatever had held the doors together now broke with a snapping sound and they flew apart. Cassie’s arm pulled free of Alix’s neck as they both toppled onto the gravel outside. Alix rolled away, pawing at her throat, gasping. When she came up she saw Cassie trying to scramble to her knees; the woman seemed dazed, but the gun was still clutched in her hand.

The raw edge of panic cut at Alix again. She tried to get to her feet—and saw the hedge clippers lying in the doorway. Without thinking, she crawled to them on hands and knees, snatched them up. At the same time she gained her feet and turned, Cassie pushed onto her knees, lifted the pistol, and took wobbly aim at Alix’s body.

Alix lunged forward with the clippers upraised. Brought them slashing down in a desperate chop at Cassie’s head just as the gallery owner pulled the trigger.

He didn’t remember running the two miles from the abandoned van to the junction, or turning off the cape road onto the county road. But the county road was where he was now, heading toward the village, his legs cramped, his breath coming in little wheezing pants, a band of pain across the bridge of his nose. Another blackout . . .

He couldn’t see very well, and at first he thought it was the too-familiar distortion of his vision; but then he realized it was only that his glasses were coated with mist. He took them off, squinting into the darkness ahead. Where was Alix? Where were the authorities? Why hadn’t he met
someone
in all this time?

Ahead of him, he realized then, were the gallery and house that belonged to Alix’s artist friend, Cassie Lang. Alix’s friend . . . that must have been where she had gone for help. The house was ablaze with light—and as he drew closer, he saw someone on the porch, standing there as if waiting, looking his way. A woman . . . Cassie Lang?

Alix.

It was
Alix!

The last of the tension went out of him with such suddenness that he stumbled, almost fell. Some of the pressure behind his eyes seemed to abate as well, so that all at once he was thinking and seeing with an intense clarity. He found his voice, shouted her name, but she had recognized him too and she was already coming down off the porch, running toward him—the last running either of them would have to do on this long, bad night.

Alix waited by the rented van while Jan brought their suitcases from the lighthouse, then went back for the last of the boxes. The day was clear, with only a few high-piled clouds; the wind blew sharp and cold. The headland was bathed in the pale yellow light of late fall; by comparison the burnt-out hulk of the station wagon and blackened remains of the garage looked grotesque—reminders of evil.

But they were not the only ones. Everywhere were signs of the assault of two nights before: smokestains curled up the round whitewashed tower, seemed to be clutching it like the fingers of a dirty hand; the broken windows were like dead eye sockets; the bullet- and club-scarred front of the house was like a face pocked by some disease.

There were reminders in the village, too, she thought—more subtle but nevertheless present. When they’d passed through on their way from Bandon to pick up their belongings, Hilliard’s streets had been deserted. Behind the walls of the stores and houses, life might go on; but for most of the residents it would be forever altered by the knowledge of what four of their own had become, and of the price those four had paid for their mischief. Adam Reese: dead. Seth Bonner: in a Coos Bay hospital in serious condition with a broken leg, broken ribs, internal injuries. Mitch Novotny and Hod Barnett: home with their families, but only because the Ryersons had declined to press charges against them; free physically, but not in spirit, forced to live the rest of their lives with the memory of what they had done—and what they had almost done—on a night when they had unleashed the animal that lurks beneath the civilized surface of man.

That was the primary reason, Alix supposed, that she and Jan felt no lingering hostility, no grudge toward them or the village itself: none had escaped punishment, and the sentences the survivors would serve would be long ones. All they felt now was pity—for Hod Barnett, who had lost his daughter; for Barnett and Novotny, who had lost a semblance of their humanity; for the little dying town of Hilliard that had lost its self-respect. Pity, and a deep, ineradicable sorrow.

She was glad that she and Jan had been in agreement on not pressing charges; the last thing she would have wanted was to return to the area for a trial. Her fondest hope was never to see Hilliard or Cape Despair again.

There would be no need for them to attend or testify at Cassie Lang’s trial, either. Cassie had confessed, as fully and compulsively to the authorities as she had tried to do to Alix in the garage. Intellectually, Alix knew she should feel some sort of sympathy for the woman; Cassie had been ill-equipped to handle her own passions or the pressures of an unkind world, just as Mitch Novotny and Hod Barnett had been unable to. But her only feeling when she thought of the woman she had once considered her friend was one of revulsion—and an occasional sparking of the terror she had experienced in the confines of that dark garage.

Jan returned with two boxes balanced one on top of the other. “That’s the last of it,” he said. “You want to check around inside, see if we’ve forgotten anything?”

She was about to say yes, but a vague sense of unease, a tightening in her throat kept the word back. She said instead, “If we’ve left anything, it’s probably not important.”

He nodded in understanding. “I’ll lock up then.”

She turned her back on the lighthouse, climbed in behind the wheel of the van. Tonight they would drive as far as Crescent City, and tomorrow they’d be home. And the day after that, Jan would check into the medical center for further tests to determine the cause of his blackouts. It was her opinion—and Jan’s, too, now—that they were not organic in origin, but rather a byproduct of his eye disease brought on by intense stress; if that was the case, it seemed reasonable to assume they wouldn’t recur if precautions were taken to avoid stressful situations.

Once the tests were finished, they would make plans for the future, for the alterations in the patterns of their existence that would become necessary if Jan did in fact lose his sight. But it was possible for them to do that now, to start over from a whole new basis and with a unified strength. Months ago she wouldn’t have thought so, wouldn’t have thought herself—or Jan—capable of such courage. But when you have survived an ordeal so much worse than any you could have imagined, no crisis seems quite so awesome or insurmountable anymore.

Jan slid into the passenger seat and shut the door. His wan smile held the same relief she had started to feel. For him the light was no longer a sanctuary, a place he refused to be driven out of; like its name, it had become a symbol of his despair, a place that had finally been driven out of him.

She drove them out of the yard and along the pot-holed road, not once glancing up at the rearview mirror. But then, after they’d gone about a mile and reached the rise from which she had first seen the lighthouse, she slowed on impulse, pulled over, and stopped. Looked back.

The headland lay barren and lonely, looking much, she thought, as it had when the pair of Basque sheepherders had first come to it more than a century ago. Beyond its scalloped reaches the harsh waves beat against the cliffs as they had when ships foundered there and Cap Des Peres became known as Cape Despair. And above it all was the ancient light, a severe white column piercing the sky.

From here she could see none of the smoke damage, nor the broken windows, nor the scarred walls. It looked as it had on that first day: a thing of beauty, guardian of the night, comfort and hope to the lost and the frightened.

For perhaps a minute she and Jan looked at it in silence. Then she released the brake and drove on, her eyes on the road, her mind on the future—neither lost nor afraid.

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