The Stalker

14

Thursday morning, 3:45 A.M.

Twin Peaks lay quiet and empty under an enveloping shroud of high, drifting fog and thinly cold rain-mist. The steep, winding expanse of Caveat Way was very dark, with only a single, pale-aureoled street lamp burning a half block from where the seemingly empty Ford Mustang was parked between two other cars.

But in the shadowed driver’s seat, slumped down beneath the wheel until his eyes were on a level with the sill of the closed window, the limping man sat nervously waiting. On the seat beside him lay the American Tourister briefcase, the catches unfastened, the .44 Ruger Magnum resting just inside the joined halves. His eyes were watchful, probing now and then the silhouetted darkness which blanketed the glass entranceway to Orange’s apartment building diagonally across the street.

He remained absolutely motionless, save for a soft, quick, nervous drumming of his fingers on the steering wheel. As he waited, he let his mind drift briefly to the recent events in Los Gatos.

He hadn’t seen the actual immolation of Green, but the sweeping wall of fire flashing toward him had been enough; Green had not survived the holocaust. As for his own escape, he had accomplished that without incident. It had taken him only a matter of seconds to clear the stone-and-mortar wall at the rear of the patio and to make his way quickly down the bank to the creek bed. No one had seen him, he was certain of that. The dead-end street had still been as dark and deserted as when he had left it, and the cross-street was likewise void of traffic when he took the rented Mustang onto it moments later. He had debated driving around to San Amaron Drive to see first-hand what had happened, but had decided against that almost immediately; there was no use inviting unnecessary risk.

So it had all gone very nicely.

Now there was only the problem of Orange.

As he had driven back toward San Francisco, the limping man had considered his original plan. He did not care for the fact that Orange lived in an apartment in a well-populated area; not at all like Green, who lived in a residential neighborhood that afforded such safety factors as the swallowing darkness of the creek bed and the walled-in patio and the dead-end street. Reaching Orange in the sanctity of his apartment building, in the limiting surroundings of San Francisco itself, would be dimcult—perhaps even foolhardy.

But Orange had to die—tonight, no later than dawn if at all possible.

He had considered the choices, the potentialities, and that fact was irrefutable. The proximity of Orange to Yellow and Green demanded the urgency, for there was no way of knowing if Orange knew of Yellow’s death—he wouldn’t know of Green’s as yet—or of the deaths of Blue and Red and Gray. There was no way of determining if Orange suspected strongly or even mildly that he, too, was a target. The idea would certainly have occurred to him if he was aware of the facts. And if he did suspect anything amiss, there was no way, either, of determining what he would do when he learned of Green’s death.

Would he run?

Would he hide, arm himself, wait it out?

Would he go to the police?

If he ran, or if he hid, he could be found again; but that would take time. It would take time, too, if Orange tried to wait him out—something that couldn’t be accomplished. If Orange went to the police, it was possible that things would be much worse; it wasn’t likely that that would be the case because Orange couldn’t be certain of what was happening, even though he might suspect, and because of his complicity in the robbery eleven years ago. It would be a last resort, a panic move, but you couldn’t get inside a man’s mind to find out his breaking point. And if Orange did go to the police, and a thorough investigation was instigated, there was the possibility of discovery, always that possibility.

Another thing which had been a strong influence on the limping man’s decision was the factor of time. He was tired of waiting—he had waited long enough, much too long—and there was only one man left now, one out of six. He wanted it to end, wanted it to be done now, finished, over with.

So to protect himself, and to appease himself, he had to kill Orange tonight—even if it meant using the Magnum instead of more fitting and ingenious ways, instead of striking swiftly, silently, blindly as he had with the others—at all costs.

The limping man had driven into San Francisco and up to Twin Peaks and into the Texaco station on the corner of Portola and Bumett. He had dropped a coin into the slot on the pay telephone there, and dialed Orange’s number, waiting, intending to hang up when the connection was made, when he was certain Orange was home.

Only, the connection had not been made.

And when he had then driven to Caveat Way and looked into the open garage stall designated to Orange, he had found it empty. Orange was not home.

He hadn’t liked that, not at all; it necessitated more waiting. But there was simply nothing he could do about it. Orange was out somewhere, no telling where, and he had no other choice but to wait for him to come home. He had parked the rented Mustang across the street, in a spot which afforded him a clear view of the darkened entranceway and the garage stall; and he had settled down to wait.

He had been waiting, now, for something over three hours. In that time he had seen no one enter the apartment building, had seen no one come out. There had been a few automobiles earlier, but none in the past half hour.

The limping man’s fingers went on beating an impatient tattoo on the steering wheel. Abruptly, he ceased the steady rhythm to raise his wrist close to his eyes, shading the luminous dial of his watch with his other hand cupped around it: 4:02. Fingers again on the wheel, more agitated now. Goddamn it to hell, where was he? He should have been home by now, long ago...

Headlights loomed suddenly on the street, and the limping man tensed, drifting lower on the seat. He moved his hand inside the open briefcase to touch the cold, textured butt of the Magnum. But the car passed, moving swiftly, turning the corner left; it was a fifteen-year-old Buick with four darkly shadowed shapes inside, two in front and two in back. He relaxed somewhat, sliding his hand out of the case, drumming again.

Hell yes, Orange should have been home by this time. Then why wasn’t he? Where had he gone? What was he doing at four in the morning? What time would he be back? Enough questions, too many questions, and none of them had any answers.

Unless...

Unless he wasn’t coming home.

Unless he had already begun to run.

Or hide.

Unless he had already gone to the police.

The limping man wrapped his hands tightly around the slender circumference of the steering wheel, squeezing, squeezing. That could be it, all right, he thought, that could damned well be it. But which one? The police? No, he couldn’t know of Green’s death yet, and it would surely take that knowledge to send him to the authorities; no, it wasn’t the police, he was sure enough of that to discard it. Running, then? Maybe. Where? Anywhere. Planes left San Francisco twenty-four hours a day, for all parts of the world . . . Damn, damn, I should have checked on him yesterday, but it’s too late to worry about that now if he’s on the wing, and he could be, he just could be. Or he could be hiding. Where? Anywhere. Hotels, motels, in the city and out of it . . .

Oh, wait now.

Yes! Yes!

There was one place Orange might go, one specific place, a place he would consider safe, a place he would feel certain no one outside his close circle of friends would know about—and surely not an unseen nemesis, underrating as he would the thoroughness, the tenacity of that enemy. A place he might go if he was no more than mildly suspicious, mildly worried, wanted only to take time to think things out; a place he might go even if he suspected nothing, wanted merely to escape the crush of a large city.

A logical place, under any circumstances.

A place called Duckblind Slough.

The limping man smiled grimly in the darkness. Should he wait any longer here? Decision: No. The more he thought of it, the more convinced he became that Orange might have gone, for one reason or another, to his small fishing cabin in Duckblind Slough, Petaluma River, Marin County. It would take him less than an hour to drive up there and find out, and if he was right, he could be on his way home sometime later this afternoon; peace at last, and perhaps a whore like Alice to share it with for a few hours. If he was wrong, he would call Orange’s number again; had he returned home by then, somehow, there would still be enough time before dawn to accomplish his mission. And if Orange was not at the cabin, and had not returned home . . . well, there was no use in looking at the darker prospects now. He could cross such a bridge if and when he came to it.

The limping man straightened on the seat, his hand flicking out to turn the key in the ignition and bring the quiet engine to life, to switch on the lights, the windshield wipers, the heater-defroster. Moments later, he took the car out onto the slick, deserted street. There was almost no traffic, but he drove with a certain degree of caution; the last thing he needed at this moment was a confrontation with a police traffic patrol.

When he reached the Golden Gate Bridge, however, he drove more rapidly; less than a half hour later, he made the turn off Highway 101 onto the narrow dirt road leading toward the Petaluma River. It was raining harder here, and the wind was north and very strong, causing the bordering trees to bow, as he drove beneath them, like subjects fawning at the passage of a royal carriage. He passed the Mira Monte Marina and Boat Launch and the trap-shooting club, the private property sign; he drove along the first private road until he reached the entrance to the second. Slowing as he made the turn, he switched off his headlights; when he had crossed the raised bank of the railroad spur tracks, he brought the Mustang to a silent stop at the padlocked wooden gate which barred the road at that point.

The limping man sat there for a moment, reconnoitering. Then he took the Ruger .44 Magnum from the briefcase on the seat beside him and put it into the pocket of his overcoat. He took the black pigskin gloves from the glove compartment, slipped them on, and stepped out into the wind and the rain.

He went directly to the gate, climbed it quickly and nimbly, the gloves protecting his hands from the sharp, rusted barbed wire strung across its top. He dropped down on the other side, pausing to rest his game leg, letting his eyes probe the black morass ahead. He could not see the shack from where he stood—it was better than a half-mile from the gate—but if there had been a light burning inside, he would have been able to discern it; the terrain was relatively flat, with no tall trees or shrubs to blot out any light. As it was, there was only darkness, full and absolute.

He put his right hand on the Ruger in his pocket and moved forward, walking swiftly along the muddied road, oblivious to the slanting rain which matted his thin hair to his scalp and ran in tiny tear-streams down along his face, oblivious to the pull of the icy, moaning wind.

It took him fifteen minutes to reach the circumscribed clearing which served as a parking area for the three fishing cabins in the slough. He saw the small, convex shape of a single automobile, standing like a wet and silent sentinel on the grassy, pooled clearing, and he thought: Volkswagen; Orange’s wife has a Volkswagen.

He approached the car quietly, sliding his canvas shoes—soaked through now—along the slippery, mired ground. At the rear bumper he squatted and peered at the license plate. Yes, it belonged to the woman; he knew the number.

The limping man straightened, wiping water from his face with his gloved left hand. Was Orange here? Had he used his wife’s car? But if so, why? Where was his car, the Pontiac? Had the two of them come up together? Were they both now inside the cabin? Or, for some reason, had his wife come here alone?

Well, there was only one way to find out.

He located the vegetation-entangled path leading to the point and began to make his way stealthily along it, his right hand still touching the Ruger Magnum in his overcoat pocket.

Andrea Kilduff sat bolt upright on the Army cot, clutching the heavy wool blankets tightly in both hands, her eyes suddenly opened wide like a frightened owl’s in the darkness.

There had been a sound—unidentifiable, yet distinctly loud—and it had come from just outside the bedroom window...

She sat there, trembling a little, listening. The rain pounded, pounded on the roof of the shack as if demanding entrance, and there was the steady whistling bay of the wind. But there was nothing else now, no other sounds. Andrea swept the blankets back impulsively and padded barefoot to the window, staring out at the gray-black water of the slough and beyond it at the indistinguishable shapes and shadows of the marshland. Nothing moved save for the grasses and the tall rushes under the elemental onslaught.

Andrea looked at her watch, squinting in the blackness. It was 5:11. She shivered and went back to the cot and lay down and pulled the blankets up under her chin. My imagination, she thought; now I’m creating prowlers in the middle of nowhere. Well, it serves me right, I suppose. I simply shouldn’t have come back here last night. I should have gone to Mona’s, in El Cerrito, or at least back into San Francisco to a motel; it wasn’t raining that hard and the traffic wasn’t that heavy on the freeway. I must be going a little dotty to have wanted to spend another night in this place.

She wrapped the blankets even more tightly around herself, mummifying her body against the shack’s chill. She closed her eyes and tried to regain the fragments of sleep—fitful and restless though it had been. But her mind was clear now, clear and alert; it wasn’t any use.

She lay there and wished Steve had been home last night, she wished she’d been able to talk to him and get it all said then and there; but now, at least, she knew from talking to Mrs. Yarborough that he hadn’t moved out, and there was always today. She would call him this morning; he was sure to be home this morning. Of course, she could drive to San Francisco and see him face to face, she could do that, but it was really out of the question. It was going to be difficult enough to say the words as it was, and if necessary, they could see one another at some later date—well no, now no, it was probably better if they just didn’t see one another at all, ever again.

Andrea closed her eyes and pictured Steve’s face in her mind, his face as it looked sleeping or in complete repose, like a child’s, like a very small and very handsome and very mischievous little boy. She felt little quivering sensations in her stomach, and opened her eyes again, and sighed, and thought: I don’t want to see him again, I really don’t, I have to adjust and that isn’t easy and won’t be easy and seeing him will only make matters worse, more difficult, so it’s better if I just call him today and get it all said and then I can go ...

Where?

Where will I go?

She shivered again. I have to go somewhere, she thought, I have to start over again somewhere. Oakland? Could I still get a job with Prudential Life? It’s been seven years since I’ve worked at anything except being a wife, but you never really forget any skills, that’s what they say, and secretarial work is a skill, so I shouldn’t have forgotten how to do it. But do I want to live in Oakland, in the Bay Area, close to Steve, knowing he’s nearby? No—but where else would I go? I don’t know where to go when I leave here, big cities like New York and Chicago frighten me, a little town then, a little town somewhere, but I don’t think I’d like that either. Where will I go? I have to go somewhere. Mona and Dave? Well, maybe that’s it; yes, Mona and I have always been close and they have a large enough house, they won’t mind putting me up for a while, I can pay them room and board once I get a job, yes, that’s where I’ll go, at least for a while.

But she didn’t feel any better. The implications and the immense loneliness of the question Where will I go? had left her feeling small and empty and unwanted, friendless and loveless, naked and alone in a vast, populated wilderness. Lying there in the darkness, she was afraid again. The sooner she called Steve, the sooner she could leave Duckblind Slough for good. After she talked to him, she could call Mona and tell her about it and then she could go over to El Cerrito and they’d have a long, maudlin cry together. What she needed now was companionship, someone to talk to; when you’re alone for too long you start dwelling in the depths of gloom and depression, feeling sorry for yourself and looking at life through a glass darkly. Once she had a different perspective, things wouldn’t seem quite so—

There was the sound of a footfall on the porch outside.

Andrea sat up again, and her heart began to hammer violently. Was somebody out there? No, that was impossible; who would be out there, in the rain, at five o’clock in the morning? No, it was just her imagination, that’s all, just her—

The doorknob rattled.

Again.

Again.

Something smashed against the flimsy wood of the door.

Andrea threw the blankets back, stumbling off the cot to stand just inside the open doorway, hand held up to her mouth, her eyes bulging with consuming terror.

The door burst open.

It burst open, and a man stood framed in the doorway, framed in silhouette against the adumbral sky and the driving rain, a blackly faceless man with something held extended in one hand, something that gleamed dully in the pale, painted-rust glow from the fire in the stove.

Andrea began to scream.