Bill Pronzini - The Lighthouse

Then her thoughts shifted back to the present… to Mitch Novotny’s dog. It had been an accident; Jan hadn’t even known he’d hit the dog because he’d been having one of his headaches… just as he’d had one of his headaches the night the hitchhiker was murdered and her body left on the cape. The hit-and-run killing of a dog, the strangulation murder of a young woman. Hardly equivalent, and yet..

Those headaches and his sudden mood changes over the past year-it was almost as if he had undergone a personality change. And the way he seemed to be keeping something from her. At times it was like living with a stranger, someone she really didn’t know or understand. And all because of those headaches.

He’d minimized them upon his return from Portland, had claimed the doctor there had found no organic cause. But now she began to wonder if he might have been lying to her. No, not lying… trying to protect her from some kind of disturbing knowledge. She had to find out more about those headaches, for her own peace of mind. But their own doctor-and close friend-had refused to discuss them with her; and if Dave Sanderson wouldn’t reveal the nature of the problem, surely the Portland specialist would be even more reluctant to do so. Perhaps if she called Dave, explained the urgency of the situation…

And if he still refused? If he didn’t even know how serious the headaches were because Jan hadn’t told him?

Over the past few years she’d become accustomed to keeping her problems to herself, taken pride in her ability to cope with and solve them on her own. But now she wished she had someone to confide in, to give her advice. Her best friend, Kay? No, theirs wasn’t that intimate a relationship. Alison, her future business partner? Impossible. Her mother? It would merely frighten her, Mom was strong in her way, but she didn’t deal well with emotional issues. Her father? God, no. If she alarmed him, he’d want to fly up here and take over. Alix shuddered at the thought of the chaos that would result.

No, she’d have to deal with this on her own, too, in her own way. And the first step was to call Dave Sanderson. She wouldn’t be able to do that from the lighthouse, of course; even though Jan had taken to spending most of his time up in the tower, sound carried so easily in the place that he’d be certain to overhear every word of the conversation. The best thing would be to drive to Bandon-they still needed groceries and she would never go back to the Hilliard General Store-and make the call from a pay phone.

She reached for the ignition key, started the engine again. A plan of action always made her feel better, more in control of a situation and of her own emotions. And now more than ever, until she found out what was causing Jan’s headaches and was able to rid herself of her nagging doubts, she needed to maintain control.

Mitch stubbed out his cigarette and gestured down the bar. “Another bottle of Henry’s, Les.”

“Kind of early, ain’t it?”

“You my goddamn wife or something?”

“Don’t get sore, Mitch. I was only—”

“Yeah, you were only. Another Henry’s.”

“Sure. You’re the boss.”

That’s a laugh, Mitch thought moodily. I’m not the boss of anything these days, including my own frigging life. Not enough of a catch this morning to pay for another tankful of diesel; barely enough this week to buy groceries and pay the mortgage on the house. Old Jimmy engine acting up worse every day, quit on him any day now; he felt it every time he cranked the son of a bitch up for another run. Things weren’t bad enough, he’d come in at nine-thirty, hungry and drag-ass tired, and Marie and her old lady had started in on him. Hadn’t even let him pour himself a cup of coffee, get a bite of toast. Just started right in on him soon as he walked in the door.

“Doctor says I might have to have a cesarean, Mitch. How are we going to pay for that?”

“Can’t you get another job, Mitch? You got to take better care of Marie and my grandkids.”

“There’s no milk in the house, Mitch. Kids are crying for milk.”

“Mrs. Hilliard looks at me with pity, Mitch. You think I like people to look at me that way?”

“Mitch, what are we going to do?”

“Mitch, you better do something.”

“Mitch, Mitch, Mitch…”

Jesus, it was enough to drive you crazy. He’d got out of there. Hadn’t even had his breakfast; they took the appetite right out of a man, harping, all the time harping. It wasn’t his fault. He was trying, wasn’t he? Doing all he could?

He lit another cigarette as Les Cummins, the Sea Breeze’s day bartender, set down the fresh bottle of Henry’s. Fifth beer since he’d come in, and it was only ten-thirty. Keep this up, he’d be shit-faced by mid-afternoon. No sense in that. What good did it do? You sobered up, you still had the same problems and a hangover on top of them. He couldn’t afford to get drunk, that was another thing. Couldn’t afford the five bottles of Henry’s he’d had already. Or the ten cigarettes he’d smoked. Half a pack and it was only ten-thirty and he was supposed to be rationing himself to a pack a day. Pretty soon he’d have to give up smoking and drinking altogether. Then what would he have? Nothing, not a frigging thing. Couldn’t even get laid, with Marie all swollen up like a balloon. Maybe wouldn’t get any nookie for months, if she had to have a cesarean and took a long time to mend.

What the hell was the use? Man had to have some hope, see some light at the end of the tunnel; man had to have something to live for. What did he have? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.

Mitch poured his glass full and drank half of it. Les was down at the other end of the bar, reading the Coos Bay paper; he knew Mitch didn’t feel like talking-he damn well better know it. There wasn’t anybody else in the Sea Breeze this early. Or there wasn’t until half a minute later, when the door opened and Seth Bonner blew in.

Shit, Mitch thought. He knew Bonner would come straight over and start babbling at him, and sure enough, there he was perched on the next stool, saying, “You’re early today, Mitch. How come? You got something to celebrate?”

“Go away, Seth.”

“What’s the matter? You don’t want company?”

“You’re smarter than you look.”

“Huh?”

“Go bend Les’s ear. He likes it; I don’t.”

“Hell, Mitch…”

“You want me to shove you down the bar?”

Bonner got up and went down to where Les was, looking hurt. Well, fuck him, Mitch thought. He drained his glass, refilled it with what was left in the bottle.

“What’s in the paper?” Bonner asked Les. “Anything new about the murder?”

“If there is, it ain’t printed here.”

“No story at all?”

“Short one. They identified the girl-Miranda Collins, student up at the U. of Oregon.”

“What was she doing down here?”

“They don’t know. No family in this area or anywheres else in the state. She’s from up in Idaho.”

“Hitchhiking to California, maybe,” Bonner said. “Everybody wants to go to California, seems like.”

“Not me. I like it here.”

“Me too. California’s full of queers and weirdos.”

“Miranda,” Les said. “I knew a girl named Miranda once. Pretty little thing.”

“This one wasn’t pretty, not when they found her.”

“Yeah? You see her, Seth?”

“Seen her picture, the one they printed in the paper.”

“Can’t tell much from that kind of picture.”

“Tell enough,” Bonner said. “She wasn’t pretty dead and she wasn’t so pretty alive, neither. Maybe that was why she wasn’t raped.”

“How do you know she wasn’t raped?”