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
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.
