The Lighthouse

But then why hadn’t the state troopers arrested him? Didn’t know what the hell they were doing, could be. Hamstrung by a lot of legal crap. That was why they hadn’t arrested him for murdering Red, wasn’t it? Man was a killer and they hadn’t done anything about it. Weren’t going to do anything about it, way it looked. Just let him keep on sitting out there, smug and satisfied, safe, until he felt like killing somebody else’s dog-somebody else’s kid, too, maybe.

Something ought to be done, by God. He’d been going to do something himself, even before that girl turned up dead. Wasn’t that what he’d said to Hod and Adam? That bastard won’t get away with it, he’d said. I’ll see to that, he’d said, I’ll fix his wagon. There are ways, he’d said.

But what had he done? Nothing, that’s what. Only one who’d done anything was Adam, shooting up Ryerson’s car the way he had- he’d taken some action, even if it hadn’t done much good. Good old Mitch, though, he hadn’t done anything except blow off at the mouth. Story of his life: talk, talk, talk. Big plans, big talk, but when it came down to the crunch… nothing.

But it didn’t have to keep on being that way. He didn’t have to keep on being a blowhard, a loser. Things could change. Yes, and by Christ they were going to change! He was tired of being pushed around, sick and tired of it. He couldn’t do much about the bad fishing or Marie or her mother or all his debts, not right now he couldn’t, but he could do something about Ryerson.

He sat there a while longer, letting the wind rip at him, letting his anger build to a high, hot flame that insulated him against the cold. Then he got up and walked back along the beach and went into Mike’s Cafe. There was a public telephone back by the johns; he made sure nobody was around and then got the number of the lighthouse, put a quarter in the slot, put his handkerchief around the mouthpiece as he dialed.

“hell?”

“Ryerson?”

“Yes? Who’s calling?”

“Get out of Hilliard, if you know what’s good for you. You got twenty-four hours.”

Silence for four or five seconds. Then, “Who is this?”

“You heard me, you prick. Twenty-four hours, or we’ll come and drag you out. You and your wife both.”

Mitch slammed down the receiver, hard, before Ryerson could say anything else.

Alix

She brought the station wagon to a stop in the parking area of Lang’s Gallery and Gifts and looked with dismay at the CLOSED sign in the window. Then she glanced past the squarish building to the shabby gray Victorian house that stood some twenty yards beyond it. Through the sheer-curtained front window she saw the glow of a chandelier. Cassie Lang was probably taking the day off at home.

Alix sat drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, wondering if she should bother the gallery owner. She herself hated unexpected visits at home, but not everyone was as jealous of her privacy. And on her prior visit to the gallery, Cassie had seemed glad, even eager for company. At length she nodded decisively, got out of the car, and made her way across the overgrown lawn toward the Victorian.

Her trip into Bandon had been disappointing. Dave Sanderson, she’d been told when she reached his office in Palo Alto, was unavailable: he was attending a medical convention in Atlanta and wasn’t scheduled to return until next week. His nurse had offered to put her in touch with the colleague who was covering for Dave, but Alix had declined and hung up without leaving a message.

Rather than give in to her disappointment, which would only have led to depression, she’d taken her crumpled grocery list to a nearby supermarket. There, among the familiar boxes and bottles and cans, selecting familiar merchandise with practiced motions, she was able to create a semblance of normalcy, concentrating on such mundane questions as what to have for dinner that night and whether the food in the cart was enough to hold them for a full week. She was able to make the sense of normalcy last all the way back to Hilliard, wrapping herself in a comfortable cocoon, and when she’d seen the sign for Cassie’s gallery, she’d decided on impulse to stop and prolong it. She just didn’t feel like returning yet to the bleak landscape of Cape Despair.

In the center of the house’s front door was an old-fashioned brass knocker, shaped like a gargoyle’s head. Using such things always made her feel foolish. She looked for a doorbell, found one, and pushed it. Chimes rang loudly within the confines of the house, but no one answered them-not the first time and not when she pushed the bell again a second time.

But she could clearly see that the chandelier was burning in the front parlor, and that had to mean Cassie was home. Why didn’t she answer the door? Because, Alix thought then, she saw me coming and doesn’t want to talk to me? Because she’s heard what the villagers are saying about Jan and she believes it too?