Louis Plunkett's personality was as at odds with itself as was his formidable appearance, containing opposites that somehow worked in perfect harmony: inside, as well as out, he was half man and half boy, half the weary cynic and half the gay innocent, the pessimist and the optimist rolled into one, choosing to love but often hating as well. He did not like to see violence, and he went out of his way to avoid causing it. He disliked having to use his fists on a man — or his gun — and he preferred even to avoid verbal force when persuading a lawbreaker to see the light. He always tried to reason with an opponent or a potential opponent, using his deep calm voice as a tool to settle other people's bubbling anger. Yet, when the occasion demanded, he could easily hold his own in any fight, against anyone, even against two or three adversaries — as he had proven twice during his career as a law enforcement officer. He held back none of his great strength when he had to fight, and he was brutal to the end of it — after which he had to take a couple of Alka-seltzer tablets in order to settle his stomach, which had been turned by the sight of blood.
Plunkett was also scrupulously honest and fair-minded. Yet he knew that a man in his position had to provide special favors to certain influential citizens — or find himself out on his ear come election time. He did not have to permit the wealthy and the well-known to break the law, though he did have to let them stretch it a bit, now and then. And, on occasion, he was expected to assist them in a matter he would have preferred to be left out of.
It was just such a matter that had brought him to the manor house at William Barnaby's request, the morning after Gwyn's near-breakdown on the beach. He arrived in the county sheriff's car, with the gleaming gold- colored shield on the door, exactly at 8:00, prompt as always. Five minutes later, he had been ushered into William Barnaby's study and seated in the visitors' easy chair.
“How are you this morning, Sheriff?” Barnaby asked.
Casual friends of Louis Plunkett's called him Lou, while close friends called him Tiny. William Barnaby, however, to both their satisfaction, merely called him Sheriff.
“I'm fine,” Plunkett said, his voice soft and without edge.
“You've had breakfast, I trust?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I could have Grace whip up a batch of hotcakes or something,” Barnaby told him.
Plunkett sensed that the invitation was not genuine, only what the other man thought was expected of him. But he
Barnaby sighed, almost as if he were relieved the formalities were over with, and he handed the sheriff a set of papers which was the only thing on the top of his desk.
The big man looked through them, nodded.
“Do you foresee any trouble?” he asked.
“When I post them?” the sheriff asked.
“Yes.”
“Not then,” Plunkett said.
“But later?”
“Yes, there'll be trouble later.”
“I'll expect your support.”
Plunkett frowned at the papers in his large hands, and he said, “I had heard you were trying to buy the Niche, but I didn't know that the deal had already gone through.”
“Just yesterday,” Barnaby said. “You've seen the deed transfer; it's all perfectly up-and-up.”
Plunkett considered this for a moment and said, “According to law, don't tenants have as much as thirty days to vacate the premises when a new landlord takes over and wants them out?”
“Various laws define this as a proper courtesy period,” Barnaby said. “However, I'm not feeling especially courteous toward these fishermen, Sheriff.”
Plunkett was clearly not satisfied with that answer.
Barnaby said, “In a case like this, Sheriff, the landlord is in the driver's seat, always has been and always will be, as long as the concept of private property exists. You see, if I evict them now, returning a proper portion of whatever rent they've paid, they'll need a full week to get a restraining order from a judge — if they can get one at all. By the time the order is enforced and they're back in the Niche, most of the courtesy period will be up anyway. Besides, the whole procedure will require legal help, and that will cost them more money than the court order would be worth.”
“I see.” Plunkett was not happy. Laws were not necessarily being broken — but they were most surely being stretched to the limit.
“Well,” Barnaby said, in a sprightly tone of voice, dusting his long hands together, “shall we be on our way, then?”
Plunkett looked surprised and sat up straighter in his chair. He said, “You're not coming with me, are you?”
“Of course.”
“That's not necessary, Mr. Barnaby.”
“I'll enjoy it.”
“But perhaps it's also unwise.”
“Why?”
“There might be trouble, sir.”
Barnaby frowned and said, “You told me, only a few moments ago, that there wouldn't be trouble. Now, what could have happened in the last minute or two to change your mind?”
Plunkett shifted uneasily in his chair, rolled the papers up in one huge hand. “Well, sir, in all truth, I didn't expect trouble if I went alone. But with you there… You know how much some of those fishermen hate — how much they dislike you, sir.”
“I know.”
“Well, then—”
“But I don't suspect they'll cause trouble with you along,” Barnaby said. “And I want them to know I'm dead serious about this. I want them cleared out of Jenkins' Niche within thirty-six hours.”
Plunkett got to his feet, realizing that it was useless to argue with a man like William Barnaby. Still, in one last hope of averting the coming trouble, he said, “Can't you at least give them a week, sir?”
“Impossible,” Barnaby said.
“But thirty-six hours is so little time to—”
“I will not tolerate these dirty, uneducated, mannerless little men being on my land any more than thirty-six hours!” Barnaby had slowly raised his voice until he was nearly screaming; his face was flushed, his hands fisted at his sides as if he were holding his anger tightly between his fingers. “I will not be associated with the likes of them, not for a single minute longer than necessary, not even as their landlord, Sheriff. And that is my last word!”
Plunkett nodded sadly.
“Shall we go?”
“About that time,” Plunkett agreed.
By 8:30 that morning, they were on their way to Jenkins' Niche with the official eviction notices…
Gwyn had dozens of dreams that night, all of them bad, a few of them nightmares:
— She was running along a dark, narrow, low-ceilinged corridor, pursued by a faceless woman in white robes; the woman cried out to her, trying to get her to turn around and run in the other direction; but she knew that behind her, the corridor opened into the void; however, before long, she found that it opened onto the void at both ends…
— She was being chased by a formless creature through dark woods, and she could not escape those trees except by moving out onto a featureless plain which encircled them; the plain, she felt, was more terrifying, in its perfectly level scope, than were the shadowed trees where her stalker waited and watched…
— She was climbing a slope whose summit was obscured by deep shadows, trying to escape from a transparent woman with blood-red eyes who was climbing the same slope behind her; she scrabbled at the rocks, tearing away her fingernails, skinning her hands, falling to her knees repeatedly — only to rise up again and plunge on; the transparent woman wanted to carry her down to the bottom of the hill and throw her into the still black lake
