“Very clever,” Jim said. “No one would expect him there.”
I looked in the windows but didn't see much. One pharmaceuticals bottle, half-hidden under the seat. No ammo belts or open tubes of camouflage paint. Dolmacher was taking a remarkably buttoned-down approach to this totally insane mission.
Maybe the bugs could affect your brain. The media had been speculating all week that my contact with toxic wastes had fried my cerebral cortex, turned me into a drooling terrorist. I felt pretty calm, but Dolmacher had gotten a much worse dose, and was less stable to begin with. He hadn't turned into a raving maniac. He was acting more like the psychotics you read about in the newspapers: calm, methodical, invisible.
Jim was sitting in the truck, messing around with something, and Boone was watching intently. I went over, stood on the running board, and looked. Jim had pulled one of his homemade bows out from behind the seat.
“This is the Nez Perce model,” he explained. “See, the limbs are strengthened with a membrane that comes from the inside of a ram's horn. They used bighorn sheep, but I get by using domesticateds.”
“What the fuck are you going to do with that, Jim?”
“What the fuck are you going to do when you catch Dolmacher, S.T.? Remember? Your gun's on the bottom of that lake.”
“Wasn't planning on shooting him anyway.”
“You're a real prize, you know that? What do you think we're doing here? It's my understanding that we're going after a psycho with a gun.”
“Only because we have to have his knowledge. We won't have that if we fill him full of arrows.”
“You underestimate me, S.T” Jim pulled a bundle of arrows out from behind the seat. The shafts were straight and smooth, feathers at the back as usual, but without heads.
“Fishing arrows,” Boone said.
Jim nodded and held one up for me. One short barb stuck backwards from the point, and a short perpendicular piece was lashed to the shaft about three inches behind that.
“This keeps it from going all the way through the fish, the barb keeps it from pulling out. Now, a game arrow, with the big head, that kills by severing a lot of blood vessels. The animal bleeds to death. But this will just stick into a big animal and annoy him.”
I guess I still looked skeptical.
“Look, the guy said Dolmacher has a black belt in this game. If you think he's going to let us sneak up close enough to pluck the gun out of his hand, you're nuts.”
“Okay. But if the Secret Service comes after us, you have to toss all that crap into the bushes.”
“Obviously. Hell, this isn't for assassinations anyhow. It's the equivalent of a CO2 gun with paint pellets.”
Zodiac
29
BOONE INSISTED that he was the one. “Hell, you just tried to blow the guy up a week ago,” he kept pointing out. “Your face is a 3-D wanted poster. They'll pop you. But everyone's forgotten about me. Unless Pleshy's secretly in the whaling business.”
I couldn't argue with any of that. We agreed that Jim and I were going to hike up the trail and Boone was going to take the truck. He would swing around to the site of the Lumbermen's Festival and scope out the place. There wasn't any point in planning this out, because it was all random. If Pleshy happened to walk past him, he'd take the opportunity to stand up and state his case, get some media glare on Pleshy's reaction. If it was impossible to get near Pleshy, he'd forget about that, head for the back of the crowd and look for a tall, pale, psychotic nerd with his hand in his coat.
“Maybe we should call the cops and tell them Dolmacher's out there,” Jim said at the last minute.
This was not an idea that had occurred to me. Frankly, if Pleshy ate a few bullets it was okay with me. I was worried about Dolmacher - probably the only guy in the world who knew how to stop this impending global catastrophe. He could easily get shot in the bargain. Even if he didn't, they'd truck him off to the loony bin where he wouldn't be of any use.
“Screw Pleshy. We have to co-opt Dolmacher.”
“If we warn them, they'll step up their security,” Boone said. “We won't be able to get close to Pleshy.”
“We have plenty of time to chase down Dolmacher,” Jim explained. “And if we give the cops a complete description, they'll spend all their effort looking for him. That'll make it easier for anyone who doesn't look like Dolmacher to get close.”
“Jim's right,” Boone said. “If this all falls apart and we get popped, and Dolmacher gets found, they'll want to know why we didn't warn them. They'll say we're all working together. If we warn them, we're set up as good guys.”
So we drove half a mile down the road to a gas station with a payphone, and I called the cops. We decided it should be me, because whatever I said would get recorded, and it would look good if we had this proof that I was terribly concerned about Pleshy's welfare.
“I can't give my identity because I'm being framed for a crime I didn't commit,” I said, “and which only an asshole would think I really did-” Boone kicked me in the leg “-but this should help prove my innocence. I think an attempt is going to be made on Alvin Pleshy's life today at the Lumbermen's Festival.” And I gave a complete description of Dolmacher, emphasizing all the ways he didn't look like Boone, and there were plenty of those.
“Uh . . . okay. Okay. Okay,” the woman at the police station kept murmuring, all through the conversation. Definitely the shy type. Not equipped for presidential assassinations.