CHAPTER 15

The next day I drove out to Point Reyes Station, arriving just as the Bovine Bakery opened at six thirty. I parked on the back street near the public toilets where I could get a good look at the lumber yard and the parked trucks at To-by’s Barn. I watched as Davy came out of the Bovine Bakery with a bag of goodies and a paper cup of coffee. He crossed to the yard, went to a truck tractor and opened the door., and I knew what he would do. He would drive it out, hook up to the load of hay somewhere not far from the yard and drive the load into Petaluma or Santa Rosa, or even farther north, Healdsburg or Cloverdale. The diesel engine fired up, a black cloud belching from the pipes, and then the motor settled into a low rumble. I waited until he pulled out of the yard onto Highway One, the main street that ran through the town. He turned left, which meant that he was headed for Stinson Beach and the ranches that were between Olema and Stinson. I drove to the end of the street and looked down towards the highway, saw the cab of the big truck appear and then turn and I followed. I stayed well behind him. There was no difficulty following him since the road ran in only one direction, a turnoff at Olema that he didn’t take and then the long stretch to Stinson.

Near Five Brooks he turned into a field where the trailer was waiting, loaded with hay bales. I stopped the car, watched while he backed into the loaded trailer, the trailer sliding onto the hitch at the back of the tractor cab. He locked things into place, hooked up the air hoses and climbed back into the cab. He eased forward toward the gate and I drove into the slot, blocking his progress. I waved my hand out the window. His hand came out and he waved back. Obviously he thought I had come with the money. Here I was, and it was payday for him. I got out of the car, walked over to the idling truck. I stepped up onto the running board, leaned in the open window on the passenger side.

“How’d you know I was here?” he said. Those were his last words. I pulled the Glock out of my jacket pocket, aimed it at his head and pulled the trigger. His head slammed against the window on his side and the window shattered.

It was easy. It was like using a nail gun. Bang bang bang, sixteen penny nails into a stud, driven to their heads, cleaner than a hammer. Pick up the nail gun, aim it, press the trigger, and there was a three inch nail driven all the way to the head, modern technology, no longer holding that nail with your fingers, holding the hammer, striking the nail, sometimes missing, sometimes striking our own thumb, sometimes bending the nail, forcing you to pull it out and start over. Now it was just press the trigger and it was done. And I had pulled the trigger and Davy was done, slumped against the shattered window on his side of the cab, blood everywhere, the diesel engine still running. I backed off, turned, went to my car. Behind me, the truck continued to idle and when I drove away I didn’t feel differently. I didn’t feel any sort of remorse, not what I thought I would feel. All I could think of was that Davy was silenced, and now I could concentrate on Winslow. Davy had been greedy. Davy had tried to step beyond his limits and I had struck, my sharp bill descending through the water with unerring accuracy, spearing his body. Swallowing him. This time Winslow would die and this time I would make sure that he didn’t escape.