The Lighthouse: A Novel of Terror (21 page)

It seemed as if she spent all her time behind the wheel of this car, driving but getting nowhere, agonizing but resolving nothing. But she
had
to get away from Cape Despair this morning, if only for a little white—away from the stink of manure, away from Jan and his cold anger, his remoteness. It was behavior she’d never seen in him before, and it worried her far more than if he’d ranted and cursed and smashed things. She didn’t let herself think about the implications of it. If she did, it would only unnerve her even more.

When she reached the intersection with the county road, she turned automatically toward Hilliard. It was only when the familiar, run-down buildings appeared ahead that she realized what she was doing and wondered why. There was nowhere for her to go in the village, no errand to run, no friend to visit.

But there must have been a purpose, an obscure need, buried in her subconscious: when she reached the laundromat, she turned without hesitation onto the side street just beyond it—the one that climbed the hillside to the community center and the church. The street curved up past shabby frame houses that seemed to cling tenuously to the slopes, then curved again under an arching canopy of tree branches. Just beyond the trees, on a knoll to the right, was the red-brick community center. It was shuttered and deserted, almost abandoned-looking, but a large bulletin board on its front porch was covered with notices of future events. Alix slowed the car as she passed, glancing up at the building’s bell tower. Birds—some kind of smallish brown ones—came and went there; it was probably their nesting place.

Behind the center was a thick stand of pines, and above their tops she could see the white steeple of the church silhouetted against the sky. The sky itself was streaky, with patches of blue showing through the gray—the first break in the dismal weather all week. She followed the road through a sharp S-curve and up the hill to the church.

It had been her destination all along, but she felt odd as she stopped the car in front. She wasn’t especially religious, hadn’t attended services in years. But the minister, Harvey Olsen, had seemed approachable when she’d met him in the general store; if there was anyone in Hilliard she could talk to, wouldn’t it be a man of the cloth?

The church was a traditional-style rectangular white building that reminded her of many she’d seen in New England, but it was less aesthetically pleasing than most of those because it fronted on an unpaved parking lot that was rutted and gouged in places. Behind it to the left was a small weedy graveyard; behind it to the right was a smaller building that looked as if might be a parsonage. Even the encircling pines that covered most of the hill at this elevation failed to give the church much visual appeal.

Alix got out of the station wagon and stood for a moment, breathing in the tangy scent of the pines. There was a ten-year-old Dodge parked between the church and the parsonage, which must mean that Harvey Olsen was somewhere on the premises. But where? She started toward the parsonage and then saw that one half of the double-doored entrance to the church was ajar and altered her course. She went up to the open door, pushed it all the way open, and stepped into the gloomy interior.

The church was long and narrow, with stained glass windows that were deeply shadowed by the encroaching branches of the trees outside. There were several rows of wooden pews and a rather plain altar. The floors were of hardwood, badly scarred by the feet of generations of worshippers. The enclosure felt damp and cold—an atmosphere that she guessed never left the place, even in the heat of summer. She stood just inside the door, reluctant to call out and break the heavy silence.

In the wall to the right of the altar was another door that also stood ajar. After a moment she started down the center aisle, thinking the minister might be in the sacristy at the rear. But her steps were hesitant now; she was beginning to feel uncomfortable about being there. After all, she wasn’t one of the congregation, barely knew Harvey Olsen. And she was in no way accustomed to airing her troubles to strangers. Still, she told herself again, ministers were trained to listen to other people’s problems. Olsen would see nothing odd in her coming to him.

She was halfway down the aisle when she heard footfalls behind her. She turned. Harvey Olsen had come in the front way and was approaching her, clad in a bright red jogging suit and the same knitted cap he’d had on the first time she’d seen him. His face was shiny with sweat and his wire-rimmed glasses were fogged. As he neared her he took the glasses off, wiped their lenses on the baggy sleeve of his suit.

“Mrs. Ryerson, isn’t it?” he said. “I wondered who was here when I saw your car.”

For a moment she was at a loss for words. And even more uncomfortable. She’d expected to find Harvey Olsen in vestments, and here he was in a jogging suit and all sweaty from his morning run.

As if he sensed her discomfort, Olsen patted his midriff, smiled, and said, “Have to keep the old weight down. I like pasta too much, and after forty . . . ”

She nodded, answered his smile with a faint one of her own.

Olsen put his glasses back on and peered intently at her. “Did you just come to see the church? Or is there some problem?”

Something about the way he said it—not the phrasing, but the inflection—told her he knew all about what the villagers were saying about Jan. For a paranoid instant she wondered if he might even know about their trouble at the lighthouse and who was responsible for it. Mitch Novotny was probably one of his parishioners. . . .

Harvey Olsen was waiting for her to speak, his head cocked to one side like a bird’s. The eyes behind his glasses held a gleam of intelligence softened by compassion. But there was something else there too, she thought, something she couldn’t quite identify in the weak light.

She cleared her throat and said, “You know about the murder, of course—the young girl who was found out on the cape.”

He nodded sadly. “A tragic thing.”

“And I suppose you’ve also heard what some of the villagers are saying about who might be responsible. Lillian Hilliard, for one. Adam Reese, for another.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I have.” Olsen took off his knitted cap and scrubbed his fingers through pale, thinning hair. “It’s disturbing, and very unfair. But it’s just talk, you must remember that. The idle pursuit of idle minds.”

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.