Bill Pronzini - The Lighthouse

“Son of a bitch ought to be shot dead.”

“Hod,” Mitch said, “you okay?”

“Yeah,” Hod said, “I’m okay.”

“Another beer? Something to eat?”

“No, not right now.”

Mitch put an arm around him, the way he had two or three times today. “You sure you’re okay? You want to lay down or something?”

“No,” Hod said, “I don’t want to lay down.”

“Maybe be alone for a while? Go back to your place?”

“No. I don’t want to be alone.”

“Stay here with us, then, that what you want to do?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure you can. Stay as long as you want.”

“We know how you feel,” Adam said. “Don’t we, Mitch?”

“Sure we do. We know just how you feel.”

Mandy’s dead, Hod thought, my daughter’s dead. And he still couldn’t feel anything.

She replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle and sat on the edge of the hard double bed, staring at the bland motel wallpaper. It was-what else? — a seashell pattern, dozens of turquoise cowries alternating with pink conches against a tan background that was probably supposed to be sand. When you looked at it for more than a few seconds it all merged into a muddy swirl, as if waves had engulfed the vinyl-coated beach.

Her first act after setting her overnight bag down on the luggage rack had been to call Jan and give him the name and phone number of the motel. He had been pleasant, had sounded glad to hear she’d arrived safely, and yet she sensed that underneath the superficial normalcy he was withdrawn, brooding. Yes, everything was all right, he’d said. Yes, he would be talking to her again soon; in the meantime she wasn’t to worry about him.

She was worried.

Why did he need to be apart from her for a day or two, alone at the light? Did he have some romantic notion of defending it against Mitch Novotny, some dangerous plan that he didn’t want to risk involving her in? Or was it just that he wanted time to work out whatever was plaguing him, perhaps to make up his mind to confess it to her? She fervently hoped that was the answer. It was the one thing, more than any other right now, that would reinforce the fragile bond between them.

She sighed and fumbled in her purse for Frank Sinclair’s card. The next order of business was to inform his office of her whereabouts. The card was a no-frills white with black lettering, and it bore an address in Coos Bay. She debated driving up there instead of calling-getting out of this room, which was already beginning to make her feel claustrophobic. But a curious lethargy seemed to have taken hold of her, and the debate lasted only a few seconds before she again picked up the telephone receiver, punched the button for an outside line, and dialed.

Sinclair was in his office, and she was able to give him her message personally. There was a pause-he was probably noting down the address and number-and then he said, “I think you were wise to leave Cap Des Peres, Mrs. Ryerson. And since you’re fairly close by, I’ll be expecting you and your husband to come in soon and file a report on those incidents you mentioned. ”

“Would tomorrow be all right?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Is it… all right if I come alone? Or do you need both of us to sign the report?”

“Isn’t your husband there with you?”

“No. He… decided to stay at the lighthouse alone for a day or two. He seems to feel it shouldn’t be left unattended.”

“I see.” She could picture Sinclair stroking the straggly side of his mustache.

When he didn’t go on, she took a breath and said, “Mr. Sinclair, I’m concerned for my husband’s safety. Have you talked to Mitch Novotny yet?”

“I have. He denies any harassment of you and your husband.”

“Of course he does. But what if he tries something else?”

“I don’t think that’s likely. I suggested to him that it would be a very unwise thing for anyone to do.”

“I hope you’re right. Is there any chance… well, that he’s the one who killed Mandy Barnett and the other girl?”

“We have no reason to think so. Do you, Mrs. Ryerson?”

“No. It’s just that… well, he’d been at the light earlier, to put the rats in the pantry. What if he came back-to do something else, or to see what our reaction had been? Or what if he was the reason Mandy was so afraid… because he’d tried to attack her or something?”

“Anything is possible at this stage of our investigation,” Sinclair said mildly. “However, Mr. Novotny has a very strong alibi for the approximate time of Mandy Barnett’s murder: he was home with his wife, children, and mother-in-law. They all swear to that fact. Also, he doesn’t own a dark-green automobile.”

“Dark-green?”

“There were green paint scrapings on the bicycle. Whoever ran Mandy Barnett down did so in a green vehicle headed toward the lighthouse, not away from it.”

“How do you know that?”

“Physical evidence-tire marks, for one thing.”

Sinclair’s news relieved her in one way. Their station wagon was brown-the final piece of evidence, if she really needed it, to prove that Jan hadn’t been responsible for Mandy’s death.

And then she thought of the first time she’d seen Mandy: smoking grass on the headland with a young man several years older, her “connection for dope.” The car they’d been leaning against had been green.

She said as much to Sinclair. And he said, “Yes, we know. His name is Mike Wilson and we’ve already questioned him. His car is the wrong green, and undamaged, and he also has an alibi for the approximate time of the girl’s death.”

“Oh,” she said, and paused, and then said, “May I ask you one more question? A… favor, actually.”

“What sort of favor?”

“Can you give my husband some sort of protection while he’s staying alone at the lighthouse?”

Sinclair hesitated. When he spoke, his tone was softened, almost apologetic. “No, Mrs. Ryerson, I’m sorry I can’t.”

She’d expected as much, but still she said, “Why not? It would only be for a couple of days. I think he’ll make up his mind to leave by then.”

“My office is working on two homicide investigations,” Sinclair said patiently, “as well as a number of other cases. We’re understaffed. I can’t spare anyone without at least some evidence that your husband’s life is in danger. And I can’t request a patrol officer for the job for the same reason.”

“You’re saying my fears are groundless?”

“Not exactly. I’ll do this for you: I’ll have one more talk with Novotny, just to strengthen the suggestion I made to him. That’s all I can do.”

“Thank you.”

“You could try the sheriff’s department,” Sinclair said, “but I’m afraid they’ll tell you the same thing I have. The only way to insure your husband’s safety is to convince him to leave Cap Des Peres.”

And she couldn’t seem to do that, she thought as she ended the conversation. At least not yet. Nor was she convinced, despite Sinclair’s reassurances, that Jan was in no danger from Mitch Novotny.

She considered calling her father. Matthew Kingsley would know what to do in a situation like this. He had connections everywhere, including Oregon; he could bring pressure to bear on the state police. After all, he’d always told her that when you don’t receive satisfaction at one level, you should go higher with your demands-to the top, if necessary.

The idea of picking up the phone and calling the familiar number in Palo Alto was a tempting one. But it was also a thoroughly bad one, she decided. For one thing, Jan would never forgive her for bringing her father into what he considered a personal problem; such an action would probably provide the severing blow to the thread that bound their marriage. And what if Matthew behaved with his characteristic bluster, chartered a plane, and showed up here demanding action? That would not only enrage and alienate Jan, but would further strain matters in Hilliard.