The Lighthouse: A Novel of Terror

by Bill Pronzini, Marcia Muller

  “Well, this is a surprise. How did you get all the way out here?”

  “A guy I know brought me. He’s waiting down the road.”

  “The boy in the green Chevvy?”

  “That’s right. Aren’t you going to ask me in?”

  Alix hesitated; but she was curious about why the girl was here. “All right, come ahead.”

  Inside, Mandy said, “It’s not too bad here.”

  “We like it.”

  “Nicer than where I live, that’s for sure. You know the trailers up on the north end of town?”

  “Yes.”

  “My mom, dad, two brothers, and me live in one of them. We don’t even have running water.”

  Alix didn’t know what to say, so she kept silent.

  “We take turns hauling water from the faucet,” Mandy said. “I sleep on the couch. Last week we had egg sandwiches for supper four days.”

  “Mandy, why are you telling me all this?”

  “I just want you to know where I’m coming from.” The girl began to pace around the room the way she had at the launderette, examining things and humming a vaguely recognizable rock tune. The lyrics, Alix recalled, had something to do with wanting to “get it on all night.” At Mandy’s age she wouldn’t have even considered getting it on all night, much less sung about it. Mandy was obviously much more precocious; she had a tough, put-on assurance that might have been amusing if she hadn’t been so serious.

  She said, “Suppose you tell me why you’re here.”

  Mandy stopped pacing. “I wanted to talk. You’re from California, right? Someplace near San Francisco?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nice there.”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think of Hilliard?”

  Alix debated an answer, but took too long for Mandy’s liking; the girl answered her own question.

  “Well, I hate it!”

  The outburst cracked her tough-girl veneer. Alix took advantage of it and asked her, “Why, Mandy?”

  “It’s ugly and cold, and everybody’s poor. There’s nothing to do but go to church or to the fucking Bingo games at the community center. I hate living in that trailer. We used to rent a house, but when my dad lost his boat we couldn’t even afford that. My mother used to have a dream that someday we’d own our own house, somewhere nice like Bandon or Coos Bay, but that’ll never happen. She doesn’t dream about anything anymore.”

  “Don’t you have friends in the village? At school?”

  “I dropped out this year.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not? Sitting in school wasn’t getting me anywhere and I had a chance to go to work at a boutique in Bandon. But that fell through. Besides, my dad’s got a high school diploma and look what it’s done for him.”

  “What about your friend in the green Chevvy?”

  “Him? He’s just my connection for dope. That’s about the only other thing there is to do around here—smoke dope. And get it on on weekends. But that doesn’t mean he’s my friend.” She met Alix’s eyes defiantly; the tough veneer had hardened again.

  Alix kept her expression neutral. “Okay, now I know where you’re coming from. What do you want?”

  “I’ve got a business proposition for you.”

  “Oh? What sort of business proposition?”

  “I want to get out of Hilliard. Go to California. L.A., maybe.”

  “And do what? Try to get into the movies?”

  “God, no! I may live in a hick town but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Nobody goes to Hollywood and gets rich and famous anymore; that’s a lot of shit. But I figure I could get by down there, and at least it’s sunny and warm.”

  “How would you ‘get by’? By turning tricks?”

  “What?”

  “Prostitution, Mandy.”

  “If I have to. That’s no big thing.”

  Alix sighed.

  “Anyway,” Mandy said, “I’ve got it figured out—the price of a bus ticket and enough money to keep me going until I can find a job or something. And what I’ve got to sell is worth just about what I’ll need.”

  “Sell?”

  “To you, Mrs. Ryerson.”

  “Now what could you possibly have to sell to me?”

  “Information. Something I heard.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Come on. If I told you, I wouldn’t have anything to sell.”

  “Look, Mandy—”

  “Five hundred dollars,” Mandy said. “Cash.”

  “Five hundred—! That’s ridiculous!”

  “You think so? Well, you’d better think twice, Mrs. Ryerson. What I heard could be important to you. Very important.”

  The girl’s nerve was appalling. But Alix sensed a desperation underneath her hard demeanor; even though Mandy’s stance and tone of voice were aggressive, her fingers clenched and unclenched spasmodically. When she saw Alix looking at them she hid her hands in the folds of her poncho.

  “Mandy,” Alix said, “do you know what the name for this sort of thing is?”

  “Blackmail, so what?”

  “Not blackmail. Extortion. You can be put in jail for it.”

  “Don’t give me that. You’re not going to call the sheriff on me.”

  “I could call your parents.”

  The girl laughed. “Good luck. We’re so poor, we don’t even have a phone.”

  “You just don’t realize what you’re doing to yourself, do you? In the first place, I’m not about to give you five hundred dollars, no matter what you think. In the second place, even if you did manage to get to Los Angeles, you’d probably live to regret it. There are men down there who prey on young girls like you—”

  “Stop talking down to me! I know all about pimps and pushers, I know all I need to know. I’m not some stupid hick kid you can feel sorry for!”

  Mandy’s face had reddened with this new outburst; for a moment Alix thought she was going to stamp her foot as she had in the launderette when her mother told her she couldn’t have a Coke. Instead, she spun away and stormed across the room to the door.

  “Mandy—”

  “No, you listen to me, Mrs. Ryerson. If you don’t get that money for me you’ll be sorry, you and your husband both. Real sorry.” And then she was gone, slamming the door behind her.

  Alix went into the kitchen, stood uneasily watching the girl half-walk, half-run down to the gate. What could Mandy have heard that would lead her to hatch such a fantastic extortion scheme? What sort of “information” was worth five hundred dollars, even in her immature mind?

  If you don’t get that money for me you’ll be sorry, you and your husband both. Real sorry.

  What could she possibly know?

  Jan

  It was late Wednesday afternoon when he finally left Portland.

  He had intended to leave much earlier, around two, but the garage where he’d taken the Ford to have the damage repaired had failed miserably in their promise to have the car ready by one; he’d spent most of the afternoon wandering through secondhand bookshops, looking for (and not finding) unfamiliar lighthouse material, and it was almost four by the time he finally ransomed the station wagon. Then he stopped at a place on S.E. 3rd that sold and serviced air compressors and picked up a tank for the one that operated the diaphone. It was rush hour by the time he finished there; it took him almost an hour to get out of the city and ten miles down Highway 5.

  Freeway driving usually relaxed him, but not this evening. He felt tired, tense, grouchy, and the monotonous flow of miles did nothing to ease any of those feelings. He kept fiddling with the radio—not looking for anything but noise, yet not satisfied with call-in shows, news programs, or music of any kind. None of it kept him from thinking.

  Yesterday’s examination by Dr. Philip R. Meade was one of the things that kept replaying in his mind, the primary thing. According to Meade, his condition—atrophying optic nerves in both eyes, aggravated by a form of “systemic choroiditis,” or d
isease of the middle layer of tissue deep inside the eye—had not advanced to any marked degree. But neither had it improved, of course. Prognosis: still negative. Meade had administered a cortisone treatment, even though the last ophthalmologist he’d consulted in California had told him the condition had advanced beyond the help of such treatments. The good doctor had also administered bland professional sympathies, the usual recommendations as to what the patient should and shouldn’t do, and a stronger codeine prescription to relieve the pain of his headaches.

  Jan had asked him about blackouts, if they could become a symptom of his condition; he was careful not to admit that he had already had one, saying only that he “understood” they might be a by-product of intense eye-related headaches. Meade said blackouts were possible—given the rarity and seriousness of Jan’s particular eye disorder, many symptomatic complications were possible—but his professional opinion was that Mr. Ryerson need have no fear of “memory impairment,” especially if he avoided undue stress.

  So much for Dr. Philip R. Meade.

  He drove straight down Highway 5, mile after mile, mile after mile. And many more miles to go before I sleep. Traffic was thinning out, at least, now that rush hour was over, he could drive at a steady sixty-five, ten above the speed limit, but nobody observed the speed limit on Highway 5. Salem, Albany, Eugene, coming up on Cottage Grove. Coming up on nightfall, too, and still a hundred and fifty miles left to drive. Maybe he should stop for the night in Cottage Grove, or on down the road in Roseburg. Pack it in early, get an early start in the morning. No, he didn’t want to spend another night in a motel. Four strange walls, closed in and alone, and worse when he shut off the light. The dark. It was like being a child again—afraid of the dark.

  Country-and-western music blaring at him from the radio. “She Got the Gold Mine, I Got the Shaft.” For God’s sake. Was that supposed to be amusing? He rotated the knob, found a classical station. Something heavy, ponderous—Bach fugue? Terrific, just what he needed. The knob again. Sports-talk program out of Eugene, somebody complaining about the Oregon Ducks football team being perennial losers and poor competition for Pac-10 powerhouses like USC and UCLA. Fine, good. Complain away, my friend, all your worries should be confined to ducks, Oregon or otherwise.

  Pretty country on both sides of Cottage Grove, mountains rising, farms tucked away in the folds of the hills. But he couldn’t enjoy it. Roseburg next—and full dark when he got there. He turned off on Highway 42, the two-lane state road that connected Roseburg with Coos Bay on the coast. Sixty miles to Coquille, then a dozen miles on winding Highway 42-S to Bandon, then another twenty miles or so from there to Cape Despair. Close to a hundred miles altogether, part of it mountain driving, and already he felt fatigued and gritty-eyed.

  Headache starting up, too. Just a small one, but he kept monitoring it, gauging its intensity, trying by force of will to prevent it from worsening. If it did get worse, if the bulging started, then he’d have to stop somewhere for the night. No more driving when he was suffering that way. Too dangerous—and he’d promised Alix.

  Better take a rest stop soon, get some coffee and something to eat; no food since a small breakfast, and his stomach had set up an insistent growling. Call Alix, too. Eight-thirty now; she’d be wondering why he wasn’t already back. Worrying, and he didn’t want her to worry.

  A truck stop’s neon sign swam up out of the night ahead, blue and red and yellow; the colors looked watery at the edges. He pulled into the parking lot, drove past a couple of drawn-up semis, and found a place to park. At the upper end of the lot, where another driveway connected with the main road, two kids were trying to thumb a ride. They never learn, he thought. Don’t they know it’s dangerous to hitchhike these days? Don’t they care? No, it wasn’t that. It was just that they were young, and when you’re young you never think about death, you never think it’ll happen to you.

  The diner was half full, hot and noisy, the air thick with the smell of fried food. There was an empty stool at the far end of the counter; he sat down and, without looking at a menu, told a waitress he’d have coffee and a burger, no fries. A corridor ran past the kitchen nearby, to the restrooms in back. He went along it, found a telephone on the wall between the restroom doors, found some change in his pocket, and called the lighthouse number collect.

  The line hummed seven times, eight, making him nervous, before Alix answered and accepted the call. “Where are you?” she asked. Relief was plain in her voice. “I was starting to worry.”

  “Diner outside Roseburg. I got a late start.”

  “I wish you’d called earlier.”

  “I should have, I’m sorry.”

  “ . . . How do you feel?”

  “Not too bad. A little tired, that’s all.”

  “You’re not having one of your headaches?”

  “No. Don’t wony.”

  “It’s still a long drive from Roseburg, isn’t it? Are you sure you’re not too tired . . . ?”

  “Positive. I should be in by eleven.”

  “Well, if you’re sure . . . ”

  “I’m sure,” he said. “Everything all right there? You took a long time answering.”

  “I was working on the Eddystone sketch.”

  “No problems or anything?”

  “Jan, you asked me that this morning when you called. And last night. Do you expect something else to happen?”

  “No, no. I guess I’m still a little spooked after Saturday night, that’s all. I’ll see you around eleven.”

  “All right. Take care.”

  “I will.”

  He went back to the counter, sat down, drank coffee while he waited for his hamburger. Why didn’t he tell her the truth about Saturday night? Didn’t want to frighten her. Not that there was anything to be afraid of now; it was finished. Wasn’t it? Yes, he’d handled Novotny just right on Sunday—forceful, without being belligerent or unreasonable.

  Still. He’d feel better once he was back at the Cape Despair Light with Alix. He hadn’t liked the idea of leaving her alone; he wouldn’t do it again.

  But will she leave me alone when she finds out?

  He couldn’t get the possibility out of his mind. In his more optimistic moments he believed the fear was irrational; they’d been together so many years, been through so much together, and nothing had yet weakened the bond between them. And yet the fear was still there. And the fear kept him from telling her what he faced, what they both faced, in the very near future. So many people had left him in his life, some of them for reasons beyond his comprehension; was it really so irrational to think she would too? That graphic design company meant so much to her . . . no way could she undertake a job like that, with all its travel and other demands, when she had a blind husband to look out for. How could he even expect her to? He couldn’t; he wasn’t that selfish. Yes, he was. He didn’t want to lose her, and he wouldn’t, but he was terrified he would. Irrational . . .

  His headache was just a little worse now.

  He pressed both eye sockets with thumb and forefinger. Food might ease it. If not, one of the codeine capsules nestling in his coat pocket. Meade had warned him against taking the medicine while he was driving, but if he took just one, with plenty of coffee . . .

  His hamburger arrived. Tasteless, but he ate all of it, even ate the orange slice that came with it. And he was still hungry. He ordered a slice of cherry pie a la mode and ate that and drank three more cups of coffee.

  None of it did his head much good. The pressure remained—constant, but muted and tolerable. All he had to do was hold it at this level and he wouldn’t have any difficulty driving; his thoughts were still perfectly clear. He shook out one of the codeine capsules, swallowed it with the last of his coffee. His nerves felt jangly from all the caffeine, but at least that would help keep him alert. He paid for his meal, left a tip, went out to the station wagon.

  The hitchhikers were gone; he wondered vaguely who had picked them up. He wouldn’t have, even if the
y’d still been there. Bad idea, picking up hitchhikers; dangerous on both sides.

  He began to drive again. Radio blaring rock music, all dissonance and shrieks that scraped like a file across his nerve ends. He spun the knob, found a station that was playing excerpts from old comedy albums. One of Shelley Berman’s routines, the one about fear of flying. Bill Cosby telling a Fat Albert story. Newhart on merchandising the Wright Brothers. Jonathan Winters spoofing old horror movies. He laughed a couple of times; most of the material was still funny and it felt good to laugh. The codeine had muted the pressure behind his eyes.

  The road climbed up over Camas Mountain, down through the village of Camas Valley. Not much traffic; dark night—cloudy again, no moon. Mort Sahl clip on the radio now; he had never liked Mort Sahl. Sharp twists and turns in the road, climbing again into the Klamath Mountains. Concentrate on the white line. Headlights coming at him, blinding for an instant, gone. Tom Lehrer next, one of his favorites. “They’re Rioting in Africa.” God, how that song brought back memories. His college days. Madison, the protest marches, the parties—

  The murder. Sandy Ralston. Ed Finlayson—guilty or innocent? He spun the knob again, quickly. Something loud, something fast and catchy. Static instead. Not many stations coming through up here. Damn, there must be something . . . there. One of those “Golden Oldies” stations. The Beatles doing “Yellow Submarine.” Silly song. Did we really get excited over songs like that?

  Headlights coming at him, blinding, gone. Twists and turns, twists and turns. Town of Remote, aptly named. Headlights, blinding, gone. Climbing again, damn switchbacks all through here, right and left, left and right, back and forth. Headlights behind him this time, coming fast, some damn fool tailgating him on the sharp turns. Get off my ass, you fool, what’s the matter with you? And then suddenly swerving around him on a half-blind turn, so that he had to jam on his brakes and veer over; taillights shining bloodily in the dark—and gone. Gone.

  But the pain wasn’t gone, it was still there. Worse than before.

  Credence Clearwater Revival doing “Lodi.”