CHAPTER 17

It was an old article from the weekly West Marin newspaper, The Point Reyes Light. I had gone on-line to see if there was more about the death of David Lansdale, a truck driver from Point Reyes Station. And then, while browsing back issues, I came across the article about the old Synanon headquarters on Tomales Bay. There had been bad blood between the Synanon residents, a hippie group that practiced a drug rehab program without doctors and was apparently involved in practices that involved holding children against their will. And the adjoining rancher had accused them of encroaching on his land, and of violating their use permit. So they put a rattlesnake into his mail box at the edge of the road with its rattle cut off. But the plot failed. The Point Reyes Light ferreted out the details, and there were letters and notes that helped to incriminate the Synanon head. The Point Reyes Light got the Pulitzer Prize for reporting on the Synanon story, beating out major newspapers like the New York Times and the Washington Post. A little weekly newspaper had won journalism’s most sought-after prize. But that wasn’t what interested me. What interested me was the fact that the houses on the streets of Ross all had street-side mailboxes. Some were old-fashioned metal boxes, others were fancy designer boxes, but they all collected their mail from the side of the street. And the rattlesnake in the mailbox lit up for me. And it was now May and rattlesnakes were no longer dormant. Somebody at Winslow’s house would go out to his mailbox to get the mail. Because the houses were all separated from the streets by gates and hedges, there were mailboxes on posts. The mailmen drove up in little trucks with right-hand drive, leaned out and stuck the mail into the box. So after the mailman left, a rattlesnake inserted into the box would be waiting for whoever came for that day’s mail. It was possible, of course, that a house worker would be dispatched for the mail. Or it could be the wife. Or Winslow when he came home. The car might pause, Winslow would get out and get the mail. Or, he might ask the driver to do it. It would require more observation sessions. Find out when the mailman delivered. Find out who picked up the mail from the mailbox and when. Finding a rattlesnake wouldn’t be difficult. There were lots of them up around Lake Lagunitas and Bon Tempe Lake above Fairfax. Or up on the ridge above my house, near Tamarancho, the Boy Scout Camp. They could be found among rocks, in piles of old wood, and now that the days were getting warmer, they would be out in the early morning, using the warmth of paths or meadows to warm their bodies.

While it was not a foolproof scheme, it would be enough to cause Winslow serious pain. And it would remind him that there was someone out to do him harm. Keep him on edge. Make him uncomfortable. And he would want to find me. Which shouldn’t be all that difficult. Davy had found me. He would, no doubt, send someone to take care of me. Perhaps that new driver of his. Or he would hire someone. Finding me and eliminating me would consume him, just as his actions had consumed me. And in trying to erase my threat, he would have to do things that would expose him to discovery. He would be the one moving. I would remain still, like the egret. Wait.

So I checked with the Ross Post Office about mail deliveries, found out that the mail trucks all came from San Anselmo. A call to San Anselmo told me that the carrier on Carmel Drive didn’t get there until late afternoon. Depends on the mail, the supervisor said. Four o’clock, maybe later if there’s a heavy volume.

I began to work half days for Ken, spending my afternoons on my bicycle touring the avenues of Ross. I wore a helmet that obscured my head and face, and let my beard grow so that all anyone could see of me was the brush of beard inside the bicycle helmet.

It didn’t take long to get the mailman’s schedule. And it didn’t take long to find out that most days the wife came down to the mailbox to get the mail. But on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Winslow came back from wherever he went on those days and the car paused at the gate. The gate was activated, swung open, and the driver drove close enough to the mailbox so that Winslow could reach out from his place in the back seat and take whatever mail was in there. Then the car went forward, the gate closed and the car disappeared inside the garage.

So I spent my late afternoons up at Lake Lagunitas and Bon Tempe, poking in rock piles with a dead branch, and sure enough, I found a rattler. I had made a snake catcher, a long stick with a screw eye at the end and a short length of cord running through it. Looping the cord around the rattlesnake just behind its head, I pulled on the cord, tightening it, cinching the rattlesnake to the end of the stick, and then it was a simple matter to put the snake into a heavy jute bag. I kept the snake in the garage in a box, and, using the snake stick, held the snake so I could cut off the rattles. The tail still vibrated, but the buzzing of the rattle was gone.

I lashed a box to the back of my bike and on a Tuesday, put the rattler into the jute bag and placed it into the box and took off for Ross. I waited at the top of the street until the mailman had deposited the mail in Winslow’s box, then rode down, paused at the box, leaned my bike into the hedge and brought the jute bag out of the box. I put the opening of the bag into the mailbox and shook the bag, I could feel the snake moving and when I was sure it was inside the mailbox, I lifted the door until it was nearly closed, withdrawing the empty bag. Now the snake was inside, with the mail. I rode back to Fairfax, thinking of that creature waiting, coiled up and then the hand reaching inside and the sudden strike. And when he withdrew his hand, the snake’s fangs would still be sunk into his skin and the sight of the snake would bring a shriek from him. His hand would swell, and if what I had found on the internet was accurate, his hand would become the size of a softball, the skin stretched and hard, turn blue, he would have to get anti-venom shots and then his wrist and arm would swell. The snake’s venom breaks down tissues so the injury would be painful and would last for weeks. He would not die. Very few people died from rattlesnake bites. But the results were devastatingly painful and long-lasting.

I went down to Fradalizio’s Italian restaurant and had a celebratory dinner. The old waiter brought me a glass of Italian red wine and made a generous pour. I had been in that restaurant many times with my wife and daughter. I had the halibut, poached and served with sautéed vegetables and afterwards I went up the street to Nave’s bar and had a scotch and watched the baseball game on the television hanging above the bar. I imagined Earl Winslow in the emergency room at Marin General Hospital, filled with painkillers, his wrist and arm swelling and turning blue.