Bill Pronzini: The Stalker

He shifted his weight, and his knees made wet slithering sounds on the matted grass. He had the .44 Ruger Magnum in his gloved right hand, pressed against his rib cage just below the left armpit. His palm was sweating inside the glove, and he could feel a certain expectant excitement building inside him. Just a few more minutes, he thought. Just a few more minutes and Orange will be dead, Orange will be dead, Red and Blue and Gray and Yellow and Green and Orange, all dead, all gone.

He wiped wetness from his face with the left sleeve of his overcoat, smiling a little now, thinking about how beautifully it had turned out. Orange had come home after all—no real matter where he had been all night—he had come home to answer his phone this morning. And he had suspected nothing wrong, nothing sinister; the news of his wife’s death had sent him into shock, despite the fact they had separated—that had been apparent; no hesitations, no suspicions, he was on his way.

Beautiful, beautiful.

Of course, it was too bad about the woman. It really was, even though she was a whore like all the rest. She had fit so perfectly into the scheme of things, being here at the fishing shack—the perfect lever with which to lure Orange to Duckblind Slough. Without her, things might have been much more difficult. Yes, it was too bad about the woman.

He would have to kill her, nevertheless.

But not until he had made her scream for him the way he had made Alice-slut scream for him on Tuesday night.

It was only right, only fitting—his just reward—after all he had been through. But only after Orange was dead, only when it was all over. That was why he hadn’t killed her before, that was why he had only tied her up without touching her, and put her in that closet.

The limping man looked at his wristwatch, listening to the rain falling on the morass, the wind howling, listening for the sound of an automobile. It wouldn’t be long now, no it wouldn’t be long now. Just a few more minutes, that was all.

And his finger caressed the Magnum’s trigger as if it was the nipple on the breast of Orange’s wife.

18

Steve Kilduff had almost reached Duckblind Slough before he realized that he had no weapon of any kind.

He sat drenched in the stern of a fourteen-foot, oak-hulled skiff—working the ten-horsepower Johnson outboard, fighting the craft through the roiling black water and through the cold, slanting rain—and told himself that he was a goddamned fool. He should have bought a gun, a knife, something, anything, at Talbert’s, but the son of a bitch with the thick mustache hadn’t wanted to rent him the skiff at all—“you’re crazy to want to put out on the river in this weather, buddy” —and he had had to fabricate a story about his wife (Jesus!) shacking up with a friend in one of the sloughs and wanting to confront them in the act, so to speak. Mustache had smirked and winked at the other one and finally agreed for twenty-five dollars and a signed blank check as a deposit against damage, but Kilduff knew now that if he had tried to buy some kind of weapon the deal would have been flatly off, Mustache wouldn’t have wanted any blood on his clean white hands. As it was, he had wasted fifteen minutes before getting the skiff out on the river, and all he had been thinking about was hurrying; time was growing more and more precious.

Still, there was the fact that he was completely unarmed. Even though he was coming in the back way, by water, with surprise in his favor, there was the chance that he would be seen; and if he was, he had no way to defend himself, he would be naked, a proverbial sitting duck in Duckblind Slough . . .

The shack?

Yes . . . the shack! There would be some kind of weapon there—a fish knife (he remembered having one) or at least a steak knife from the larder. If he could get to the shack, and inside, it might still be all right. He didn’t think the killer would wait inside the cabin because there were, of course, no Marin County Sheriff’s vehicles parked in the vicinity; realizing this, that it could arouse immediate suspicion—especially after the story he had told on the telephone—the killer would want to wait somewhere outside, possibly near the parking clearing, where he could make his move quickly and silently. That was the most logical place, the most logical decision.

But how could you really be sure about the reasoning of an insane mind?

And what about Andrea?

If she was all right, where did he have her? With him? In the shack? The shack seemed likely, because the killer wouldn’t want to take the chance of her somehow giving warning from whatever concealment he had established on the marshland; yes, if she was alive she almost surely had to be in the shack. Then, if he could get there undetected, he could get her out, get her to the skiff, to safety.

If she was still alive . . .

Kilduff forced his mind away from the possibilities, from Andrea, forced it to key on what he was doing and what he was about to do. He peered through the driving rain and saw the entrance to the slough coming up on his right. He maneuvered the skiff in that direction, feeling, down the length of his body, the sharp jolts of the bottom slapskipping across the rushing current. Once he had edged the craft into the narrow mouth, he began immediately to probe the left bank, looking for the small dock set into a miniature tule cove which belonged to Glen Preston—an investment broker from Santa Rosa who owned the nearer of the slough’s three shacks. He would bring the skiff in there, he had decided, moor it to the dock and follow the shoreline on foot to his own cabin on the point; the thick marsh growth would conceal him from anyone at a distance inland—if he was careful.

He almost missed the cove, and he had to swing the skiff in a wide loop to bring it back, cutting the throttle as he did so. The craft settled and began to drift with the strong current, and he fed the Johnson more gas to bring it in close to the jerry-built structure; he cut back again, then goosed the throttle a little, cut back, and goosed a second time. The skiff’s bow was almost touching the forward edge of the dock now. He gathered up the bow line, kicked the engine off, and gained his feet; he took two steps, using the fore seat as leverage for his jump to the dock. The skiff tilted dangerously in the roiling water, but he managed to land safely on the wooden planking. He wound the line around one of the vertical pilings and made it fast, pulling the skiff’s bow up tightly against the edge of the dock to minimize as much as possible the strong threat of damage to the craft.

The wind lashed at his face, fanning his wet hair like a windsock, billowing the saturated material of his topcoat. The rain on his skin was like particles of ice. He turned to peer inland, and he could see Preston’s cabin—a spectral gray blur—something more than one hundred yards distant. The path leading there was almost completely obliterated by the choking marsh growth. A natural drainage gulley, with three-foot densely grown banks, cut a jagged diagonal line to the cove from between Preston’s shack and his own; its narrow expanse was swollen with muddy rainwater, which emptied into the slough ten feet beyond the dock. The cattails and tule grass grew down to the water’s edge, and there was perhaps a foot of oozing black mud visible between the vegetation and the rain-lashed slough. Footing would be treacherous; you could easily become mired in that volatile muck if you weren’t cautious. You had to use the thicker clumps of grass as stepping stones, and even then you took the chance that they weren’t growing on mud islands or directly out of undetectable bog holes.

Kilduff drew a labored, tremulous breath, and stepped down off the dock, jumping over the narrow mouth of the drainage gulley. He began to make his way along the edge of the slough, leaning his body forward into the harsh north wind, his hands spread out from his sides, palms down, for balance in the stooped position. His street shoes, with their smooth rubber soles, slipped and skidded precariously on the wet grasses; it was as if he were attempting to make his way across ice. Almost inevitably, he lost his footing and went to his knees, his right leg splaying outward into the frigid slough, his hands clutching desperately at the vegetation to keep his body from sliding into the heaving water. He managed finally to regain his feet, to move forward again, slower now, eyes cast downward, measuring each step.