CHAPTER 25

The Humane Society called me and told me I had been cleared to pick up Grizzly. I drove out to the facility and the same volunteer woman gave me a handful of doggie treats. “When he rushes at the gate, pause. Tell him he’s a good dog. Hold out your hand. Let him sniff it through the wire. You saw me do that. And open the door slowly, let him take the treats. You may have to do it two or three times. Then you clip the collar on him and he’s good to go. Good luck with him,” she said as she gave me the leash.

She was right. And within half an hour, Grizzly was sitting in the passenger seat of my Toyota, surveying the traffic in front of us

“Good dog,” I said, holding out more treats. He took them without biting my hand, a slow nibbling with his lips and tongue. At home I fixed a bed for him out of old blankets, put water in a bowl and put some kibbles I had bought in another bowl. We settled in, and I felt good. Things were falling into place.

The next few days we established a routine. I walked him in the early morning, filled his bowl, stroked him, left him, locking the door, and drove to the job in Santa Rosa. When I got home and put my key in the door I could her him rushing at the door, growling, a low guttural sound that was frightening. I opened the door a crack, said “Good dog, good dog,” and held out my hand with some doggie treats. The growling stopped and his muzzle appeared in the crack. Within a few days he was used to me, and even though he continued to rush the door, he quickly knew that there were goodies to be had when I opened the door

The instructions I found on the Internet told me that the blasting cap was to be immersed in the dynamite, and the wires attached to it, everything packed carefully. If I wanted more damage, I should pack ball bearings or nails around the dynamite so that they would be hurled by the explosion into whatever they came in contact with. I spent time in the garage, Grizzly at my feet, carefully measuring the dynamite, very carefully packing things into a package not much bigger than a newspaper. I had stolen a New York Times from a driveway and used the blue plastic bag to cover my creation. All that was left was for me to test out my device. It had not been difficult, but the Internet research had told me that it had been done by relatively unsophisticated men in the Middle East. When I was finished, my device looked like a Sunday New York Times ready to be dropped on someone’s driveway.

What I had to do was take one of the two devices up into the hills away from where it could be heard, find an isolated spot and detonate it, using my garage door opener, to see if I had done everything correctly. If I had, the next step would be to deliver the New York Times to Earl Winslow, so that when he drove out of his gate, he’d be sent to oblivion.

I drove up the Bolinas Road past the Meadow Club, the green golf course shining below me, and then on to where the road began to wind through hairpin turns toward the top of the Bolinas ridge. I stopped at a curve where I could hike up into the brown grass, past the oak tree line, until I was on the far side of the ridge. Any sound would be muffled by the hills; I laid my device on the ground and retreated until I was perhaps thirty yards away. I crouched down so that whatever happened would not hurl anything at me and pressed the button. Nothing happened. Too far away, I thought. I crawled on my stomach until I could see the package. I slid over until I was behind the trunk of a sizeable oak tree. I held the garage door opener out to one side and pressed the button again, and suddenly there was a tremendous blast, leaves from the oaks floated down, crows rose screaming in the air. I raised my head, looked at where I had placed the package. A monstrous hole had appeared where I had left it. And I imagined Winslow’s Mercedes upside down, the windows shattered, Winslow and his driver in pieces. It was one of those scenes right out of the newsreels, soldiers blown up by a hidden device, and I could imagine his cries, the pain that he was feeling, and I was pleased with myself. The crows had settled again, and there were intermittent squawks and the hills descended into silence. I would deliver the New York Times to Earl Winslow’s driveway and when his Mercedes came out of the gate, I would press the button of the garage door opener and finally know the completion of what I had imagined for three years. He would not be hanging upside down in the rising water, and he would not drown as I hoped he would, but his limbs would be shattered, and no amount of his money would be able to fix what I had done.

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.