I found out later that night. It was all over the TV—special bulletins and then the eleven o'clock news.
Twenty minutes after I left him, Eddie Quinlan stood at the window of his room-with-a-view, and in less than a minute, using a high-powered semiautomatic rifle he'd taken from the sporting goods outfit where he worked, he shot down fourteen people on the street below. Nine dead, five wounded, one of the wounded in critical condition and not expected to live. Six of the victims were known drug dealers; all of the others also had arrest records, for crimes ranging from prostitution to burglary. Two of the dead were Baxter, the paraplegic Vietnam vet, and his bodyguard, Elroy.
By the time the cops showed up, Sixth Street was empty except for the dead and the dying. No more targets. And up in his room, Eddie Quinlan had sat on the bed and put the rifle's muzzle in his mouth and used his big toe to pull the trigger.
My first reaction was to blame myself. But how could I have known, or even guessed? Eddie Quinlan. Nobody, loser, shadow-man without substance or purpose. How could anyone have figured him for a thing like that?
Somebody I can talk to, somebody who'll understand—that's all I want.
No. What he'd wanted was somebody to help him justify to himself what he was about to do. Somebody to record his verbal suicide note. Somebody he could trust to pass it on afterward, tell it right and true to the world.
You want to do something, you know? You want to try to fix it somehow, put out the fires. There has to be a way.
Nine dead, five wounded, one of the wounded in critical condition and not expected to live. Not that way.
Souls burning. All day long, all night long, souls on fire.
The soul that had burned tonight was Eddie Quinlan's.
There is a tale behind this tale. It was nominated for an Edgar for best short story of 1978 by the Mystery Writers of America, and didn't win for one major reason: I didn't vote for it. It so happened that in 1979 I was chairman of the five-person MWA committee whose task it was to select five nominees and a winner from among the previous year's short story crop. "Strangers in the Fog" was nominated by one of the other committee members, received two first-place votes, and would have won on points if I'd put it at the top of my own list. Instead, suffering from a crisis of conscience, I cast my ballot for the story with the other two first-place votes, even though I wasn't convinced—still am not convinced after a recent rereading—that it was any better than mine. I've never won an Edgar, despite five other nominations in various categories, and chances are I never will. So . . . did I do the right thing, the wise thing? What would you have done?
Strangers in the Fog
Hannigan had just finished digging the grave, down in the tule marsh where the little saltwater creek flowed toward the Pacific, when the dark shape of a man came out of the fog.
Startled, Hannigan brought the shovel up and cocked it weaponlike at his shoulder. The other man had materialized less than twenty yards away, from the direction of the beach, and had stopped the moment he saw Hannigan. The diffused light from Hannigan's lantern did not quite reach the man; he was a black silhouette against the swirling billows of mist. Beyond him the breakers lashed at the shore in a steady pulse.
Hannigan said, "Who the hell are you?"
The man stood staring down at the roll of canvas near Hannigan's feet, at the hole scooped out of the sandy earth. He seemed to poise himself on the balls of his feet, body turned slightly, as though he might bolt at any second. "I'll ask you the same question," he said, and his voice was tense, low-pitched.
"I happen to live here." Hannigan made a gesture to his left with the shovel, where a suggestion of shimmery light shone high up through the fog. "This is a private beach."
"Private graveyard, too?"
"My dog died earlier this evening. I didn't want to leave him lying around the house."
"Must have been a pretty big dog."
"He was a Great Dane," Hannigan said. He wiped moisture from his face with his free hand. "You want something, or do you just like to take strolls in the fog?"
The man came forward a few steps, warily. Hannigan could see him more clearly then in the pale lantern glow: big, heavy-shouldered, damp hair flattened across his forehead, wearing a plaid lumberman's jacket, brown slacks, and loafers.
"You got a telephone I can use?"
"That would depend on why you need to use it."
"I could give you a story about my car breaking down," the big man said, "but then you'd just wonder what I'm doing down here instead of up on the Coast Highway."
"I'm wondering that anyway."
"It's safe down here, the way I figured it."
"I don't follow," Hannigan said.
"Don't you listen to your radio or TV?"
"Not if I can avoid it."
"So you don't know about the lunatic who escaped from the state asylum at Tescadero."
The back of Hannigan's neck prickled. "No," he said.
"Happened late this afternoon," the big man said. "He killed an attendant at the hospital—stabbed him with a kitchen knife. He was in there for the same kind of thing. Killed three people with a kitchen knife."
Hannigan did not say anything.
The big man said, "They think he may have headed north, because he came from a town up near the Oregon border. But they're not sure. He may have come south instead—and Tescadero is only twelve miles from here."
Hannigan gripped the handle of the shovel more tightly. "You still haven't said what you're doing down here in the fog."
"I came up from San Francisco with a girl for the weekend," the big man said. "Her husband was supposed to be in Los Angeles, on business, only I guess he decided to come home early. When he found her gone he must have figured she'd come up to this summer place they've got and so he drove up without calling first. We had just enough warning for her to throw me out."
"You let this woman throw you out?"
"That's right. Her husband is worth a million or so, and he's generous. You understand?"
"Maybe," Hannigan said. "What's the woman's name?"
"That's my business."
"Then how do I know you're telling me the truth?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"You might have reasons for lying."
"Like if I was the escaped lunatic, maybe?"
"Like that."
"If I was, would I have told you about him?"
Again Hannigan was silent.
"For all I know," the big man said, "you could be the lunatic. Hell, you're out here digging a grave in the middle of the night—"
"I told you, my dog died. Besides, would a lunatic dig a grave for somebody he killed? Did he dig one for that attendant you said he stabbed?"
"Okay, neither one of us is the lunatic." The big man paused and ran his hands along the side of his coat. "Look, I've had enough of this damned fog; it's starting to get to me. Can I use your phone or not?"
"Just who is it you want to call?"
"Friend of mine in San Francisco who owes me a favor. He'll drive up and get me. That is, if you wouldn't mind my hanging around your place until he shows up."
Hannigan thought things over and made up his mind. "All right. You stand over there while I finish putting Nick away. Then we'll go up."