Bill Pronzini - The Lighthouse

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 they’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.”

Headlights, blinding, gone.

Town of Myrtle Point. Splashes of neon against the dark. Gone.

The Animals. “House of the Rising Sun.”

Twisting, turning.

Hurting.

How far now? Almost to Coquille. Forty miles.

Hang on.

The Beatles. “Paperback Writer.”

Coquille. 42-S. Twisting and turning, turning and twisting. Dark, no lights anywhere. Dark.

Eyes burning so bad they were leaking water.

“To Know Him Is to Love Him.” The Teddy Bears. My God. The Teddy Bears, what kind of name was that…?

Headlights, blinding, gone.

Shouldn’t keep driving, headache getting worse, vision starting to blur a little. The dog, Novotny’s dog-don’t want anything like that to happen again. Can’t risk another blackout, another accident.