Collins and Bigelow went out to their car and started back to Fresno. “Well?” asked Collins. “What do you think? Did I lay it on too thick?”
“I wouldn’t say so. If you’d been any less explicit, the message might not have come through.”
“That was my feeling. Well, we’ll see.”
At two o’clock the following afternoon, Collins answered his telephone to hear the even voice of Lieutenant Loveridge. “We’ve got action up here. Just about what you predicted.”
Collins drew a deep breath. “I was afraid I’d muffed it. What’s going on?”
“Subject is proceeding east, driving a black Corvair rented from Hertz. License BR9-019.”
“Got it. Keep well back. Better lose contact than get the suspect wise.”
“We’re using three unmarked cars,” said Loveridge. “Traffic’s heavy; there won’t be any foul-up. They’ll keep in touch by radio, and I’ll keep your office posted.”
Collins notified Bigelow, then telephoned Park Superintendent Phelps. “Inspector Omar Collins here, Superintendent. We’ve got action. I’m on my way to the airport. I’ll meet you at Cedar Grove as arranged.”
“Very well, Inspector. Glad to hear the news.”
Collins went into Bigelow’s office. “I’m on my way.”
“Have a joy ride. I’ll take care of this end.”
Half an hour later Collins and Sergeants Easley and Kerner arrived at the airport. Collins carried the shotgun, with cords and clothespins still attached, in a case. They climbed into the helicopter, which rose and swept off toward the east.
Over the foothills they flew, up toward the forested bulwarks of the Sierra, then along the great canyon of the Kings River, to alight at Cedar Grove.
Superintendent Phelps met the helicopter as he had on the previous occasion. Collins went to the telephone and called headquarters. Bigelow informed him that the black Corvair had reached Highway 99 and was proceeding south.
“We’ll wait here till he turns east on 180,” said Collins, “just to make sure it’s no false alarm. When you get the word, call me at this number.”
“Right. It should be about an hour.”
“Make sure everybody’s careful. One mistake and the whole set-up collapses.”
“I’ll pass the word.”
Collins went outside and sat down on a bench, where he was joined by Phelps. “What’s the situation now?”
“It’s like a funeral procession,” said Collins. “There’s a black Corvair in the lead and a dozen police cars behind. I hope they keep away from the suspect’s rear-view mirror.”
“Why so many?’ asked Phelps. “Isn’t one enough?”
“They keep changing places, passing and dropping back. It’s a good idea unless something goes wrong. In which case I’ve had a helicopter ride.”
Forty-five minutes passed. The telephone inside the cabin rang. Collins sprang to his feet. The ranger within answered and conversed for several minutes. The call evidently was not the one Collins was expecting.
Another five minutes passed before the telephone rang again. This time the call was for Collins. “Get going,” said Bigelow. “It’s definite. One black Corvair turning east on Highway 180.”
“Better hold back the tails. There’s not much traffic, and it must be one highly suspicious driver in that Corvair.”
“That’s my thought, too,” said Bigelow. “Good luck, Omar.”
“It’s past the luck stage — I hope.” Collins went outside. “Let’s get moving.”
The helicopter rose, swung east to the road’s-end, then north above the Copper Creek Trail. Suggs Meadow passed below, and Dutchman’s Pass, and Persimmon Lake. Ahead, Lomax Falls made a soft white line down the gray of the hillside. Into the meadow dropped the helicopter.
Collins and Phelps climbed out, then Kerner and Easley with sleeping gear and equipment bags.
An hour later the helicopter took off with Collins and Phelps in it. Collins had posted Easley and Kerner at what he considered optimum vantage; then, dangling in a bosun’s chair, he had taken the shotgun back down to the clump of pines in which he had found it.
The helicopter returned to Cedar Grove. Collins called Bigelow. “I’m back. Any developments?”
“Nothing out of line. The Corvair has entered the park. I’d say you got back just in time. Is the helicopter out of sight?”
“It’s in a meadow a hundred yards from the road. It can’t be seen. I don’t think it would register, anyway.”
“Maybe not. But we can’t be too careful.”
“Right. Well, there’s nothing to do now but wait. I’m going up to road’s-end and see what happens. I’ll call again as soon as there’s action.”
In a ranger pick-up, Collins and Phelps drove to the parking area at the end of the road. They got out and walked back among the trees, where they could see and not be seen. The time was now four thirty — late afternoon.
Twenty minutes passed. Then a black Corvair sedan came quietly up the road. It turned into the parking oval, made a slow circuit, then another, as if the driver were uncertain.
“Suspicious,” muttered Collins. “Every car’s being checked.”
The black Corvair made a third swing and finally parked. The occupant alighted, rummaged in the back seat, slipped on a light pack, stepped out in the open, made a furtive inspection of the area, and set out up the trail.
Collins and Phelps watched the figure disappear among the trees. “There goes a killer,” said Collins softly. “At large. Just like a wild animal. Ever seen one before?”
“No,” said Phelps. “It’s a peculiar sensation.”
Collins nodded. “Well, there’s nothing to do now but wait. At the earliest the payoff will be tomorrow night. More likely the morning after that. We may as well relax.”
Collins spent the night at Phelps’ cottage on the bank of the Kings River. For dinner he was served delicious trout, with lemon butter and new potatoes.
After dinner he played Monopoly with Phelps, Mrs. Phelps, and their teenage children. Afterward, at the children’s urging, he recounted some of his exploits as a police officer. At midnight they all went to bed.
In the morning he ate a breakfast of hotcakes and bacon and eggs, thinking of Easley and Kerner, who would be making do with cold corned beef and dried apples — they would hardly dare light a fire. Collins chuckled and accepted another mug of coffee.
During the day he paid another visit to road’s-end, to make sure that the black Corvair was still there. He was of two minds about keeping watch all night. Phelps dissuaded him. “It’s a day’s hike in. And something less than a day’s hike out, not to mention a rough two hours or so at Lomax Meadow. Add one sleeping period, and it works out to tomorrow morning at the earliest.”
“You’re probably right,” said Collins, “but I don’t want to miss the boat now. Not that it would make any difference in the long run, if Kerner and Easley function as they’re supposed to.”
“I’ll have one of my men up here tomorrow morning at, say, six o’clock. He can keep an eye on things till we arrive. There’s no problem, because we can always call ahead to stop the car at the park entrance.”
“That sounds good to me,” said Collins. “Although I hate to impose on your hospitality.”
“Don’t mention it. The kids are thrilled.”
The day passed, and the night. At eight the next morning, after breakfast, they drove back to road’s-end. The black Corvair was there. “Nothing moving,” said the ranger whom Phelps had assigned to watch the car.
“It won’t be long,” said Phelps. “You’d better stick with us.”
Nine o’clock passed, ten o’clock...
Down the trail came a gaunt figure, stumbling with fatigue, but with an expression of satisfaction on his face. He went to the Corvair, opened the back door, threw in his pack, started to open the front door.