Velocity

homicidal behavior—or predict it—Billy didn’t know, couldn’t guess. Nemesis represented wrong thinking. A nemesis was an enemy who could not be defeated. The better word was adversary. Billy had not given up hope.
    With the front door standing open, the ring of the telephone would carry to the front porch. He had not heard it yet.
    Lazily rocking the chair, not to make a harder target of himself, but to disguise his anxiety and thus rob the killer of the chance to take any satisfaction from it, Billy studied the nearest California live oak and then the next to the nearest.
    They were huge old trees with broad canopies. Their trunks and branches looked black in the bright sun.
    In those shadowy arbors, a sniper might find a crook of branches to serve as a platform to accommodate him and a tripod for his rifle.
    The two nearest houses down-slope, one on this side of the road, one on the farther side, were well within the thousand-yard range. If nobody had been home, the freak could have broken into one of those places; he might now be at an upstairs window. Performance.
    Billy was not able to think of any person in his life to whom that word had greater relevance than it did to Steve Zillis. The tavern was a stage to Steve.
    Was it logical, however, that the freak, a vicious serial killer with a taste for mutilation, would have a sense of humor so simple and a concept of theater so puerile that he got a kick out of nose-shot peanuts, tongue-tied cherry stems, and jokes about dumb blondes?
    Repeatedly Billy glanced at the wristwatch on the porch railing.
    Three minutes was a reasonable wait, even four. But when five passed, that seemed to be too many.
    He started to get up from the chair, but he heard Cottle’s voice in memory—You can’t choose for me!—and a weight of responsibility pressed him back into the rocker.
    Because Billy had kept Cottle on the porch past the five-minute deadline, the freak might be playing payback, making them wait so their nerves would fray a little, to teach them not to screw with the big dog.
    That thought comforted Billy for a minute. Then a more ominous possibility occurred to him.
    When Cottle hadn’t gone into the house promptly at the five-minute mark, when Billy had delayed two or three minutes, maybe the killer had taken the lack of punctuality to mean that Billy refused to choose a victim, which was indeed the case.
    Having made that assumption, the freak might have decided that he had no reason to call Ralph Cottle. At that moment he could have picked up his rifle and walked out of the woods or away from one of the houses down-slope.
    If he’d selected a victim in advance of hearing Billy’s answer, which surely he had done, he might be eager to get on with his plans.
    One of the people in Billy’s life, the most important person, was of course Barbara, helpless in Whispering Pines.
    Independent of any experience or knowledge that would justify his confidence, Billy sensed that this bizarre drama was still in the first act of three. His wretched antagonist was far from ready to conclude this performance; therefore, Barbara was not in imminent jeopardy.
    If the freak knew anything about the subject of his torment—and he seemed to know a lot—he would realize that Barbara’s death would instantly take all the fight out of Billy. Resistance was essential to drama. Conflict. Without Billy, there would be no act two.
    He must take steps to protect Barbara. But he needed to think hard about how, and he had time to do so.
    If he was wrong about that, if Barbara was next, then this world was about to become a brief and bitter purgatory before he quickly moved on to a room in Hell.
    Seven minutes had passed since Cottle had gone inside, seven and counting.
    Billy got up from the rocker. His legs felt weak. He pulled the revolver from the box of Ritz crackers. He didn’t care if the drunkard saw it.
    At the threshold of the open door, he called out, “Cottle?” and received no reply, and said, “Cottle, damn it.”
    He went into the house, crossed the living room, and stepped into the kitchen.
    Ralph Cottle wasn’t there. The back door stood open, and Billy knew that he had left it closed, locked.
    He went out onto the back porch. Cottle wasn’t there, either, nor was he in the yard. He had gone.
    The phone hadn’t rung, yet Cottle had gone. Maybe when the call hadn’t come in, Cottle had taken the silence to be a sign that the killer judged him a failure. He