Breath of Kinabalu

Five

The little man picked up his brown sack from between his feet, glanced to the left and right then stepped backward into the alley that bisected the block. It was for real this time. It had happened just like in the journal. His chest was pounding, and he nervously pulled off his right glove and pressed his fingertips to the groove along his trachea, realizing that his heart rate must be above 140 beats per minute. He told himself that he must calm down, just calm down. He had plenty of time. There was no hurry. He reached into his shirt and lifted out the amulet still tied around his neck by a worn black leather thong. His eyes explored its details as they had hundreds of times before. The vapor from his breath condensed on its polished ironwood and he wiped it dry against the sleeve of his black woolen overcoat. He was the witness. He would provide the confirmation. He held the amulet firmly but carefully, as if it could be suddenly snatched from him now that it was in the open. It was foolishness on his part to be so paranoid. He eventually came to this same conclusion. Regardless, he was determined to remain vigilant.

As the man gathered his thoughts he felt his pulse descending. In the cover of the alley his breathing, too, became slow and even, and the sweat beading on his brow despite the frigid temperature, cooled and then chilled him. He shivered and returned the amulet to its place against his breast, making his way down the alley. He wiggled and pulled the glove back onto his right hand as he walked. The light breeze that channeled through the alley and stirred the ripened scent of the garbage bins did not bother him. He was well tempered to the scent of organic rot. The young calico perched on the iron fire escape behind the Belotti apartments caught his eye only briefly, although the feline's eyes stayed on the man until he had reached the far end of the alley and turned left onto 3rd Ave. SE.

Back on the sidewalk he kept his gait casual, yet he intently scanned to the sides and in front, in a pattern, careful not to make direct eye contact with anyone on the street, but not in an obvious way. Sometimes his visual motion was directed by the turning of his neck, and other times his head was motionless, while his eyes moved in their orbits. In this way he could cover much ground visually without a casual onlooker realizing the speed of his visual gyrations. The little man always kept his peripheral vision in mind as he moved, just as he had learned from his grandfather. It was second-nature to him, this way of moving and searching on foot. He had learned it as a young boy, and after many years of honing his skill, it had become his usual practice.

Moving northwest on 3rd the witness headed toward Main Street. He felt the winter sun, low and behind him. The streets were pretty quiet for the most part. Many of the local shop owners and patrons had gravitated to the scene he was systematically leaving behind. He needed to reach Main Street where his footprints in last night's snow would blend more readily on the well traveled sidewalks. More than likely, they would be lost altogether on the packed sidewalks of Main Street. Even 3rd Avenue's sidewalks were spattered with tracks from early morning pedestrians. The man in the black overcoat felt inside his coat pocket where his cell phone was stowed, just to be sure it remained securely in his possession. He took it out and flipped it open. The LCD display showed a picture of his wife on the wallpaper, and the digital time display read, "8:47 AM." The icon in the corner of the display indicated he had a new voice mail message. The message would have to wait–he must be vigilant while he walked. The consequences of a surprise could be catastrophic. The chill of the January air now crept down the back of his neck, and he turned up the back of his collar, pulling it tight against his skin.

Reaching Main Street, the diminutive man turned right. He passed by Nicholson's pharmacy without looking in. Downtown Chesterton wore a pastel grayness about it this morning. Frost paled the brick faces of the edifices, and normally vivid colors appeared much as if viewed through a muslin veil. The starkness of the leafless trees further stripped the area of its usual warmth, and the dark gray bark of the elms gave the witness the sensation that he was immersed in a monochrome painting. A greasy but sweet smell caught the senses of the man, who noted the bakery's freshly fried doughnuts on display, but he did not even consider stopping to indulge. Occasionally the witness encountered another pedestrian on the sidewalk. As they passed, he resorted to a minimalist approach: offer a mumbled greeting if spoken to first, but no eye contact if possible. The traffic in the street was normal if a bit light. It was not yet 9 o'clock after all. The usual commuters drove in from Sweet Orchards to the east. Parallel parking was beginning to fill up along the meterless curbs. A blue Ford coupe with a dented left rear quarter panel caught the eye of the witness. He had been watching for it, and he turned his face away slightly as the driver's face came into view. He checked it off his mental list.

The barber stood in his partly open doorway, leaning out as if something of the accident scene could be seen from his viewpoint, but dipping back in for a few seconds at a time to chase off winter's bite. His barber shop was a one man proprietorship and he couldn't lock up to go down to the place where Debberly died. The monthly rent came much too soon, and heading down to the accident scene could cost him a walk-in customer or two. Still interested, the barber continued to stare intently back down the street in the direction of the witness who approached. The witness knew he had to pass right by the barber to continue on his path, but he determined that to do so was his best choice. To cross the street in the middle of the block would draw too much attention. He could accept the risk of being remembered by one or two of the citizens. The chances of a meaningful connection being made by the recollection of only a couple of people were pretty slim. He would not, however, take an action that would surely elicit the attention of several others and therefore multiply his risk.

"Did you see anything? Did you come from down there?" The barber asked the witness, when there was 20 feet separating them.

The witness held his gaze down toward the ground, and without stopping muttered, "No–weak stomach," then coughed into his fist for effect. He hated to say anything at all. He hoped nothing in his voice would stand out prominently in the barber's memory. The witness continued up Main Street striding away from downtown. As he had hoped, the significantly higher pedestrian traffic, including scores of school children who had long since trampled the snow had virtually eliminated the possibility of his footprints being identified on the sidewalks of Main Street. Furthermore, some of the shop keepers had used their snow shovels to clear portions of the sidewalk back down to the concrete, and a few had sprinkled magnesium chloride "de-icer" to make the walkway safe for passers-by.

The witness might have chosen the more direct route on Hadley. His time of exposure certainly would have been less. But the witness had planned this parallel route on Main Street deliberately, for the sidewalks on Hadley would have been much less traveled by people on foot. The assurance afforded by this small compromise eased the witness' mind and gave him the necessary courage to continue on the primary route. The alternate route and destination had proven to be an unnecessary option. That was a good thing, because the journal had to be protected. He hated for it to be out of his sight even for a few minutes. An hour had almost expired. As the witness rounded the corner at the intersection and started down 5th Avenue SE, his acute awareness sensed that his assessment of his security was suddenly and completely in error. From a block away, he saw it–the sign. Fear crystallized like polar ice in his spinal column, invaded his chest, and the pain of it felt as if his heart had turned to stone. In an instant the alternate route became the only choice. He reached for his cell phone nearly dropping the brown sack. He regained his grip on it and pulled off the glove of his dialing hand with his teeth. Quickly, he hit "#4 send" and waited for the connection. A voice crackled in the earpiece.

"I felt an aftershock," the witness spoke into the mic. "I had better check in on Mom," the witness spoke the coded message to the voice on the other end of the line. A short reply in the earpiece ended the conversation and the witness flipped closed the cell phone, returning it to his overcoat pocket.

As quickly as he had picked up on the sign, the witness mentally changed gears and he continued his hunter's stroll down 5th and into the mouth of the dragon. At the intersection of Hadley and 5th, he crossed to the SE side and entered the city park. The swirling snow on the concrete trails winding through the park gave the witness just what he needed. The reduced visibility and the natural screen of nameless bushes and trees afforded privacy and, more importantly, security, as he prepared the package for delivery.