on the pegboard.
He went to the phone and stood staring at it.
He sat at the table.
Teach us to care and not to care. Teach us to sit still.
After a while, he went to the study, where he spent so many evenings carving architectural ornaments at a corner worktable.
He collected several tools and a chunk of white oak from which he had only half finished carving a cluster of acanthus leaves. He returned with them to the kitchen.
The study had a telephone, but Billy preferred the kitchen this evening. The study also had a comfortable couch, and he worried that he would be tempted to lie down, that he would fall asleep and not be awakened by the killer’s call, or by anything, ever.
Whether or not this concern was realistic, he settled at the dinette table with the wood and the tools.
Without a carver’s vise, he could work only on the finer details of the leaves, which was engraving work akin to scrimshaw. The blade scraped a hollow sound from the oak, as if this were bone, not wood.
At ten minutes past ten o’clock, less than two hours before the deadline, he abruptly decided that he would go to the sheriff.
His house was not in any township; the sheriff had jurisdiction here. The tavern lay in Vineyard Hills, but the town was too small to have its own police force; Sheriff Palmer was the law there, too.
Billy snared the key from the pegboard, opened the door, stepped onto the back porch—and halted.
If you do go to the police, I will kill a young mother of two.
He didn’t want to choose. He didn’t want
anyone
to die.
In all of Napa County, there might be dozens of young mothers with two children. Maybe a hundred, two hundred, maybe more.
Even with five hours, they couldn’t have identified and alerted all the possible targets. They would have to use the media to warn the public. That might take days.
Now, with less than two hours, nothing substantive would be done. They might spend longer than that just questioning Billy.
The young mother, obviously preselected by the killer, would be murdered.
What if the children awakened? As witnesses, they might be eliminated.
The madman had not promised to kill
only
the mother.
On damp night air, a musky smell wafted from the rich layers of mast on the woodland floor and drifted from the trees to the porch.
Billy returned to the kitchen and closed the door.
Later, whittling leaf details, he pricked a thumb. He didn’t get a Band-Aid. The puncture was small; it should close quickly.
When he nicked a knuckle, he remained too intensely involved with the carving to bother attending to it. He worked faster, and didn’t notice when he sustained a third tiny cut.
To an observer, had there been one, it might have seemed as though Billy
wanted
to bleed.
Because his hands remained busy, the wounds kept weeping. The wood soaked up the blood.
In time, he realized that the oak had completely discolored. He dropped the carving and put aside the blade.
He sat for a while, staring at his hands, breathing hard for no reason. In time, the bleeding stopped, and it didn’t start up again when he washed his hands at the sink.
At 11:45, after patting his hands dry on a dishtowel, he got a cold Guinness and drank it from the bottle. He finished it too fast.
Five minutes after the first beer, he opened a second. He poured it in a glass to encourage himself to sip it and make it last.
He stood with the Guinness in front of the wall clock.
Eleven-fifty. Countdown.
As much as Billy wanted to lie to himself, he couldn’t be fooled. He had made a choice, all right.
The choice is yours.
Even inaction is a choice.
The mother who had two children—she wouldn’t die tonight. If the homicidal freak kept his end of the bargain, the mother would sleep the night and see the dawn.
Billy was part of it now. He could deny, he could run, he could leave his window shades down for the rest of his life and cross the line from recluse to hermit, but he could not escape the fundamental
He went to the phone and stood staring at it.
He sat at the table.
Teach us to care and not to care. Teach us to sit still.
After a while, he went to the study, where he spent so many evenings carving architectural ornaments at a corner worktable.
He collected several tools and a chunk of white oak from which he had only half finished carving a cluster of acanthus leaves. He returned with them to the kitchen.
The study had a telephone, but Billy preferred the kitchen this evening. The study also had a comfortable couch, and he worried that he would be tempted to lie down, that he would fall asleep and not be awakened by the killer’s call, or by anything, ever.
Whether or not this concern was realistic, he settled at the dinette table with the wood and the tools.
Without a carver’s vise, he could work only on the finer details of the leaves, which was engraving work akin to scrimshaw. The blade scraped a hollow sound from the oak, as if this were bone, not wood.
At ten minutes past ten o’clock, less than two hours before the deadline, he abruptly decided that he would go to the sheriff.
His house was not in any township; the sheriff had jurisdiction here. The tavern lay in Vineyard Hills, but the town was too small to have its own police force; Sheriff Palmer was the law there, too.
Billy snared the key from the pegboard, opened the door, stepped onto the back porch—and halted.
If you do go to the police, I will kill a young mother of two.
He didn’t want to choose. He didn’t want
anyone
to die.
In all of Napa County, there might be dozens of young mothers with two children. Maybe a hundred, two hundred, maybe more.
Even with five hours, they couldn’t have identified and alerted all the possible targets. They would have to use the media to warn the public. That might take days.
Now, with less than two hours, nothing substantive would be done. They might spend longer than that just questioning Billy.
The young mother, obviously preselected by the killer, would be murdered.
What if the children awakened? As witnesses, they might be eliminated.
The madman had not promised to kill
only
the mother.
On damp night air, a musky smell wafted from the rich layers of mast on the woodland floor and drifted from the trees to the porch.
Billy returned to the kitchen and closed the door.
Later, whittling leaf details, he pricked a thumb. He didn’t get a Band-Aid. The puncture was small; it should close quickly.
When he nicked a knuckle, he remained too intensely involved with the carving to bother attending to it. He worked faster, and didn’t notice when he sustained a third tiny cut.
To an observer, had there been one, it might have seemed as though Billy
wanted
to bleed.
Because his hands remained busy, the wounds kept weeping. The wood soaked up the blood.
In time, he realized that the oak had completely discolored. He dropped the carving and put aside the blade.
He sat for a while, staring at his hands, breathing hard for no reason. In time, the bleeding stopped, and it didn’t start up again when he washed his hands at the sink.
At 11:45, after patting his hands dry on a dishtowel, he got a cold Guinness and drank it from the bottle. He finished it too fast.
Five minutes after the first beer, he opened a second. He poured it in a glass to encourage himself to sip it and make it last.
He stood with the Guinness in front of the wall clock.
Eleven-fifty. Countdown.
As much as Billy wanted to lie to himself, he couldn’t be fooled. He had made a choice, all right.
The choice is yours.
Even inaction is a choice.
The mother who had two children—she wouldn’t die tonight. If the homicidal freak kept his end of the bargain, the mother would sleep the night and see the dawn.
Billy was part of it now. He could deny, he could run, he could leave his window shades down for the rest of his life and cross the line from recluse to hermit, but he could not escape the fundamental
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