His name was Cary Stayner, the motel handyman, and he was from a deeply troubled background. His brother, Steven, had been kidnapped at age 7 by a pedophile and held for seven years before escaping with a 5-year-old boy his molester/kidnapper had just snatched. He walked miles through the woods, eventually carrying the child piggyback, and then hitchhiking to a police station. He was to die at 24 in a motorcycle crash.

That is where the factual story ends, and I am well aware that my encounter was only fleeting, nothing compared with the experience of those who worked with and knew Cary Stayner, who has been sitting on California’s death row since 2002. Still I felt lucky. I read that he habitually carried a knife and a garrote in his pockets. I had two small children.

I also remember something else. I left the restaurant alone, as usual. As I walked away, I paused. The night was dark, a wind blowing. I looked around in sudden disquiet, saw the long leafy branches on the nearby trees moving and waving, and wondered if someone was behind them looking out. I may have been completely wrong. But I squared my stance to look strong, and then broke into a run, bolted across the lot, pounded upstairs to my room and locked the door. I was now dismayed to be alone, even half-thought of asking Tim if I could stay in his room, but that would seem crazy.

Did that fear arise from instinct, or was I simply set up for it, from the warning?

We humans know to believe in instinct. We may register signs and vibrations even when not consciously aware of them. If we feel fear, we should pay attention.

I would have fallen for the ruse Cary Stayner used on the tourists. He said he was the handyman, and there was a problem with the bathroom pipes. Could he fix it? The mother said yes. Did she have any hesitation, which this loving and protective mother was too unsure or polite to voice? As I surely would have been. Then he pulled out a gun.

Do we all have split-second moments when we have a feeling — and a chance to stop something?

One day back home in Colorado, I was out hiking when I reached a junction in a sage meadow just ahead of someone else. He was hiking with both hands in his front pockets, and that seemed odd. He looked too beatific and asked me a clueless question about what was ahead. I hurried off, asking myself if I was onto something or off my rocker. Whatever the impetus, I shouted and waved at a friend ahead — who didn’t exist.

Five minutes later I passed two young women going in the opposite direction, toward the sage meadow. I greeted them, walked by and 10 feet later had to turn around.