Small Town

He walked through the park, walked a hundred yards or so past the Boat Basin, sat for a few minutes, then walked back the way he’d come. Looking at the people, paying attention to what he saw.

Something felt wrong.

He’d felt glimmerings of it on the way back from the movie house. He thought about the date he’d circled on his calendar. Well, he’d made the circle on paper with a felt-tipped pen. He hadn’t carved it in stone. Who was to say he couldn’t move it up?

A year, of course, was the conventional period of mourning. Making the final sacrifice a year to the day after their magnificent sacrifice had a certain poetic value, not to mention a mathematical precision. But how trivial such considerations seemed to him now.

The sooner he carried out his mission, the sooner he could rest. And he was tired, so tired, in a way far beyond what sleep could cure. His spirit ached with the tiredness he felt.

He could rest. And he could see Carole again, and his children. And all the other poor sweet innocent sacrificed angels. That gentle fellow with the shaved head. Buddha, he was called. And that poor woman in Brooklyn, and the prostitute, Clara.

Oh, so many of them.

Yes, he’d made up his mind. He’d decided. He wouldn’t wait any longer.

But first there was the sensation he felt, the awareness that centered at the back of his neck, that atavistic animal sense of being sought, of being hunted. And hadn’t he been told just yesterday that someone had come to his boat, someone had been looking for him?

He studied the people in the area. There were two men who seemed to him to be without apparent purpose, but who nevertheless had a purposeful air about them. As if they might be watching and waiting for someone.

One got up and left, and the Carpenter watched until he was sure he hadn’t merely changed seats. Then he turned his attention to the other, not looking directly at him but observing him out of the corner of his eye. The Carpenter was in shadows, where he couldn’t be seen easily, and he had the knack of disappearing, of attracting no attention. This man did not have that knack. He was, in fact, quite the opposite. There was something magnetic about him. He drew the eye.

The Carpenter let his eye be drawn, kept it on the man. He looked familiar, the Carpenter thought. His face was one he’d seen before, perhaps in the newspapers or on television.

Not in a newsreel, though. He wasn’t old enough to have been in a newsreel.

And now he was on his feet, headed south on the bike path, walking by the water’s edge. And he paused at the very gate that led to the Nancy Dee, but no, he wasn’t entering, he was just taking a good look.

The Carpenter smiled.

The man turned, and the Carpenter watched him make his way to the path that would take him to the Boat Basin Café. The Carpenter smiled again, and made his own way carefully and unobtrusively to the slip where the Nancy Dee lay waiting for him.

He’d have liked to paint out the name. Call it the Carole.

Inside the cabin, he left the light unlit. When his eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness he went over to the chest of drawers and took the gun from its clip, slipped it into his pocket. Then he sought out the cabin’s darkest corner and wedged himself into it, standing there like a statue in a niche. If no one came, he’d remain still and motionless for two, three, four hours, waiting in patient silence until it was time for his sacrifice.

If anyone showed up before then, well, he was ready.

Ten-thirty, and still no sign of the son of a bitch.

Which was fine, actually. This way he could be on board when the Carpenter showed up. It was late enough now for him to make his move. If Blackbeard gave him any grief, he’d drag him around the corner and cuff him to a lamppost.

No point sneaking or skulking. That would draw attention quicker than anything else. No, the thing to do was walk right out on the pier and hop on board that boat as if you owned it, and that’s just what he did. He had the urge to go over to the helm, grab ahold of the wheel, and gaze off into the distance like an old sea dog.

But he’d be wasting time. He walked over to the locked hatchway, drew out his key ring, went to work.

The Carpenter’s mind was adrift, bobbing in a sea of thought. But he came to suddenly, sensing a presence. Moments later he heard footsteps on the pier, and then felt the boat tilt as someone came aboard.

He hadn’t moved since he took his position in the corner of the cabin, not even when his mind was all drifty. Nor did he move now.

He heard someone trying a key in the lock. But who would have a key? He wondered if he should have left the hatch ajar. He’d thought of it, decided it might look suspicious. But if the fellow couldn’t get in—

If he couldn’t get in, well, he’d just go away. Which would actually simplify things.