“Shut up,” Kellenbeck said. “Andy, tell him to shut the hell up. I don’t want to listen to this.”
Greene said, “Let him talk. The hell with it.”
“Then Jerry heads straight for the fish company,” I said. “Why? Because he’s found out Sunday is the night you take the boat out to pick up a load of whiskey-not every Sunday but once or twice a month, say-and he’s also found out you leave from the warehouse when you do go, sometime after ten o’clock. If you’re heading out that night he’ll call in the Coast Guard and have them waiting when you get back; and he’ll also have the original of his article ready to turn over to one of the San Francisco papers. If you’re not going out, he’ll carry the article back to his room and wait another week or however long it takes until you do.
“When he gets to the fish company he hides somewhere to watch and wait. And the two of you show up. Then something happens-maybe he makes a noise, maybe he’s not hidden as well as he thinks-and you grab him. You find the article, you read it, you know he’s onto you. It’s the kid’s death warrant.”
We had reached the north rim of the bay. Ahead, through the windshield and through swirls of fog, I could see the turnoff for the road that looped around to Bodega Head.
“But first you’ve got to know if there are any other copies of that article. You force him to tell you about the carbon, who he mailed it to, and it turns out to be his father down in Brisbane. You can’t get the carbon out of the post office; you’ve got to wait until it’s delivered. So the next day you go down to Brisbane and watch Victor Carding’s mailbox until the mail is delivered and then check for the carbon.
“Only it doesn’t show up on Monday, or on Tuesday or Wednesday either; the mail service being what it is, the envelope isn’t delivered until Thursday. But Carding gets to the box before you can, maybe because he’s looking for some word from his son. He picks up the mail-the article and a couple of bills-and opens Jerry’s envelope right away and starts to read. That leaves you no choice. You brace him with the. 38 you were carrying then, take him into the garage, and shoot him. Then you put the gun in his hand-make it look like suicide, keep the police from doing too much digging.”
Kellenbeck had made the turn and we were starting around toward the marina. I could just make out the ghost shapes of masts and hulls through gaps in the fog screen.
“But even if Martin Talbot hadn’t arrived a few minutes later to screw things up, it wouldn’t have worked. No nitrate traces on Carding’s hands or powder marks on his clothes: he couldn’t have shot himself. The police would still have known it was murder.
“You see how it is, Greene? It’s the little things people like you always overlook, the little things that trip you up. It’ll be some other little thing, or a combination of them, that finally puts your ass in the gas chamber.”
That got a small noise out of Kellenbeck. Greene said, “Smart guy. You like to listen to yourself trying to be smart? Go on, talk some more. Talk all you want while you still can.”
But I was through talking. And through teetering on the brink of panic. The wildness was gone; I had talked myself calm, gotten a lock again on emotions and impulses. Intellect was going to get me out of this if anything was. If I panicked, there was no way out: I was a dead man for sure.
We had drawn abreast of the marina now. Vague shimmers of light marked the location of houses along the Head, but there were no lights among the boats just pale night bulbs scattered above the ramp and the floating walkways. The road, as it had been all the way over from the main highway, was a wet empty stripe in the darkness.
Kellenbeck eased the Cadillac onto the shoulder opposite the ramp. Greene got out first, waited for Kellenbeck, and then motioned me across the seat. There was more wind here and it stung my cheeks with icy wetness; the air was painfully cold in my lungs. I glanced down the road, up at the outlines of the nearest house, over at the boat slips. Nothing stirred anywhere. No help anywhere.
We went across the road and up onto the ramp, Kellenbeck in front of me and Greene behind me by six paces. Sounds drifted out of the fog: the creak of caulked joints and rigging, the thud of a hull against a board float, the buoy bells. I kept moving my head in quadrants, looking for something, anything, to give me an opening, a chance for escape. Fog, wind, empty boats, black water-nothing.
At the end of the ramp Kellenbeck went down the short metal ladder without turning; I heard the thump he made as he dropped off onto the nearest float. When I got to the ladder I turned to face Greene. But he had halted too, and there were still six or seven feet between us-too far for me to even think about making a play for the gun. He waited until I descended the ladder before he approached it, and then it was at an angle so that I had no way of lunging up at him between the handrails. There was nothing I could do except leave the ladder and sidestep along the swaying float. Watch him come down only when I got far enough away to suit him.
Kellenbeck was already on board the Kingfisher, standing with his back to the wheelhouse. The water was choppy enough to rock the troller; he had his feet spread wide and one hand up at his mouth, as if the motion had combined with the alcohol in his system to make him nauseous. I came up abaft, hesitated again. Greene slowed and made an impatient slicing gesture with the gun. Kellenbeck reacted as though it was meant for him too: He turned as I climbed over the gunwale and groped his way inside the wheelhouse.
I backed over there, adjusting my balance to the deck roll. Greene swung aboard. Binnacle lights went on inside, one of them a chart lamp that cut away most of the blackness. The wheelhouse, I saw as I stepped through the entrance way, was about ten feet square and empty except for operating equipment and a pair of wooden storage lockers; the bulkheads were all bare. On the port side was a narrow companionway that would lead belowdecks to Greene’s sleeping quarters.
I moved to the starboard bulkhead and put my back to it. Kellenbeck was next to the wheel; the glow from the lights gave his face a surreal cast. Greene stood framed in the entrance way, his left shoulder braced at its edge, the gun cocked toward me at his right hip.
“What the hell’re you waiting for?” he said to Kellenbeck. “Start the engine. You know where the keys are.”
Kellenbeck’s throat seemed to be working spasmodically. “I don’t feel so good, Andy. You got any liquor on board?”
“No.”
“You sure? Christ, I need a drink bad.”
“I said no. I want you sober; it’ll be tricky enough following the channel in this fog. Now get to it.”
In shaky movements Kellenbeck fumbled under the binnacle, came up with a set of keys, and spent fifteen seconds fitting one into the ignition and firing the diesel. The powerful engine made a guttural throbbing noise, like the magnified purr of a cat, and I could feel the vibrations beneath my feet.
Greene stepped inside and one pace to his right, toward me. “Cast off the lines, Gus.”
I watched Kellenbeck walk around behind him and disappear astern. My nerves were beginning to jangle again; the panic simmered just below the surface of my thoughts. Time was running out. Once we were out into the bay, my chances would be twice as slim as they were now-and once we passed breakwater at the Bodega Head jetty, into open sea, they would be all but nonexistent. Now was the time to make my move, while I was alone here with Greene. Except that I had no move to make. Maybe I would have to jump him sooner or later, but I could not bring myself to do it yet. It was the last thing to do, the last move, because in close quarters like these I knew it would probably be the last move I would ever make.
Two or three long minutes passed before Kellenbeck came back. One hand was hovering at his mouth again; he looked even sicker than before. When he took the wheel Greene backed over to the entrance way, braced himself the way he had earlier.
Kellenbeck put on the running lights, the windshield wipers, an outside spotlight that sliced a thin diffused beam into the mist. He worked the throttle and we began to creep forward out of the slip, into the narrow marina channel. Wind-swells increased the roll-and-sway of the boat; I put my hands flat against the bulkhead and widened my stance. At the wheel Kellenbeck began to make a series of liquidy gagging sounds that were audible even above the diesel pulse.
Through the windshield, fog churned and appeared to hurl itself in gray streaks against the glass. I could see patches of black water but nothing else: It seemed we were out of the marina now and into the bay.
Kellenbeck was still gagging.
The boat rolled left, pitched right, rolled left.
And Kellenbeck let go of the wheel, lurched around, said, “Andy, Jesus, take over, I got to puke.” And clamped both hands to his mouth and came staggering toward the entrance way.
Right between Greene and me.
