Neither Novotny nor anyone else was going to drive him out, take away this one last refuge before the curtain of darkness came down. It wasn’t stubbornness, it wasn’t pride; it was something deeper than either one, more profound. Ryerson’s Last Stand. He was staying no matter what. They would have to come for him with guns and burning torches, like the villagers in the old Frankenstein movie.
“Jan?” Alix, calling from the top of the stairs. “Is everything all right?”
“Fine. Go back to bed, I’ll be up in a minute.”
He walked into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of milk, drank it slowly. Through the window he could see the closed doors to the garage. No more driving for him; he’d promised Alix that. Just the thought of getting behind the wheel again made his hands moist, his heart beat faster. If he suffered another blackout it would not be behind the wheel of a car, where he might endanger another life, a human one this time.
When he went back upstairs and re-entered the bedroom, Alix was in bed with the covers pulled up to her chin. She said, “Who was that on the phone?”
“Nobody. Wrong number.”
“I heard you bang the receiver . . . ”
“People ought to be able to dial the right number,” he said. “It’s a damned nuisance.”
He felt her eyes probing at him as he unbelted his robe, got into bed. But after a few seconds she fitted her body to his, held him, and said, “Now where were we?”
He wasn’t sure if he could make love now. But when he blanked his mind, the heat of her body and the stroking of her hands gave him an erection almost immediately. But it wasn’t good sex, at least not for him. She put herself into the act with passion and intensity, as if she were trying too hard to please him, or trying too hard to escape from whatever thoughts and fears crowded her mind. For him it was detached and mechanical. All body and no soul, brain still blank, lost somewhere inside himself, in a place untouched by the sensations of physical pleasure.
They lay in silence afterward. Alix broke it finally by saying, “I’d better get up. My turn for breakfast today. Are you hungry?”
“Ravenous,” he lied.
“French toast and bacon?”
“Great.” It was his favorite breakfast.
She got out of bed and let him watch her walk naked into the bathroom, moving her hips more than she had to for his benefit. It didn’t give him as much pleasure as it should have. He might have been watching her through someone else’s eyes. Was this the way schizophrenics felt? Detached, yourself and yet not yourself? Those blackout periods . . . what exactly did he do during one of them? The thought of his body in the control of some other self, some stranger, was terrifying. Why couldn’t he remember . . . ?
He heard the rush of water as the shower came on—and half a minute later, he heard Alix cry out.
The sudden horrified shout jerked him out of bed, sent him stumbling across to the bathroom door. He threw it open, and she was out of the tub, bent over and scrubbing frantically at her body with a towel. Her bare skin was streaked with an ugly brown. The shower was still running and the cold water that came out of it was the same brown color; more brown stained the tile walls, the tub, the floor at Alix’s feet. The stench in the room made him gag.
Manure, cow shit. The water pouring out of the shower head smelled like the inside of a barn.
The significance of it didn’t register fully at first. He caught Alix’s arm with one hand, a second towel with the other, and pulled her out into the bedroom. Slammed the door to barricade them against the stench and then helped her wipe the brown filth off her body. She said in a choked, bewildered voice, “I just turned on the cold water, all I did was turn on the cold water.... ”
The towels weren’t doing any more good; he got the comforter off the foot of the bed, wrapped it around her, made her sit down. Then he hurried back into the bathroom, managed to get the shower turned off without letting much of the tainted water splash on him. He found the catch on the window, hauled up the sash. Breathing through his mouth, he pivoted to the sink and rotated the porcelain handle on the hot-water tap. It ran clean. But when he tried the cold tap, the water that came out was filthy.
He understood then. Novotny had fouled the well. Sometime during the night, with sacks of manure.
Rage stirred through him, but it was like no other rage he’d ever felt. Cold, not hot. And it did nothing to him: caused no tension, no pressure and pain behind his eyes. He felt no different than he had before Alix’s cry, except that most of the detachment was gone. He was very calm, very much in control of himself.
Alix was on her feet again, moving around in a stunned way, when he came out. “I’ve got to wash this off,” she said. “I’ll be sick if I don’t.” She started past him to the bathroom.
He stopped her with his body. “No, don’t go in there. You’d better clean up downstairs.”
“The water . . . what . . . ?”
“It’s polluted. Somebody dumped manure into the well.”
She stared at him for a moment, then shook her head—a gesture of incomprehension, not denial. The movement seemed to let her smell herself; she made a small gagging sound. “I can’t stand it, I’ve got to wash . . . ”
“Use the hot-water tap in the kitchen,” he said. “What’s stored in the tank is still clean.” He reached for his pants, pulled them on.
“What are you going to do?”
“Go out and look at the well. Go ahead, go on down. Take your robe so you don’t catch cold.”
She went out without saying anything else. He buttoned his shirt, sat on the edge of the bed to tie his shoes. He wasn’t thinking at all now. He didn’t trust himself to think just yet. Downstairs, he took his jacket out of the coat closet. He could hear Alix in the kitchen, filling a pan with hot water. When he stepped outside, the fog was still swirling in over the cliffs from the sea, turning the garage and the woodshed and the pumphouse into wraith-like shapes in the dull morning light. But the smell of it was moist and salt-fresh, cleansing.
He opened the door to the pumphouse, looked inside. Flakes of spilled manure littered the floor. They’d carried the rest of the evidence away with them—whatever containers they’d used. It had been easy for them, he thought. Dark night, nothing to repel intruders, not even a lock on the damn pumphouse door.
When he re-entered the house a couple of minutes later, Alix was no longer in the kitchen; he heard her moving around upstairs. He sat down in the living room and filled one of his pipes—the calabash that Alix said made him look like Basil Rathbone playing Sherlock Holmes. He was about to light it when she came down again.
She was wearing her robe, the wine-red velour one, and she had doused herself with Miss Dior cologne. The smell of it was cloyingly sweet in the cold room. Her face was pale, her expression one of contained anger. She might be emotional in the first minutes of a crisis, but she never let her emotions govern her for very long.
She sat opposite him. “What did they put in the well?” she asked. “Manure?”
“Yes.”
“It was Mitch Novotny, I suppose.”
Things had moved past the point of denial now; she had literally been struck with the truth a few minutes ago. He nodded. “Or one of his friends.”
“Aren’t you going to call the sheriff?”
“What good would it do? There’s no evidence against him, or anyone else.”
“What, then? You’re not going to confront him?”
“I don’t know. Probably not.”
Her expression had changed; what he saw on her face now was resolve. “Jan, we’ve got to get away from here. You can see that now, can’t you?”
“No,” he said, “I can’t. Running away won’t solve anything. That’s just what Novotny and the rest of them want—to drive us out. I won’t let them do that.”
“Why? What difference does it make?”
“It makes a big difference to me.”
“There are other lighthouses—”
“Not like this one. There’s not enough time.”
“What do you mean, not enough time?”
“To find another one, make all the arrangements. To get my book done before you . . . go off to L.A.”
“I’m not ‘going off to L.A.’ For heaven’s sake, I can postpone things with Alison, if that’s what—”
“I’m not leaving here, Alix,” he said. “Not until our year’s tenancy is up.”
“How can you expect to stay with the well polluted, no water to bathe in?”
“There are chemicals to purify the well.”
“All right, there are chemicals. But what’s to stop Novotny from doing it again? And again? Or doing something else, something worse?”
“There’s me to stop him.”
“I don’t like that kind of talk. What can you do against a man like Novotny? Against a whole village full of hostile people?”
He made no response. A thin silence built between them, like ice formed over rough water. When Alix broke it, it was as if the veneer of ice had been shattered by the weight of something heavy.
“Maybe you can stay here under these conditions,” she said in a deliberate voice, “but I don’t think I can. I mean that, Jan—I’m not prepared to deal with much more of this.”
“Do what you have to.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth, but he had no trouble saying them. Odd. He was still terrified of losing her, but the fear had been driven down deep inside him by this new threat.
“Jan,” she said, and stopped, and then started again. “Jan, don’t do this to us. Don’t let them to do this to us. It isn’t worth it. We’re what matters, not this lighthouse, not anything else.”
He was on his feet, with no conscious memory of having moved out of his chair. “I’m going to light the stove and make some coffee. We’ll both feel better after we’ve had some coffee.”
He went into the kitchen without looking back at her. There was no looking back anymore, he thought. No looking ahead, either. Soon enough there would be no looking, period. Now was what counted. The right here and the right now.
Alix
It seemed as if she spent all her time behind the wheel of this car, driving but getting nowhere, agonizing but resolving nothing. But she had to get away from Cape Despair this morning, if only for a little white—away from the stink of manure, away from Jan and his cold anger, his remoteness. It was behavior she’d never seen in him before, and it worried her far more than if he’d ranted and cursed and smashed things. She didn’t let herself think about the implications of it. If she did, it would only unnerve her even more.
When she reached the intersection with the county road, she turned automatically toward Hilliard. It was only when the familiar, run-down buildings appeared ahead that she realized what she was doing and wondered why. There was nowhere for her to go in the village, no errand to run, no friend to visit.
But there must have been a purpose, an obscure need, buried in her subconscious: when she reached the laundromat, she turned without hesitation onto the side street just beyond it—the one that climbed the hillside to the community center and the church. The street curved up past shabby frame houses that seemed to cling tenuously to the slopes, then curved again under an arching canopy of tree branches. Just beyond the trees, on a knoll to the right, was the red-brick community center. It was shuttered and deserted, almost abandoned-looking, but a large bulletin board on its front porch was covered with notices of future events. Alix slowed the car as she passed, glancing up at the building’s bell tower. Birds—some kind of smallish brown ones—came and went there; it was probably their nesting place.
Behind the center was a thick stand of pines, and above their tops she could see the white steeple of the church silhouetted against the sky. The sky itself was streaky, with patches of blue showing through the gray—the first break in the dismal weather all week. She followed the road through a sharp S-curve and up the hill to the church.
It had been her destination all along, but she felt odd as she stopped the car in front. She wasn’t especially religious, hadn’t attended services in years. But the minister, Harvey Olsen, had seemed approachable when she’d met him in the general store; if there was anyone in Hilliard she could talk to, wouldn’t it be a man of the cloth?
The church was a traditional-style rectangular white building that reminded her of many she’d seen in New England, but it was less aesthetically pleasing than most of those because it fronted on an unpaved parking lot that was rutted and gouged in places. Behind it to the left was a small weedy graveyard; behind it to the right was a smaller building that looked as if might be a parsonage. Even the encircling pines that covered most of the hill at this elevation failed to give the church much visual appeal.
Alix got out of the station wagon and stood for a moment, breathing in the tangy scent of the pines. There was a ten-year-old Dodge parked between the church and the parsonage, which must mean that Harvey Olsen was somewhere on the premises. But where? She started toward the parsonage and then saw that one half of the double-doored entrance to the church was ajar and altered her course. She went up to the open door, pushed it all the way open, and stepped into the gloomy interior.
The church was long and narrow, with stained glass windows that were deeply shadowed by the encroaching branches of the trees outside. There were several rows of wooden pews and a rather plain altar. The floors were of hardwood, badly scarred by the feet of generations of worshippers. The enclosure felt damp and cold—an atmosphere that she guessed never left the place, even in the heat of summer. She stood just inside the door, reluctant to call out and break the heavy silence.
In the wall to the right of the altar was another door that also stood ajar. After a moment she started down the center aisle, thinking the minister might be in the sacristy at the rear. But her steps were hesitant now; she was beginning to feel uncomfortable about being there. After all, she wasn’t one of the congregation, barely knew Harvey Olsen. And she was in no way accustomed to airing her troubles to strangers. Still, she told herself again, ministers were trained to listen to other people’s problems. Olsen would see nothing odd in her coming to him.
She was halfway down the aisle when she heard footfalls behind her. She turned. Harvey Olsen had come in the front way and was approaching her, clad in a bright red jogging suit and the same knitted cap he’d had on the first time she’d seen him. His face was shiny with sweat and his wire-rimmed glasses were fogged. As he neared her he took the glasses off, wiped their lenses on the baggy sleeve of his suit.
“Mrs. Ryerson, isn’t it?” he said. “I wondered who was here when I saw your car.”
For a moment she was at a loss for words. And even more uncomfortable. She’d expected to find Harvey Olsen in vestments, and here he was in a jogging suit and all sweaty from his morning run.
As if he sensed her discomfort, Olsen patted his midriff, smiled, and said, “Have to keep the old weight down. I like pasta too much, and after forty . . . ”
She nodded, answered his smile with a faint one of her own.
Olsen put his glasses back on and peered intently at her. “Did you just come to see the church? Or is there some problem?”
Something about the way he said it—not the phrasing, but the inflection—told her he knew all about what the villagers were saying about Jan. For a paranoid instant she wondered if he might even know about their trouble at the lighthouse and who was responsible for it. Mitch Novotny was probably one of his parishioners. . . .
Harvey Olsen was waiting for her to speak, his head cocked to one side like a bird’s. The eyes behind his glasses held a gleam of intelligence softened by compassion. But there was something else there too, she thought, something she couldn’t quite identify in the weak light.
She cleared her throat and said, “You know about the murder, of course—the young girl who was found out on the cape.”
He nodded sadly. “A tragic thing.”
&nbs
p; “And I suppose you’ve also heard what some of the villagers are saying about who might be responsible. Lillian Hilliard, for one. Adam Reese, for another.”
“Yes, I’m afraid I have.” Olsen took off his knitted cap and scrubbed his fingers through pale, thinning hair. “It’s disturbing, and very unfair. But it’s just talk, you must remember that. The idle pursuit of idle minds.”
The platitude made her impatient. “The only reason they’re saying these things about my husband is the accident with Mitch Novotny’s dog—”
“Yes, I know about that too.”
“Well, it was an accident. My husband apologized to him, offered to buy him another dog, but he wouldn’t listen. He wants revenge.”
“Revenge?” Olsen looked more alert.
“He’s been harassing us,” she said. “At least, we think it’s Novotny. There might be others involved, too.”
“What sort of harassment, Mrs. Ryerson?”
“Someone shot at our car, did quite a bit of damage to it. There have been threatening telephone calls.” She wasn’t certain of this, but it was the obvious explanation for Jan’s behavior with the phone this morning. “And sometime last night, our well was fouled with manure.”
“Good heavens.” Olsen sucked in his breath with a soft whistling sound and stood up straighter. But his eyes moved from her face to a point over her right shoulder.
She started to tell him the rest of it—Jan’s headaches, her own doubts and fears—and then stopped abruptly when she realized that Harvey Olsen was no longer listening to her. He stood very still, his eyes focused on the distance. It was only when he became aware that she had stopped speaking that he blinked, seemed to shake himself out of it, and looked at her again.
The Lighthouse: A Novel of Terror Page 15