It was late afternoon when I turned onto Grizzly Island Road. At this time of year, even on a Saturday, it was mostly deserted; I saw only two other cars, both parked, as I drove through miles of low green hills and empty fields broken now and then by huddles of ranch buildings. Finally the road curved around and drew in close to the main part of the marsh-a broad, flat, lonely expanse of green and brown, of gray glistening water. The only signs of life were hundreds of birds making shifting patterns of color against a thickening overcast sky.
Montezuma Slough, the biggest of the estuaries, appeared ahead. I hadn’t been out here in years and it seemed wider than I remembered, as wide as a football field where the road climbed up over a narrow humpbacked bridge. Along the far bank, scattered cabins-green and brown and gray like their surroundings-were visible among stretches of tule grass and stunted swamp growth; each had its own spindly pier and boat shed.
When I came down on that side of the bridge, the road hooked sharply left to parallel the slough. The numbers on the mailboxes along here told me I was getting close to 15678 — less than a quarter of a mile, it turned out. I couldn’t see much of the Lujack cabin from the road, because of a tangle of bushes and gnarly trees. I parked just beyond the driveway, retransferred the.38 from the glove box to my jacket pocket, and then walked back and in along deep ruts.
The drive widened out in front of the cabin, where the tangle of vegetation ended. One vehicle was parked there, but it wasn’t Coleman’s Imperial. It was a Dodge Ram van.
The cabin was a long low affair, with brown shingled walls and a saggy green composition roof. Very rustic. Not very primitive, though: Telephone lines ran overhead and there was a satellite TV dish mounted to one side. Coleman evidently liked his creature comforts after a hard day of killing things.
I could hear voices as I approached-at least three people having a conversation in there. Was Coleman one of them, even though his car wasn’t here? If so, I wasn’t sure how I’d handle him with more than just his wife on the premises. Play it by ear. I touched the revolver in my pocket. And get tough if I had to.
When I rapped on the screen door, the conversation died inside. I knocked again, and there was the thump of heavy steps, and the inside door opened and I was looking through the screen at a beefy middle-aged guy with a shock of iron-gray hair. I had never seen him before. He had no idea who I was either; he looked me over with a mixture of puzzlement and mild annoyance before he said, “Yes? What can we do for you?”
“I’m looking for Coleman Lujack.”
“Oh? Mind if I ask why?”
“It’s a business matter. Is he here?”
“Well, he was.”
“When did he leave?”
Behind the beefy guy a woman’s voice said, “Who is it, Jay?”
“Somebody looking for Coleman.”
The woman appeared at his side. Late thirties, muscular and heavy-breasted in a man’s plaid shirt; short brown hair, plain features. “I’m Carla Lujack, Coleman’s wife,” she said. She gave me a quick appraisal through the screen. “I don’t believe I know you.”
“We’ve never met.”
“Are you a friend of Coleman’s?”
“Business acquaintance.”
I hadn’t offered a name and she didn’t ask for one. There was no wariness in her voice or manner; interest, yes, but of the polite wifely sort. I figured it right, I thought. As with Eileen Lujack, she’d been kept in the dark all along about the coyotes. Nor did she figure in Coleman’s future plans; he intended to do his running alone.
“When did your husband leave, Mrs. Lujack?” I asked.
“What time was it, Jay? Around eleven?”
“Closer to noon,” Jay said.
“Well, between eleven and twelve, then. Earlier than he’d expected to go back to the city today.”
“It wasn’t you he called, was it?” Jay asked me.
“No. Why?”
“Would’ve been a funny coincidence if he rushed off to see you. I mean, the two of you getting your signals crossed and you coming all the way out here and him on his way to meet you.”
“Very funny.”
“Sure was in a hurry when he left,” Jay said. “Didn’t even say good-bye.”
“He has a lot on his mind,” Carla Lujack said.
“Don’t I know it? Poor Tom.” Jay shook his head. “I guess it wasn’t easy for him to sell this place either. Even if it does remind him too much of Tom.”
“He sold this property?” I asked. “When?”
“Just yesterday. The wife and I bought it-that’s why we’re all here this weekend.”
“You pay cash for it, by any chance?”
“As much cash down as I could raise. How’d you know that?”
“Just a guess.”
“You wouldn’t be in on that stock deal with him?”
“Stock deal?”
“That’s why he wanted cash. I wouldn’t take a flier like that myself, but I guess Coleman knows what he’s doing.”
“He’s always been very careful with our money,” his wife said. “I’m sure he’ll be careful this time too.”
Yeah, I thought. “Did he say where he was going today?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“What time did he expect to be back?”
“Well, he probably won’t be back at all. He thought he might have to work through the weekend.”
“We’ll take Carla home,” Jay said magnanimously. “No problem.”
“Is there any message I can give him when he calls?”
“No,” I said, “no message. I’ll get in touch with him later.”
I smiled and did an abrupt about-face to avoid any more questions. I had to force myself to walk at a normal pace out to the road; there was a sharp driving urgency in me now. That call Coleman had made … to Teresa Melendez, no doubt, because he hadn’t heard from Vega and was getting anxious. In spite of my warning, she must have told him what had happened to Vega. That was the impetus for Coleman leaving early and in such a hurry. He knew I’d be after him, and that if the authorities weren’t also on his trail, they would be soon.
He was already on the run, or damned close to it.
And he had a three-hour head start.
* * * *
It took me better than two hours to get from the Suisun Marsh to Burlingame, because of moderately heavy traffic and earthquake-related detours. Night had closed down when I finally pulled up in front of Coleman’s house.
It was as dark as the sky, the driveway empty.
I got out anyway, first unclipping the flashlight from under the dash, and went up through the rock garden. Alongside the front door, the burglar-alarm light burned like a bright red hole in the darkness. I walked around to the garage, put the flashlight up against the window I’d looked through earlier, and briefly flicked it on.
Still only one car parked inside, but now it was Coleman’s Imperial. The sleek white foreign job was gone.
He’d been here, all right, and switched cars when he left — another effort to buy himself more time. It was as much confirmation as I needed that he was on the run.
In my car again I sat with my hands tight around the steering wheel. I was tired from all the driving, drawn tight inside. And frustrated and worried. Maybe I should go to the police, lay everything out as I saw it, let them and the feds take up the chase. The only problem with that was, I didn’t have any proof. The INS might have gathered some on the Lujacks’ coyote activities, but not enough to make formal charges stick or they’d have pounced already. And until Vega could be made to talk, there was no evidence, hard or soft, to prove that Coleman had conspired to murder his brother, me, and probably Nick Pendarves. Without proof, the wheels of justice grind slow. Coleman could be in South America or the Antarctic by the time the authorities got around to putting out a dragnet for him.