Late at Night (18 page)

Jerry would make things right for Gloria. He had to. Life without her would be meaningless. She needed him, too, although she would never admit it. At the end of the year her contract was up, and everyone knew that she would be replaced by that young hotshot, Harold Benson, as the
Daily Journal’s
show-biz writer. Offers, decent offers, for employment were few and far between. Gloria didn’t know what she’d do once she lost her job. She had invested wisely, had enough to live on probably for the rest of her life, but without her work she might as well just dry up and die.

Jerry was going to see to it that she never felt like an outdated commodity. He’d be there for her to lean on, every step of the way.

How far had she gone? he wondered. Halfway down the beach he could still make out her footprints, and others’ as well. He didn’t remember if Everson had told anyone to search for the girls in this direction. Perhaps some of these footprints had been made by that writer fellow and the lady psychic the night before.

Glo. Glo, honey. Where the hell are you?

He stopped and got his bearings. The guest house was far behind him now. Out of sight. The woods at this point had retreated inland, sprouting up about thirty yards to his left. The beach began to narrow, a thin strip along the water dotted with large jutting rocks. There was a wide field filled with bushes and weeds between beach and forest. About fifteen yards ahead, the field ended and the ground to his left began to rise steadily, forming a low cliff, and the beach ended abruptly, turning into a treacherous collection of massive boulders. It was upon those boulders that the wreck of the
Mary Eliza
had been squatting for 100-odd years. He could see it clearly, a deserted, oddly menacing husk sitting on the rocky surface, blending into its surroundings, the weatherbeaten old timbers and the stony outcrop-pings below it difficult to distinguish from one another. It gave him a disquieting feeling, for it looked like the carcass of some long dead and enormous marine animal. He could imagine ghostly, hungry predators hiding among its innards, feasting on the decaying flesh.

Jerry looked past the remains of the ship and noticed that the cliff wall appeared to be dotted with small openings. Caves? They were like pores in the skin of some crusty mammal. He called out Gloria’s name again, but heard no answer. Surely she would have known better than to go beyond this point, no matter how upset she might have been. Glo was not the suicidal type, was she? Jerry’s strong young voice reverberated across the sandy expanse, bouncing off the cliff wall, echoing through the bowels of the ship, into the cave openings and whatever lay beyond. No answer. Well, Gloria could not have been foolish enough to enter the wrecked ship or one of the holes in the cliff. Still, he had not passed her on the beach.

About fifty feet from where the rocks began, the trail of footprints veered abruptly from the water’s edge and into the soft gravel he now stood in. It was impossible to tell which way she might have gone. The rocks. Up there into the woods. Was she even now on top of the cliff, somewhere in that brushy, almost impenetrable blur of green, unaware of how close she might be to the edge? Jerry shivered. “Gloria. Gloria. Where are you? Please
answer
me!”

He thought for a moment about continuing his walk along the shore, climbing across the boulders at the bottom of the cliff. But the tides were rushing in; soon everything would be under water. And it was getting dark.

He stared at the ship. The cliff. The caves. Surely Gloria hadn’t been stupid enough to wander into one of those foreboding areas?

Or had she?

Chapter 33

Gloria, in the meantime, had come to the same conclusion that her lover had, that walking along the shoreline past where the beach ended would be a risky proposition. The sun was low in the sky, but there was still enough light, and she wanted to be off alone by herself for awhile, away from the others, from Cynthia, Anton, and especially Jerry. She wouldn’t, couldn’t part with him but she was angry, very angry. And hurt. She wasn’t ready to hear his excuses, his lies. She just wanted to be off by herself for awhile where no one could ever find her.

At the point where the beach met the cliff, she had decided to walk along the edge of the woods and see if she could find a pathway to the top of the hill. To her delight, just a few feet inside the forest, she had accidentally stumbled upon an old track leading upwards and inland. There would be no problem finding her way back, as the path was very distinct. Apparently it had suffered such extreme use over the decades that nothing would grow in the dirt and rock anymore. Just as well. She did not fancy getting lost in the middle of nowhere. Bad enough those girls had run off without telling anyone.

She heard stirrings in the forest around her, birds cawing up in the trees, bugs flying, jumping and chirping. She had sprayed herself while sunbathing on the dock in the morning, so most of the mosquitoes left her alone. She wondered where the island’s animal life could be. She
heard
it—or thought she did—but so far hadn’t seen anything more exotic than a gull.

She had to stop and rest for a moment. She kept forgetting she wasn’t a school girl any longer, although she didn’t know how she
could
forget, what with all the reminders. She stood still, breathing in, breathing out, afraid she might collapse or have a heart attack in the middle of this wilderness. That would not do at all!
Gloria Bordette, you may be on your way out, but there’s still a lot of life left in you. You are
going
to get a look at the view from the top of this cliff.
She knew it would be breathtaking. She couldn’t delay too long, though; she wouldn’t see much if it were dark, and worse, she’d have trouble getting back down again, even if the path remained as good as it had been so far.

Her heart was beating more normally, and she had her wind back. Time to continue. Though she must remember that while she was currently possessed of childish curiosity and enthusiasm, she did not have the childish heart or body to match.
Careful, careful,
she reminded herself.
Mustn’t rush.

She had been walking for another five minutes when she spotted it through the tops of the trees; a tall, white structure, the very peak of it glinting in the last rays of the setting sun. What could it be up there? Glass? A mirror?

No, a window. She realized with a small thrill that she was looking at a lighthouse.

Of course, where else would it be but on the highest promontory, able to shed its beam of light across the water, illuminating the sea for the ships upon it to see by. She knew the lighthouse was no longer in operation, had been closed down years ago, when the shipping lanes had bypassed the island. She hoped it wasn’t locked, though. She would love to climb to the top and look out at the ocean. There was still enough light, but she had to hurry.

Ten minutes later she rounded a bend in the pathway, stepped out of the trees and bushes, and stood in a clearing upon which stood the deserted lighthouse. It was magnificent. Over one hundred feet high. Made of solid granite. Although its surface was patchy, discolored, and flecked, there was a proud dignity about it, as if it was the island’s sentinel, the focal point of all its energy and force.

The door stood open. Preparing herself, Gloria stepped across the foyer and entered the building.

The lowest chamber was a messy, odorous room filled with old papers of various types and sizes, dilapidated chairs and tables, and a lot of wooden boxes. There was a grayish slime running down the walls, and it was from this that came the awful stench. Gloria held her nose, but was determined to see it through. Let the others think they were such great explorers. She had found this lighthouse
all by herself,
and would be the first to look around it. She saw the winding wooden stairs leading up to the chambers above. Should she? Yes. It looked safe enough.

The second room was much like the first. There were a couple of cots placed against the walls. Apparently the lighthouse keepers had used this for their living quarters. A potbelly stove in the middle of the room. A cupboard full of ancient pots and pans, lots of dust, and an enormous spider web. Gloria began choking on all the dust her feet had kicked up. Everything was coated with layers of it. The grayish slime ran down the walls on this floor, too. And something else. Something reddish and wet.

Gloria, driven by a subconscious fascination, reached out and touched the reddish stain on the wall.
Blood.
It was as if it had spattered against the wall, gushing out from a dozen horrible wounds.

And it was still wet. She saw the reddish stain on her fingertips. But how was it possible? Unless a violent act had occurred here within the past hour or so?

Gloria shivered. Those missing girls?

Then she remembered that the lighthouse had been the scene of one or two murders during that maniac’s spree in 1900. But any blood spilled that night would certainly have dried by now, have turned brown and faded away. This blood on the walls, on her fingers, was fresh.

Frightened, perplexed, she nonetheless decided to walk up to the lantern room and look out upon the sea.

She was back on the stairs walking upwards, when she heard the door in the main room far below her slam shut of its own volition.

The wind. It had to be the wind.

But there had been no wind today. Nothing strong enough to shut a heavy iron door that had rusted stuck in an open position for so many years.

Her mind began racing, imagining that she was not alone in the lighthouse, that someone was even now walking slowly up the stairs, cutting off her exit, forcing her to continue to the top where she would face whatever was coming up to greet her alone.
Nonsense,
she told herself.
There’s nothing down there. Get a grip on yourself, girl.

And then she heard the footsteps on the bottom of the stairs.

Chapter 34

At the dinner table, two seats were conspicuously  empty. Gloria was still among the missing, and Jerry had not returned from looking for her. The others had returned from the search for the housekeepers without success. And Hans had reported that Eric had also disappeared. Everson sat at the end of the table, pale and distraught, wondering what was happening. When Betty Sanders walked in from the kitchen, holding a steaming bowl of beef stew, and explained that Mrs. Plushing was feeling ill and could therefore not serve supper, he just about started to cry.

“It seems my whole staff is falling apart,” he laughed humorlessly.

Cynthia looked at the unappetizing mass of stew Betty had deposited on her plate and stood up abruptly. “I don’t feel very hungry,” she said. Her mouth was screwed up in a parody of queasy distress.

“Are you all right?” Lynn asked, concerned.

“Yes. Just a little tired.”

Ernie watched Cynthia walk away from the table and go into the living room. From his vantage point at the far end only he could see Cynthia turn and walk out the front door instead of head upstairs to her bedroom. He said nothing. Across the table from him Andrea looked perturbed at Cynthia’s exit, but he gave her a reassuring nod. They could still proceed with their plan.

Betty finished dishing out the stew and sat down with the others, exhaling dramatically. Ernie could tell she got some pleasure out of being the center of attention, if only by default. Everson asked her what was wrong with Mrs. Plushing.

“She’s just a little peaked,” Betty said, holding her forkful of stew before her mouth, then engulfing and swallowing it quickly. “Tired, I guess. She said she felt dizzy, nauseous. She probably just has a little stomach virus. She’ll probably feel much better in the morning.” It was clear Betty wanted to go on talking for awhile now that she had their attention, but she had run out of things to say.

The table chatter consisted of theories as to where the housekeepers had gone to and what they were doing. Ernie wondered what they would say when and if he was to voice his own theory. They’d look at him as if he were mad.

He and Andrea had both agreed to finish their dinners quickly, and to turn down dessert, so they could search the house for the book while the others were occupied. If they failed to find it, Ernie planned to come right out and ask the others about the book. He couldn’t be absolutely certain, but Ernie suspected that Andrea was coming around to believing him. Which was good, because he was scarcely able to believe it all himself.

As Betty got up to go and get the dessert, Andrea excused herself, pretending to head for the bathroom. A few minutes later, Betty came out bearing a huge chocolate cake, which elicited oohs and ahhs despite the somberness of the occasion. “Too many calories for me,” Ernie said, patting his stomach, and got up from his chair.

“You’re as fit as a fiddle,” Everson told him.

“Perhaps. But I still want to lose a pound or two.” Ernie indicated the cake. “Out of sight, out of mind.” He excused himself and walked away from the table. So far so good. Andrea was waiting for him upstairs.

They started with the “master” bedroom, going quickly through Lynn’s and Everson’s belongings. The suitcases. The closets. The drawers. “I feel like a cat burglar,” Andrea complained.

“Look, if you’re not up to this,” Ernie said, “I’ll understand. This is my problem. I shouldn’t have dragged you into it.”

“Nonsense. If it concerns this island, and all of us who are on it, then it certainly concerns me, too.”

“But going through people’s things. I shouldn’t have let you help me with this.”

“It will go much faster this way. Besides, if this book actually does exist, I certainly want to see it. I’m
intrigued,
Ernie. Very much so.” She lifted supplies of socks and underwear, saw nothing underneath. “We must be careful to put everything right back where it was.”

Ernie knew Andrea was trying to keep things light to keep him from becoming morose and preoccupied by it all. What else could she do? Still, if she only knew how seriously all this had affected him. How could she know what he was going through? His experience had been as alien to her as her whole way of life was to him.