Suddenly it seemed that so much of Zillis’s act at the tavern involved his hands. He was unusually dexterous. He juggled the olives and other items. He knew card tricks, all sleight-of-hand. He could “walk” a coin across his knuckles, make it disappear.
None of this helped Billy tie a better noose.
Soon it would be two o’clock. If he was going after Zillis, he preferred to do it under the cover of darkness.
The liquid bandage on the puncture wounds in his hand had been put to a thorough test. It had cracked at the edges, frayed.
He opened the bottle and painted another layer over the first, wondering if it was significant that the promised second wound had been a nail through his hand.
If he went after Zillis, he would first have a conversation with him. Nothing more. Nothing worse. Just a serious talk.
In case Zillis was the freak, the questions would have to be asked at the point of a gun.
239
Of course, if Zillis proved to be just a sick creep but not a killer, he would not be understanding; he would be pissed. He might want to press charges for forced entry, whatever.
The only way to keep him quiet might be to intimidate him. He wouldn’t likely be intimidated unless Billy hurt him seriously enough to get his attention and unless he believed that he would be hurt even worse if he called the police. Before he went after Zillis, Billy had to be sure that he had the capacity to assault an innocent man and brutalize him to keep him silent. He flexed and opened his slightly stiff left hand. Flexed and opened. Here was a choice not entirely forced upon him: He could put himself in a position where he might have to hurt and intimidate an innocent man—or delay, think, wait for events to unfold, and thereby possibly place Barbara in greater danger. The choice is yours.
It always had been. It always would be. To act or not to act. To wait or to go. To close a door or open one. To retreat from life or to enter it. He did not have hours or days to analyze the quandary. Anyway, given time, he would only get lost in the analysis.
He sought wisdom learned from hard experience and applicable to this situation, but he found none. The only wisdom is the wisdom of humility. In the end, he could make his decision based on nothing more than the purity of his motive. And even the full truth of motive might not be known. He started the engine. He drove away from the truck stop.
He couldn’t find the moon, that thinnest palest sliver of a moon. It must have been at his back.
240
At 2:09 A.M., Billy parked on a quiet residential street, two and a half blocks from Steve Zillis’s house.
The lower limbs of Indian laurels hung under the streetlights, and across the lamp-yellowed sidewalks, leaf shadows spilled like a treasure of black coins.
He walked unhurriedly, as if he were a lifelong insomniac who regularly went strolling in these dead hours.
The windows of the houses were dark, the porch lights off. No traffic passed him.
By now the earth had given back a lot of the stored heat from the day. The night was neither hot nor cool.
The twisted neck of the bread bag was looped around his belt, and the bag, lined with a dishtowel, hung at his left side. In it were the handcuffs, the small can of Mace, and the Taser.
Depending from his belt at his right hip: the Wilson Combat holster. The loaded pistol filled it.
He had pulled his T-shirt out of his jeans, to wear it loose. The T-shirt somewhat concealed the pistol. From a distance of more than a few feet, at night, no one would recognize the telltale outline of the weapon. When he reached Zillis’s place, he left the sidewalk for the driveway and then followed the wall of eucalyptus trees past the garage. At the front, the house had been dark behind the drawn blinds; but lights shone softly at some rear windows. Zillis’s bedroom, his bathroom. Billy stood in the backyard, studying the property, alert to every nuance of the night. He let his eyes forget the Street lamps and adapt more completely to the darkness.
He tucked his T-shirt into his jeans once more, to make the holstered pistol accessible.
From a pocket he took a pair of latex gloves, slipped his hands into them.
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The neighborhood was quiet. The houses were not far apart. He would need to be careful about noise when he got inside. Screams would be heard, as would gunfire not well muffled by a pillow.
He left the yard for the covered patio, on which stood a single aluminum chair. No table, no barbecue, no potted plants.
Through the panes in the back door, he could see the kitchen lighted only by two digital clocks, one on the oven and one on the microwave. He pulled the bread bag loose from his belt and withdrew from it the can of Mace. The dishtowel liner softened the sound of the shifting handcuffs. He twisted the neck of the bag and looped it securely around his belt again. On his first visit, he had stolen a spare key from a kitchen drawer. He inserted the key cautiously, turned it slowly, concerned that the lock might be noisy and that sound might carry too well in the small house. The door eased open. The hinges whispered with corrosion but did not squeak.
He stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
For a minute he did not move. His eyes were well accustomed to the dark, but he still needed to orient himself.
His heart raced. Maybe that was partly the caffeine tablets at work. As he crossed the kitchen, the rubber soles of his Rockports squeaked slightly on the vinyl flooring. He winced but kept going.
