Moreover, I lack a talent for unpremeditated murder. My instincts shouted, “Kill him!” but instincts are highly unreliable. The voice and West Virginia accent provided the link, far more strongly than the casual “Doc.” It had been twenty-seven years, but I knew who he was-and I knew that he knew me. Because if you can’t, I’m beat to say who can.” “I don’t know about that.” He raised dark eyebrows and took a step closer. He was not smiling, but there was an expectant look in his brown eyes. Outside the threshold stood a stranger, a man of uncertain age and nondescript clothing, long-haired and full-bearded, four or five inches shorter than me.
I opened the door and confirmed my first impressions. The triple knock was soft and muffled, as though he knew he was observed and had no need of a loud announcement of his presence. I am sensitive to loud noises, and I had covered the massive iron door knocker with felt. Instead he walked around the building to the leeward side and found the solid oak door of the main entrance. He ignored the scullery entrance, closest to his direction of approach. Therefore, assume that the man is an innocent stranger, and he will come and go peacefully. It was long years of caution and a determination never again to be captured that speeded my pulse and tingled along my spine. Wasn’t it reasonable that a walker might ask for a drink of water, or even inquire about accommodation for the night? There was, surely, nothing about him to make me nervous. A strong west wind blew his long hair over his forehead, and that, together with the dark beard and moustache, hid most of his features. He was of middle height and medium build. I studied him under maximum magnification as he came nearer. He might but that hope vanished when at the point of closest approach to the castle he made a sharp right turn and headed straight for it. He might be a solitary and contemplative hiker, wandering the wild west coast of Ireland from Donegal Bay to Tory Sound, admiring the scenery and enjoying his own company. He was in no hurry, pausing from time to time to turn and stare seaward. Ten steps to his left the three-hundred-foot cliff dropped sheer to the crawling waters of the Atlantic. On his back he wore a light knapsack, and in his right hand he held what looked like a solid walking stick. He came on foot, much closer to the sea edge than I would ever go. I had been watching the man since early afternoon, ever since my Alert system detected his presence five and a half miles to the south. When you have died once, you become most reluctant to do so again.
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