The Stalker (21 page)

And who had the eyes of a madman.

Andrea began to tremble again as she thought about those eyes. They were wide, penetrating, soulless; they looked through you, burned holes in you; they contained something indefinably but unmistakably terrifying. She had almost fainted the first time she’d seen them in the illumination from the Coleman pressure lantern, seen how the black, black pupils reflected the light and gave the impression of flames dancing and flickering deep within their inner recesses.

In that moment, she had fully expected him to kill her.

After performing unspeakable atrocities on her flesh.

But he hadn’t touched her, except to slap her once very hard with the palm of his left hand when he had broken in, commanding her as he did so to stop screaming. When she had complied, he had told her in a flat, toneless voice that nothing would happen to her if she was quiet and responsive—not elaborating what he meant by responsive—and that was when he had put on the Coleman lantern and she had seen his eyes. She had had to exercise a tremendous effort of will to keep from panicking at that moment, to keep from screaming again, but she had done so, sitting on the Army cot and pulling the wool blanket up to cover her body even though she was clad in heavy lemon-colored pajamas. He had only nodded, and then had dragged in one of the chairs from the half-table and sat down on it facing her, crossing his legs and holding the gun very loosely, very casually on his knee, watching her, not speaking for a long while.

Who was he, who was he? The question had echoed and re-echoed in Andrea’s mind as she sat before him, not looking at his eyes. Was he a madman, an escaped mental patient from some institution? She had tried to remember if there were any hospitals for mentally unbalanced people, any asylums, in the vicinity; but she didn’t think there were, it wasn’t likely. Was he an itinerant, a tramp? She had heard stories about hobos and drifters riding the northbound freights that rolled frequently by on the spur tracks a half-mile distant, about how they sometimes jumped off in isolated areas such as this one and went looking for food and shelter and money and . . . other things. But this man was too well-dressed, too well-groomed, too calm and systematic to be a tramp, to have been riding in a freight car. But who
was
he, then? Who else could he be? What did he want? What was he going to do?

He had said suddenly, “Where’s your husband, Mrs. Kilduff?”

It had surprised her. It had surprised her enough so that she hadn’t immediately been able to reply. He had asked the question again, with menace, with impatience, and she’d managed at length, “I ... don’t know where he is. Why? Why do you want to know where he is?”

“He isn’t staying here with you?”

“No”

“Then why are you here?”

She hadn’t been able to lie to him, hadn’t been able to hedge an answer. It was his eyes, those omniscient eyes. “Because I... I’ve left him.”

No visible reaction. “How long have you been here?”

“Since . . . last Saturday.”

“Does Orange know you’re here?”

“... Orange?”

“Your husband.”

“No, no... I don’t think so.”

“When was the last time you spoke to him?”

“Last Friday,” Andrea said. “Please, what do you want with Steve? Do you know him?”

“I know him,” the limping man had answered, and that had been all he’d said, lapsing into silence then, a silence which she hadn’t been capable of breaking even though her mind was seething with new questions, new fears.

He had called Steve “Orange”; she’d heard him dearly. What did that mean? Was it some kind of nickname? Did he have Steve mixed up with someone else? No, that wasn’t it; he had called her “Mrs. Kilduff” and he had come here to Duckblind Slough. He must have known Steve rather well—not many people were aware of the existence of this shack. But why had he thought Steve would be here now, in November? And how could her husband know a man like this, a man with insane eyes, a man who carried a gun? And what possible reason could this man have for wanting to locate him? To . . . dear Lord, to kill him? That would explain why he had the gun, but . . . no, that was crazy, why would anyone want Steve dead? It was a nightmare, this whole thing was a nightmare . . .

Time had passed, crawling. She had lost control momentarily, with the questions and the fears commingling in her brain, and had begun to cry. She’d sat on the cot, rocking to and fro, and the tears had fallen, cascading from her eyes. The limping man had said nothing, watching her, until there were no more tears and she was silent again. He’d seemed to be deeply immersed in thought, in some private and hideous contemplation.

Dawn had come, finally, diminishing the long shadows within the shack slowly, consuming the darkness until Andrea had been able to see through the window that the sky was once again wet gray gossamer. What was he waiting for? she had thought then. If he was going to kill her, rape her, why didn’t he have done with it? Was he trying to torture her by making her wait, wait in silence, by giving her all this time to think about what would happen to her? It was inhuman—

Abruptly, as if he had reached some decision or formulated some plan, the limping man had gotten to his feet. He had held the gun pointed at her, moving to the storage closet, opening the door, peering alternately at what lay on the shelves inside and at Andrea sitting on the cot. He had taken the nylon fishing line down finally—new line wound carefully about a small wooden stake—and had instructed her to lie on her stomach across the cot with her hands clasped behind her. She had obeyed, sobbing again, tasting the fear in her mouth and in her throat, feeling it surge in her stomach.

He had put the gun into the pocket of his overcoat and methodically bound her hands and ankles. When he had finished, he’d picked her up, not straining under her weight at all, and carried her to the closet and placed her on the floor inside, where she now lay. His breath on her face had been fetid, though now she knew that fear and imagination had only made it seem that way.

Moments later she’d heard him leave the shack.

Her fear, now, was almost evenly divided. She feared for her own welfare; there was the uncertainty of whether or not he would come back—and if he did, what he would do to her. And she feared for Steve’s welfare; she knew that he was in danger, terrible danger, that something of which she knew nothing, something of great magnitude, was terribly, terribly wrong.

But she could only lie there as she had done for the past hour, lie there cold and frightened and in the darkness and listen to the rain and wind, to the imagined gnawings of a dozen rats in the sucking mud beneath the closet floor.

Lie there and wait.

Just wait.

For—what?

Oh God,
for what
?

Inspectors Neal Commac and Pat Flagg arrived at the Caveat Way, Twin Peaks, address of Steven Kilduff a few minutes past eight-thirty. Flagg parked the plain black departmental sedan directly opposite the building, and they hurried across the rain-flooded width of the street and through the single glass-and-wood door in the glassed entranceway.

Commac took off his hat and brushed the beaded droplets of water from the crown. He said, “I wish this goddamned rain would let up. It puts me in a mood.”

“Yeah,” Flagg said. “I know.”

They climbed the inside stairs and walked down the hallway and stopped before the door to Kilduff’s apartment. Commac put his right forefinger on the ivory button of the doorbell, opening his suit coat with his left hand and pushing the tail back over the service revolver at his side belt. Flagg did the same. They had talked about it driving over in the sedan, and even though they didn’t anticipate any trouble, they were being occupationally cautious.

They waited in the quiet hallway. There was no response, and no sound from within the apartment. They looked at one another, and then Commac shrugged lightly and depressed the bell button again.

Nothing.

Flagg said, “He’s not home.”

“Looks that way.”

“Do you think he’s flown?”

“Maybe,” Commac said. “Let’s see if the building manager knows where he is.”

They walked downstairs again and looked at the redwood-framed bank of mailboxes set into the stucco-and-mica wall of the vestibule. Then they went back up one flight and knocked on the door of Apartment 204.

After a moment, a tall, handsome woman with reddish-brown hair opened the door and looked out at them quizzically. “Yes?” she said. “May I help you?”

“You’re Mrs. Yarborough, the manager?” Commac asked.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“We’re police officer,” he said. “We’d like to ask you a couple of questions about one of the apartment holders.”

She blinked at the badge pinned to the inside of the leather case in Commac’s hand. Then she said “Which one?” a little breathlessly.

“Steven Kilduff.”

“I knew it!” Mrs. Yarborough said. Her eyes were brightly sparkling. “I just knew it, the way he ran out of here a little while ago, acting so peculiarly, it just had to be something else beside the fact that Andrea was—”

Commac said, “Andrea? That would be Mr. Kilduff’s wife, is that right?”

“Yes, well she’s his wife now but she left him, you know, last Saturday although I didn’t find out about it until last night when she called me, but just the mere fact that Andrea was spending a few days at their fishing cabin, poor thing, to think things over wasn’t why he was acting so peculiarly, of course I don’t exactly know what it was but since you’re here I imagine it must be something very important?” She stopped, looking at them expectantly.

Commac touched the lobe of his right ear. “You said something about a fishing cabin, Mrs. Yarborough. Is that where Mr. Kilduff went, to the best of your knowledge?”

“Well, I suppose it is,” Mrs. Yarborough said. “Of course, he didn’t say, you understand he was acting so peculiarly and I make it a practice never to pry into the affairs of my neighbors but I just had to tell him about Andrea, poor thing, all alone and simply pining away for him, now you understand she’s not involved in this police business, whatever it is, I can vouch for her character she’s such a sweet girl, but if you could just tell me what it is Mr. Kilduff has done perhaps I—”

“Would you happen to know where this fishing cabin is, ma’am?” Flagg asked patiently.

“Well, not exactly, it’s in Marin County somewhere, on that little river that runs into San Pablo Bay—”

“Petaluma River?” Commac asked.

“Yes, I think so, but now—”

“You don’t know the exact location of the cabin?”

“In some slough or other, I think, Andrea mentioned it but I can’t seem to recall, now really, Officers, don’t you think I’m entitled to know why you want to talk to Mr. Kilduff, I’ve been cooperative, haven’t I? and I think as the manager of the building that I’m—”

“What exactly did Mr. Kilduff say to you prior to his leaving, ma’am?” Flagg asked.

“What did he say?” Mrs. Yarborough put her hands on her hips and looked at them in an exasperated way. “Well, I was telling him about Andrea and all of a sudden he grabbed me by the shoulders, very roughly, and he demanded to know what time she had called and I told him it was after eleven sometime, and that was when he got this very peculiar look in his eyes and ran out of here, now if you don’t mind, Officers, I’d like to know just what it is—”

“Thank you, Mrs. Yarborough,” Commac said quietly. “We appreciate your assistance.”

He nodded to Flagg and they turned and started for the stairs. Just as they reached the landing, there was the sound of a door slamming, very loudly, behind them. As they started down, Flagg said, “What do you make of it?”

“I’m not sure,” Commac said.

“Do we follow it up?”

“I think we’d better.”

“So do I.”

“I don’t see why Boccalou won’t give us the okay, as long as the duty roster’s clear enough,” Commac said. “There’s something more to this whole thing than just an eleven-year-old armored-car robbery, we both agree to that. I think he sees it that way, too.”

Flagg nodded.

“We’ll have to have the Marin County Sheriff’s Department run a check on property owners, to find out where this fishing cabin of Kilduff’s is located. They could have the information for us by the time we pulled into San Rafael to pick up one of their boys.”

They reached the vestibule. “It’s still raining, for Christ’s sake,” Commac said rhetorically, a little sourly, and they went out and ran across the street to the unmarked departmental sedan.

I still love her, Steve Kilduff thought.

I never stopped loving her at all.

He had just come down off Waldo Grade, and was approaching Richardson’s Bay Bridge. Traffic was relatively light northbound, although the always-heavy southbound commuter traffic was predictably snarled by the rain and the attendant poor visibility. He was driving very fast for conditions, upwards of seventy-five, passing cars and changing lanes automatically, praying with a small part of him that he wouldn’t encounter a Highway Patrolman, praying with the rest of him that Andrea was still alive. That was when he realized consciously what he had felt and known deep within him all along—that Andrea was an integral, inseparable part of his mind and of his soul; that a portion of his being had died when he believed she had died, and been reborn with the fervent chance that she was still alive, and would die again if this were not to be so; that he loved her as much now as he had that first day in Sugar Pine Valley.