He was not very tired. He took a shower, and decided he,d sleep for a while before hitting the road.
It had now been two days since he,d spoken with anyone at home, and Jim could not, according to the old sacrosanct rules, so much as tell anyone he had even seen Reuben.
He had phone and e-mail messages from virtually everybody, including Galton, who,d installed the televisions for him the way that he,d asked. Galton had another piece of news for him. Orchid trees. Two very large orchid trees had arrived at the house, express shipped from Florida, apparently ordered by Marchent Nideck the night she died. Did Reuben want those trees?
Reuben felt a lump in his throat. For the first time he knew what that cliche meant. Yes, he wanted the orchid trees. That was terrific. Would Galton order any other plants that he could?
He sent a number of e-mails, confident nobody would be up yet to answer. He told Grace he was okay, and doing errands and handling loose ends at Nideck Point. He told Phil pretty much the same thing. He told Billie he was writing a long piece on the modus operandi of the Man Wolf. He told Celeste he needed to be alone right now, and he hoped she,d understand.
He had to let Celeste go. He desperately needed her friendship right now, but the rest had taken on a nightmarish hue, and it wasn,t her fault. No, not at all her fault. He was racking his brain for a way to disconnect romantically, a way that was gentlemanly and kind.
He added: "I hope you and Mort had a good time. I know how fond you are of Mort."
Was that a nudge towards Mort, or did it sound like a passive-aggressive snipe at her for being with Mort? He was in no condition to decide. He wrote: "You and Mort were always good together. As for me, I,m changed. We both know it. It,s time for me to stop denying it. I,m just not the person I used to be."
It was about four-thirty, still dark outside, and he was not sleepy and he was restless. It wasn,t painful, this restlessness, as it had been in Mendocino, but it wasn,t all that pleasant.
Suddenly, he heard a gunshot. But where had it come from? He got up from the little motel desk and went towards the windows. Nothing out there but Lombard Street and a few late-night cars crawling the asphalt under the bright streetlamps.
His muscles were on alert. He was hearing something, something distinct and sharp. A man whimpering, crying, telling himself that he had to go through with it. And a woman, a woman pleading with the man. Don,t hurt the children. Please, please, don,t hurt the children. Then came another shot from the gun.
The spasms came from deep within, nearly crippling Reuben. He bent over, feeling his pores breathing, the hair breaking out all over his chest and arms. The change was happening, and happening more rapidly than ever. An ecstatic feeling gripped him, then a paralytic wave of pleasure and strength.
Within seconds, he,d left the room and was moving over the roofs.
The man was bawling, whining, pitying himself and those he "had" to kill, and the wife who was already dead. Reuben moved towards the man,s voice.
The stench hit his nostrils, almost rancid, scent of cowardice and hate.
Reuben cleared the street with a long leap, and moved as fast as he could towards the white stucco house at the end of the block, coming down behind it on a second-floor iron balcony.
He broke the glass and stepped into the room. The only light was from outside. It was a neat, lovingly furnished room.
The woman lay dead on the four-poster bed, blood flowing from her head. The man stood over her, shirtless and barefoot, in pajama bottoms, holding the gun, blubbering and slobbering. The smell of liquor was overpowering and so was the scent of seething, convicting anger. They deserved it, they were making him do it, they,d driven him out of his mind, and they would never leave him alone.
"Have to do it, have to finish it!" the man protested to some unseen questioner. His bleary eyes looked at Reuben, but it wasn,t clear that he saw anything in front of him. He was wobbling, whimpering. He cocked the gun again.
Reuben stepped up to him quietly, took the gun from his hand, and squeezed the man,s thick slippery neck until his windpipe broke. He squeezed tighter, snapping the man,s spinal cord.
The man dropped in an awkward heap to the floor.
Reuben set the gun down on the dressing table.
On the gilt-framed mirror above it was scrawled in lipstick an incoherent suicide note. He could scarcely make out the words.
He moved quickly down the small narrow hallway of the house, tracking the scent of children, the sweetest loveliest scent - his feet silent on the hardwood floor. Behind a door, he heard a child whispering.
Slowly he opened the door. The little girl was crouched in the bed, knees drawn up under her nightgown, and a toddler crouched beside her, a little boy, maybe three at most, with fair hair.
The little girl,s eyes grew large as she looked at Reuben.
"The Man Wolf," she said, with the most radiant expression.
Reuben nodded. "After I,m gone, I want you to stay in this room," he said softly. "I want you to wait until the police come, do you hear me? Don,t go down the hall. Wait here."
"Daddy,s going to kill us," said the little girl in a small but very firm voice. "I heard him tell Mommy. He,s going to kill me and Tracy."
"Not now, he,s not," said Reuben. He reached out and touched each child on the head.
"You,re a gentle wolf," said the little girl.
Reuben nodded. He said, "Do as I say."
He went back the way he came, punched in 911 on the bedroom phone, and said to the operator, "Two people are dead. There are little children here."
He was back at the motel just before the sun rose. Someone might have seen him come down from the roof onto the third-floor balcony. Not likely, no, but possible. The situation was untenable. He had to change now.
And indeed the change happened immediately, almost as if some merciful wolf god had heard him and forced it. Or maybe he,d forced it himself.
Fighting exhaustion, he packed up and was gone within minutes.
He made it as far as the Redwood Highway just north of Sausalito. Spying a small old one-story adobe style motel, he pulled off and managed to score the room at the very back which opened on a broken asphalt alley at the foot of a hill.
In the early afternoon, he woke.
He was in near despair. Where should he go? What should he do? He knew the answer - that Mendocino provided safety, solitude, and rooms in which to hide, and that it was only up there that he might find the "other one" who might be able to help him. He wanted to be with the distinguished gentlemen on the library wall.
Damn you, I wish I knew who the hell you were.