thoughts-for the time being. She let out a sigh, put the car in gear, turned it around, and drove down through the open gate onto the cape road.
The ominous clouds followed her, putting intermittent drops of rain on the windshield-more a mist, really, that didn’t require the use of the wipers yet. To the south the barren rocks and beaches looked cold, forbidding; the rough sea made her think of the shipwrecks off Cape Despair, and of all the lives that had been lost off the perilous coast. She entered a dark copse of fir trees, with its thick ferny groundcover, and thought of the evil forests of Grimm’s fairy tales. Not a good morning for her to be out. Not a good morning for her to be alone at all.
In the open fields beyond, the sheep seemed to huddle together in little flocks; even their thick coats were not enough protection against the icy wind. If it hadn’t been for the sheep, she could have imagined herself alone in a wilderness hundreds of miles from the nearest human being. It was that desolate out, that empty.
But it was only an illusion, and it was shattered moments later when she came around a bend in the road past another stand of trees. A hundred yards ahead, near a gully flanked by clumps of prickly broom that cut a jagged line through the south-side sheep graze, several vehicles were drawn up along the road and a small knot of men stood near a flattened section of fence. Alix braked automatically, frowning in surprise and bewilderment. The vehicles were two state police cars, a Curry County sheriffs cruiser, a farm truck, and an ambulance. Most of the men wore uniforms of one kind or another.
They all looked her way as she approached, and one of them-dressed in the state troopers’ smoke-gray outfit and broad-brimmed hat-detached himself from the rest and moved onto the road, holding up his gloved hand for her to stop. She obeyed. Rolled down the window as he came ahead to her side of the car. The wind that blew in was cold and misty and smelled of ozone.
The trooper bent down to look at her and glance around the car. She asked him, “What’s the trouble, officer?”
“May I see your identification, please?”
She reached for her purse, handed him her driver’s license. He studied it solemnly.
“California,” he said. “Mind telling me what you’re doing out here?”
“I live at the lighthouse.”
“That so? Your license gives your address as Palo Alto.”
“Yes. But we’re staying here for a year.”
“We?”
“My husband and I. He’s writing a book on lighthouses. Officer, what-?”
“Did you travel this road last night?”
“No. ”
“Did your husband?”
“I… well, yes, he did, he was up in Portland-”
“Where is he now?”
“At the lighthouse. He’s sleeping, he didn’t get home until late.”
“How late?”
“Around three o’clock.”
“I see. And you were at the lighthouse alone until then?”
“Yes.”
“No visitors?”
“No.”
“Did you happen to notice anything out of the ordinary?”
“No, nothing.” She was alarmed now; fear, like a small wormlike thing, crawled through her. “Officer, can’t you please tell me what’s happened?”
He didn’t answer for a moment. He had averted his face and was watching two white-uniformed men carry something black over the flattened section of fence and into the gully. Something that looked like a black plastic bag. When he returned his attention to her his face had set into grim lines.
“Young girl-apparently a hitchhiker-was murdered last night. Strangled and her body dumped here.” Beneath the wide brim of his hat, his eyes were hard and angry. “Looks like the work of a psycho,” he said.
Part Two
Where there is much light, the shadows are deepest.
Alix
When she was stressed and preoccupied, she often experienced two totally contradictory moods: she would become indifferent to her surroundings, all thought focused inward on whatever bothered her; but at the same time she would have vivid flashes of clarity, and whatever she was looking at would stand out in almost painful detail. It was the way she felt when she was beginning one of her design projects: at first groping her way, uncertain how to start, then in an instant it would all become clear-how to approach it, how to convey what she wanted others to see. But when it happened in connection with her work, she felt good, elated. Her current preoccupation called up no good feelings at all.
It was during one of those flashes, three days after the murdered girl’s body had been found, that she caught herself studying the Hilliard General Store with intense concentration. Half an hour earlier she’d left the lighthouse for the first time since that tragic morning, driven out by a lack of food and even instant coffee. The intervening days had had an unreal quality. A state police detective named Sinclair had questioned her and Jan on two separate occasions about what they’d seen and done the night of the murder; he seemed to find something suspicious about Jan’s account of his return from Portland, about the headache that had forced him to pull off the road and spend the night in the car. As a result Jan had retreated further and further into a moody silence. At first she had tried to draw him out of it, but when that hadn’t succeeded she had felt the same sort of brooding silence descend on herself, and found it difficult to cope with more than the basic details of living.
She hadn’t been able to work in such a state. When she tried, her sketches came out looking like mechanical drawings, lifeless and stiff. An attempt to break the impasse by doing sketches of the interior and exterior of the lighthouse and of the cape itself, with the idea of sending them to her family, had also failed; those, too, had the quality of being mere exercises in technique, and eventually she’d thrown them out. Finally she’d given up and read instead, but her concentration was poor: she found herself rereading the same pages over and over again.
This morning she’d taken herself in hand, added to the grocery list she’d made three days ago, and driven into town. But now she felt a strange lethargy that prevented her from getting out of the station wagon. She sat behind the wheel, hands gripping its familiar surface, staring at the store. Scoured gray wood siding. Dirty plate glass window with the name inscribed in cracked black letters. Sagging shingle roof with rusted gutters. It all stood out in such minute detail.
A gull was perched on one of the utility lines that ran in under the eaves. She watched until it spread its wings and lifted off into the bleak sky. Then she shook her head, reached for her purse, and pushed herself out onto the graveled roadside.
The sense of clarity was still with her when she entered the store. Boxes of detergent, cans of vegetables, bottles of pop all stood out in red, blue, and yellow relief against the drab brown of the shelves. The cracks and
