Bill Pronzini - The Lighthouse

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.

“Just what is it you want from me, Mrs. Ryerson?” he said.

The question surprised her; she was still caught up in her emotions. Frowning, she said, “Understanding. Advice. A sympathetic ear.”

“I can listen, but I can’t give you advice. Only you can know your own conscience, your own marriage-the dynamic that operates there.”

“That’s the trouble-I don’t. The ‘dynamic,’ as you call it, seems to have changed in the last year.”

But Olsen didn’t seem to want to listen to that, either. He sat on one of the benches, crossed one leg over the other, examined the toe of one well-worn sneaker. Finally, he said in a reflective voice, “As for the men in the village… you must remember that most of them are fishermen and that they are under a severe strain. You do know their situation?”

“I know the fishing has been bad, yes…”

“Some, such as Mitch Novotny, are living marginally,” Olsen said. “Mitch owns his home and boat, but both are heavily mortgaged and he is afraid of losing them. And he has another child on the way-did you know that?”

Again she felt herself growing impatient. “What does that have to do with his harassment of my husband and me? I’m sorry he’s having financial problems, but that doesn’t give him or anyone else the right to victimize other people.”

“Mrs. Ryerson, please try to understand—”

“I might say the same to you, Reverend Olsen.”

He blinked at her in his sad way, gave her a look that was almost pleading. But it touched her not at all. She had tired of his excuses and platitudes; they made her feel foolish, and very sorry that she had come here.

“We’re being terrorized,” she said. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“Of course it does…”

“But you don’t want to hear about it or do anything about it. All you want to do is protect your friends and neighbors.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is true. Take a good look at yourself, listen to yourself. You’re afraid to help us because we’re outsiders, because it’ll make you look bad in the eyes of your parishioners, and because you’re afraid what the gossip-mongers like Lillian Hilliard are saying might be true.”

Olsen was silent, his expression both pained and troubled.

“Well, think about this, Reverend. Think about how you’ll feel if something more serious than having our well polluted or our car riddled with bullets happens to us. Think about the consequences if one of us is shot instead.”

“Oh, Mrs. Ryerson, I’m sure it will never come to that.”

“Are you? Are you, really?”

Olsen raised his pale eyes to her. And behind the torment reflected there, she saw clearly what had been masked in them before-the true essence of the man. It was weakness augmented by fear and self-doubt; it was cowardice. The Reverend Harvey Olsen was a poor excuse for both a minister and a human being.

She stared at him for several seconds, letting him see her anger and her contempt. Then she turned abruptly and stalked out of his church.

When she came in sight of the lighthouse an hour later, she saw an old olive-colored humpbacked sedan parked just outside the gate. She didn’t recognize it-but she did recognize the woman walking across the yard. It was Cassie Lang, wrapped in a heavy brown sweater and matching scarf.

Her surprise gave way to wariness as both she and Cassie neared the old sedan. Had Cassie come because she was still a friend? Or was she there for some other reason, one that confirmed she was on the side of Lillian Hilliard and the other villagers? A friendly face would be welcome, God knew… but even at that, her timing could have been better. It was Jan she wanted to talk to now.

After she’d left the church she’d driven aimlessly for a while, following the coast highway nearly a dozen miles south before she turned back. Her anger and disgust had gradually faded, leaving her determined not to confide in anyone else, to deal with the situation strictly on her own from now on. And even more convinced that she and Jan must leave the lighthouse as soon as possible. Subtle argument hadn’t swayed him; neither had a more direct approach. But what about a direct approach in a less emotionally charged setting than Cape Despair? If she could persuade him to go someplace for dinner-anywhere but Hilliard-then maybe they could talk, really talk, and she could make him understand her position.

As she neared the gate, Cassie waved and pulled it open for her. Alix drove through, stopped the Ford near the garage, and got out. Cassie had shut the gate again and was coming toward her, smiling in a friendly way.

“Hi,” Cassie said. “I was afraid I’d missed you.”

“I’ve been out for a drive.”

“Where’s your husband? No one answered when I knocked on the door.”

“He was working on his book when I left,” Alix lied. “He gets so involved sometimes, he doesn’t pay any attention to his surroundings.”

“Well, I can understand that. I’m the same way.”

“Yes, so am I.” Alix paused. “I stopped by to see you the other day, but the gallery was closed.”

“I wasn’t feeling well-a touch of the flu, I guess. I spent the day in bed. Did you ring the bell at the house?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“I must have been asleep; I’m a heavy sleeper. I’m sorry I missed you.”

“Me, too,” Alix said, and felt herself relax. So she did have one friend in the village after all. She’d all but written Cassie off for no good reason. She should have known better than to jump to conclusions, even in a place like Hilliard.

Cassie said, “I should have called before I drove out, but I’m feeling so much better today and I decided an outing would do me good

… I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all.”

“I thought if you’re not busy, I’d take you up on your offer of a tour of the lighthouse.”

“Well… this isn’t a good day for it, I’m afraid. Jan’s working and I don’t like to disturb him.”

“Oh, I understand. We could walk on the beach for a while, though, couldn’t we? Unless you have something you need to do?”

Alix hesitated, glancing toward the light. “I don’t know…”

“Just for a little while? It’s such a nice day.”

There was something plaintive in Cassie’s voice-a need for companionship that Alix understood all too well. And it was a nice day, at least as far as the weather was concerned: the last of the overcast had blown inland or burned off, leaving the sky cloudless, and there was very little wind. The sun transformed objects that had previously seemed drab or ugly, invested the patchy grass with a subtle green, the rocks with a rich brown, the sea with deep blues and turquoises. It was the kind of rare fall day made for a walk on the beach.