And now here he was, sitting in Mitch’s living room-just the three of them, no more troopers, no more sheriff’s men, no more questions, and for the time being no more neighbors standing around gawking. Just him and his two best friends, drinking beer he couldn’t taste, listening to words that didn’t mean anything to him because of that big numb place inside that wouldn’t let him feel anything.

“Poor Mandy,” Adam was saying, “that poor little girl.”

“Troopers better arrest Ryerson damned quick, that’s all I got to say,” Mitch said. “Before anything else happens.”

“Mad dog like that,” Adam said, “he ought to be shot. No trial, none of that crap where a smart shyster can get him off. Just take him out and shoot him.”

“Shoot him or lock him up,” Mitch said, “just so he can’t hurt no other young girls.”

“Jesus, poor Mandy. That poor kid.”

“He’s a psycho, that’s what he is. Gets his kicks killing people, animals-just killing them.”

“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.

Alix

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had sounded glad to hear she’d arrived safely, and yet she sensed that underneath the superficial normalcy he was withdrawn, brooding.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?”