The Egret

by Russell Hill

  I drove back down past the Meadow Club. I turned off, parked in their parking lot and walked up to the clubhouse. At the bar I ordered a Manhattan and the Hispanic bartender made a good one, pouring it to the rim of the glass, only unlike the bartender at the Great Western, there was no leftover to fill an adjoining shot glass.

  Still, it was a good drink, and I savored it. Now, I would wait, like the egret, near Winslow’s driveway, and when he emerged, like the finning minnow at my feet, I would strike. My great yellow beak would impale him and he would be no more. And I would lift my wings and move on, a graceful creature who had avenged the death of my daughter, had brought justice to a scene where a coward had fled to safety. I finished the drink, left a sizeable tip for the bartender and drove back down to my little house.

  CHAPTER 26

  The job in Santa Rosa was almost finished. Ken said that he had more work for me. The job in Ross was still in progress, but I said no, not Ross.

  “You’ll have to wait for the next one,” he said. “I’ve got one coming up in Vallejo, if you’re willing to drive that far.”

  “No problem,” I said. “Just give me a call.”

  Tuesday and Thursday, that’s when he left his house, bound for some sort of company meeting. And on a Tuesday morning I would put the New York Times in his way. I continued my routine of walking Grizzly in the morning, he had become a companionable dog, lying in the evening at my feet. I became accustomed to him, and occasionally stroked his head as he lay here. No one had come to the door and he hadn’t had any opportunity to charge at it. I was beginning to get used to him, a welcome companion in an empty house. I went off down to the coffee shop, leaving him to guard the house, sat at the window of the coffee shop watching the Spandex-clad bike riders and the mothers with baby strollers. I had my coffee, and counted the days. It was Friday. Saturday, Sunday, Monday and then Tuesday. I picked up some hamburger from the grocery store and some hamburger buns. Grizzly would like the leftovers. In fact, I would make him a burger without a bun. , But when I got to the door of my house and inserted my key, the familiar rush and growling weren’t there. I opened the door and there, on the floor was the carcass of the dog. Its throat was slit and there was a pool of blood on the floor. I stopped, waiting to see if anyone was in my house but it was silent. Somebody had gained entrance and had killed the dog. I looked into the bedroom and it was in a chaotic state. Someone had thoroughly searched it, and I had no idea what they had been looking for. The kitchen space was the same way, pots and pans on the floor, dishes and cups broken. It was a message to me. Here we are, they had said and nothing will stop us. Not even your fierce dog. I went out to the garage and my tools were spread out, shelves stripped. But the Glock was still in my tool box in the trunk of my car. They hadn’t found that. Now I was more determined than ever to do in that sonovabitch. His hired hands had come into my house and had slaughtered a dog, and if I had been there they would have slaughtered me, too. You fucking cowards, I said out loud, you killed a dog that wasn’t going to harm you. You did it to send a message to me. It is an evil thing you have done. And Earl Winslow, you will go up in a shower of explosion. You will lose your limbs and you will no longer be able to fuck that pretty wife of yours. You will be either a shell in a wheelchair or a body on a slab in the morgue, I promise you that.

  I got a shovel and dug a hole in the slope below the house and buried the dog. I went back into the house to begin the process of cleaning up the mess. And while I was doing it, I kept thinking of the explosion in the hills, the crater my device had left and the destruction it would wreak on Winslow’s expensive car. It was not armored like the Hum-Vees in Iraq. It would shatter and the ball bearings and nails I had packed around this edition would tear through the body, ripping apart Winslow and his driver. I felt a mild disappointment that the driver would have to suffer. It was Winslow I wanted to punish. But there was no other way. Tuesday would be the day.

  CHAPTER 27

  I went through the steps carefully. I would strap the package to the back of the bike, careful to cushion it with rags. I wanted to make sure that it didn’t get jolted, wires come loose. I would ride the bike down the hill, pedal carefully through San Anselmo, then along Shady Lane to Ross. I would pedal carefully up Lagunitas. No, I would push the bike up the hill. Nothing unusual about that, middle-aged man pushing a bike uphill. When I got to Carmel Drive I would go to the corner just above Winslow’s address. I would park the bike next to the bushes that obscured his neighbor’s house. Push it back into the foliage. Unstrap the device. Walk it down to Winslow’s driveway, place it in the middle of the driveway just outside the gate. There were copies of the New York Times in their blue wrappers on many driveways in Ross. Go back to the edge of his property where his tall hedge ended. I could tuck myself into the space between the end of his hedge and the bushes next door. There was enough space. Wait. I would hear the opening of the gate, I could see the nose of the car come out and I would press the button. The explosion would lift the car, hurl it into the air and tumble it into the street. Tumble it. Pinwheel it. It would pinwheel with what remained of Winslow inside, and I would go to my bike, ride to the top of Carmel Drive where it intersected with Canyon Road, coast down Canyon Road and when it intersected with Shady Lane, I would turn north again, retrace my route to my house while behind me the burning hulk of Winslow’s Mercedes would lie in the street and the Ross Fire Department would come and neighbors would appear and it would be done. Complete.

  What did egrets do when they had speared their catch? They rose, opened their wings and flew. They tucked their heads into their shoulders (if birds had shoulders) and they rowed with their wings, stroked through the air, like long white oars in a steady beat. I would fly, too. Which meant that I had to pack things up now. Gather the tools I intended to take with me, pack a minimum of clothes and toilet articles, a good jacket, an old sweater that was a favorite of mine, empty my bank account. Convert my assets into cash before I blew up Winslow. Which meant that it would take me more than a few days. I would have to have my affairs wrapped up, cash in hand, ready to take wing when I delivered the New York Times to Earl Anthony Winslow.

  There would be no chance to sell my house. That would take too long, was too complicated. But the rental market in Marin was hot, and I could rent my house easily for three thousand a month. I could do that within a week. Rent it furnished, ask for a first and last month’s rent and a cleaning deposit. I could have seven thousand cash in hand. My savings account had another fifteen thousand in it. My checking account had a bit more than a thousand. I had a life insurance policy I could borrow against. There was more than fifty thousand there. If I took a second on the house, it would take a little more than a week to get a check. I could get another two hundred thousand, easily. I would eventually default on the loan, but the bank would have to deal with that. I would be far away, flaring my wings, settling in to a new place. Which meant that I could, within a week and a half, have a quarter of a million dollars, enough to relocate somewhere else, start over, know that Earl Winslow had suffered for his carelessness. I could even get myself a new dog.

  I started by calling the Chase Bank at the Redhill Shopping Center. A banker with a smooth, well-modulated voice answered my questions about a second mortgage. “I want to put a down payment on another piece of property,” I said. “I want to take out a second on my house, which is paid for. But I need the money quickly. It has to be a cash transaction, and the buyer is willing to sell if I can come up with the cash within a week. Is that possible?”

  “It’s highly unlikely,” he said. “The bank has to get assurances about your property and details about your financial history.”

  “I came to you because I have a checking account with you and a savings account. Surely you can expedite things for me.”

  “I can try.”

  “Not good enough,” I said. “There are companies that advertise on the television that I can get instant approval for a house loa
n. You’re sure you can’t do anything?”

  “Let me call you back,” he said.

  An hour later he called. He had talked with someone in the San Francisco office, and if I could produce the deed to my house and the documents showing that it was fully paid for, I could get the cash within a week. I was profuse in my thanks. Now I had a schedule. A week from Tuesday would be the new date. I began to make a list of what I should pack.

  CHAPTER 28

  I hadn’t counted on Winslow’s hired thugs. That night the motion sensitive lights outside went on, illuminating my driveway and the slope beneath the house. Someone was out there. Either that or a deer had wandered into the scope of the lights. I went to the front window and looked out. No one. I held the Glock in my hand and waited and then the bottle crashed against the front door and the gasoline inside flared up. A Molotov cocktail, hurled from the darkness. I grabbed the kitchen fire extinguisher, hoping that there wasn’t somebody out there with a gun ready when I showed myself. I pulled open the door, doused the flame with the extinguisher, the white cloud smothering the flame. The door was scorched, and the porch had a black burned patch but the fire was out. I was no longer safe in my house. I needed to hold out for a week, finish my plan to punish Winslow and flee. I spent the rest of the night half awake, waiting to see if they came back. The next morning I was careful when I went to the garage, loaded my tools into the car, and drove to Santa Rosa. The job finished today, and I would be on my own for several days until the Vallejo job began. I sat on the back porch, sipping a scotch. I would miss this view. I was used to the green that surrounded me. I thought of the far corners of the state, Susanville where the prison was that Fuller had threatened me with. I would find a place there that was surrounded with green. And there would be mountains that I could look at.

  CHAPTER 29

  The next week was filled with trips to the bank, packing my car, meeting with a real estate agent for the rental and by Friday, I had it all complete. The check for the second mortgage was due the next week. It would be after I had set off the New York Times in Winslow’s driveway, but I figured I had a few days of grace. By Wednesday I had the check from the insurance company and the cash from my savings account. The real estate agent had a renter for me and I would meet him on Tuesday afternoon.

  The weekend came and I finished packing my car. The house already seemed empty. Monday came and I got a telephone call that was suspicious. I was accustomed to calls from contractors offering discounts on home improvements, roofing companies offering to put on a new roof and recorded voices telling me that I had won a trip to the Caribbean. But this call was different. It started by calling me by name. And then it told me that I could get a new dog to replace the one that had died if I was interested. When I asked who this was, the voice said, “It doesn’t matter who I am. This is a notice that you will be dealt with. You have done enough and now is the time for you to either disappear or you will find yourself in serious trouble. You will be looking over your shoulder when you go out for coffee. Park your bike in that bike rack and it will be the last thing you do.”

  So they knew where I lived, and where I went for coffee and now they wanted me to disappear. At least they weren’t trying to kill me. Or, perhaps they were. Perhaps they were warning me that they knew my habits and it was only a matter of time.

  Time to deliver the newspaper.

  CHAPTER 30

  Tuesday morning came. I lashed the bomb to the bike as I had planned, rode carefully through San Anselmo to Shady Lane, pushed the bike up Lagunitas road until I reached Carmel Drive, pedaled up to the top of Carmel Drive to the house just above Winslow’s house. There were large bushes obscuring the house and the high hedge in front of Winslow’s house bordered those bushes. I pushed the bike into the bushes as I had planned. I walked down to Winslow’s driveway and placed the New York Times in front of the gate. I walked back to the crevice in the hedge and secreted myself.

  I waited, and when I heard the gate hum, I knew that he was there, and the nose of the Mercedes showed and I pressed the button. The explosion was more than I had hoped for. It tore through the air, pieces of asphalt and concrete rained down, the body of the car was hurled into the street, and the echo of the explosion bounced back from houses and hills. Then there was no other noise, except the noise of flames as the wreckage burst into a ball of orange, thick black smoke billowing into the sky. There was no way anyone in that car had survived. Winslow was in pieces. The instantaneous blast had given him no warning, and for that I was disappointed. I had wanted him to suffer the way my daughter had suffered when the water slowly enveloped her. But it was done, I said to myself. The hulk of the car could now be seen as the rising heat took the smoke up between the trees. No amount of money would extricate Winslow from that smoldering “cauldron. He couldn’t buy his way out of this one.

  Done, I said to myself. I got onto my bicycle and quickly pedaled to the top of the street, turning down toward Shady Lane. I could hear the sound of a siren and knew somebody had called in the explosion. When I came to Shady Lane I could hear the fire engines rushing up Lagunitas and I turned toward San Anselmo. When I got to the center of town I parked my bike in the bike rack in front of the coffee shop opposite the city hall, ordered a coffee and sat at a table. It wasn’t long before someone rushed in to announce that there had been an explosion in Ross. “Maybe a gas main blew up,” he said. “Whatever it was, there’s fire trucks and medics coming from all directions.”

  I listened to the buzz of conversations and then biked the rest of the way home. It was Tuesday afternoon. The check from Chase hadn’t arrived yet. I had cleared out my savings and checking accounts, and the back of my car was packed with my tools. Wherever I went, I would be ale to find work. I sat on the porch at the back, looking at the mountain. I would miss this.

  Fuller showed up at five o’clock. When I opened the door he said, “You fucking madman! Do you know what you’ve done?”

  “What are you talking about?” I said.

  “Your obsession with Earl Winslow has caused at least two more deaths.”

  “Winslow is dead?”

  “No. His wife is. And the driver of their car. And you did it, you fucking nutcase!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You! That’s who I’m talking about. You! You somehow forced Winslow into the ocean, and that kid from out there saw you or found out something about you and you shot him. Fucking killed him. And now you’ve fucking blown up two innocent people!”

  “Winslow isn’t dead?”

  “No. He isn’t dead. His wife is dead. The driver of his car is dead. I can’t tie you to those deaths, but I will. I will track down your involvement in that kid’s death and I will find out how you got the shit to blow up Winslow’s car and I will pin you to the wall. I will stick the pin in your fucking insect body and stick you to the wall and I promise you that I will do it. I’m pissed off at myself for telling you about Winslow. If I had kept my fucking mouth shut, three innocent people would still be alive. I’m going to find out what your connection was with that kid, and I’m going to sweat your identity out of Winslow, who is now as determined to strike you down as you were to get to him. But I’ll get what I want, and I’ll find out where you got the explosive and you can bet that you’re dead meat!”

  He paused. Spittle was at the edge of his mouth.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “When did this explosion happen?”

  “You know goddam well when it happened. I’ll be back. I’ll be back with a search warrant and I’ll find that fucking gun and I’ll track down where you got the parts for that bomb and I’ll make sure you go away for the rest of your life. Unless Winslow finds you first, and I’m not going to stand in his way. If he wants to hunt you down and snuff you out, I sure as hell won’t give a shit!”

  CHAPTER 31

  I couldn’t wait for the check from Chase. And I would have to cancel the meeting with the p
ossible renter. What I needed to do was get in my car and fly. Go somewhere I wasn’t known, away from Fuller and Winslow and the connections to me. I loaded the duffle with my personal possessions in the back seat. I had the fifty thousand from my insurance policy, seven thousand from my two accounts. It would have to be enough. ln San Rafael I filled the tank with gas and set off up 101, turned off toward Vallejo and then took I-80 to Interstate 5. I drove north until I came to Chico, filled the car again with gas. By now it was dark. I took the road to Lassen, and by two in the morning I was past Chester, approaching Susanville. It was the corner of nowhere. Two big prisons dominated the town, and Wikipedia had told me that there were 11,000 inmates there, and half the population of Susanville worked in those prisons. I slept in the car until it was light, then sought out a better bed

  I found a motel, a cheap one, and it was apparent when I got to the room why it was cheap. The woman who took my money shoved a registration form at me and when I said I didn’t remember my license number, she said, “Make one up.” Which I did. The room had a faded, stained carpet, threadbare sheets on the single bed and there were tiles missing from the shower. Opposite the room was a wire enclosure with several dogs in it. They were stocky dogs, and they gathered at the wire to stare at me. They looked like the kind of dogs that would grab a leg or an arm if given the chance. My room key was attached to a plastic number tag, reinforced with a piece of duct tape. What I needed to do was find new license plates for my car. Find the hulk of something abandoned or sitting on cement blocks in a vacant lot. I needed to scout out the town, find some place permanent to stay. By now Fuller would have his search warrant, he would have connected me to the Old Western Saloon and my chat with Davy. Perhaps Winslow had told him that I was the one who forced him into the sea. When he made the rounds of places with dynamite, as he surely would, that receptionist would be able to describe me. And her boss had my telephone number. But none of that mattered any more. Now I had to find a new identity, burrow into the sand, be like that sand worm that moved at the egret’s feet.