Lightning

'Why do I need a story?'

Stooping beside the corpse, the stranger took a set of car keys and the wad of money from the pockets of the bloodstained windbreaker. Rising again, he said, 'Okay, what you have to tell them is that there were two gunmen. This one wanted Laura, but the other was sickened by the idea of raping a little girl, and he just wanted to get out. So they argued, it got nasty, the other one shot this bastard and skipped with the money. Can you make that sound right?'

Bob was reluctant to believe that he and Laura had been spared.

With one arm he held his daughter tightly against him. 'I…I don't understand. You weren't really with him. You're not in trouble for killing him — after all, he was going to kill us. So why don't we just tell them the truth?'

Stepping to the end of the checkout counter, returning the money to Bob, the man said, 'And what is the truth?'

'Well… you happened along and saw the robbery in progress—'

'I didn't just happen along, Bob. I've been watching over you and Laura.' Slipping his pistol into his shoulder holster, the man looked down at Laura. She stared at him wide-eyed. He smiled and whispered, 'Guardian angel.'

Not believing in guardian angels, Bob said, 'Watching over us? From where, how long, why?'

In a voice colored by urgency and by a vague, unplaceable accent that Bob heard for the first time, the stranger said, 'Can't tell you that.' He glanced at the rain-washed windows. 'And I can't afford to be questioned by police. So you've got to get this story straight.'

Bob said, 'Where do I know you from?'

'You don't know me.'

'But I'm sure I've seen you before.'

'You haven't. You don't need to know. Now for God's sake, hide that money and leave the register empty; it'll seem odd if the second man left without what he came for. I'll take his Buick, abandon it in a few blocks, so you can give the cops a description of it. Give them a description of me, too. It won't matter.'

Thunder rumbled outside, but it was low and distant, not like the explosions with which the storm had begun.

The humid air thickened as the slower-spreading, coppery scent of blood mixed with the stench of urine.

Queasy, leaning on the counter but still holding Laura at his side, Bob said, 'Why can't I just tell them how you interrupted the robbery, shot the guy, and didn't want publicity, so you left?'

Impatient, the stranger raised his voice. 'An armed man just happens to stroll by while the robbery's in progress and decides to be a hero? The cops won't believe a cockeyed story like that.'

'That's what happened—'

'But they won't buy it! Listen, they'll start thinking maybe you shot the junkie. Since you don't own a gun, at least not according to public record, they'll wonder if maybe it was an illegal weapon and if you disposed of it after you shot this guy, then cooked up a crazy story about some Lone Ranger type walking in and saving your ass.'

'I'm a respectable businessman with a good reputation.'

In the stranger's eyes a peculiar sadness arose, a haunted look. 'Bob, you're a nice man… but you're a little naive sometimes.'

'What're you—'

The stranger held up a hand to silence him. 'In a crunch a man's reputation never counts for as much as it ought to. Most people are good-hearted and willing to give a man the benefit of the doubt, but the poisonous few are eager to see others brought down, ruined.' His voice had fallen to a whisper, and although he continued to look at Bob, he seemed to be seeing other places, other people. 'Envy, Bob. Envy eats them alive. If you had money, they'd envy you that. But since you don't, they envy you for having such a good, bright, loving daughter. They envy you for just being a happy man. They envy you for not envying them. One of the greatest sorrows of human existence is that some people aren't happy merely to be alive but find their happiness only in the misery of others.'

The charge of naivete was one that Bob could not refute, and he knew the stranger spoke the truth. He shivered.

After a moment of silence, the man's haunted expression gave way to a look of urgency again. 'And when the cops decide you're lying about the Lone Ranger who saved you, then they'll begin to wonder if maybe the junkie wasn't here to rob you at all, if maybe you knew him, had a falling out with him over something, even planned his murder and tried to make it look like a robbery. That's how cops think, Bob. Even if they can't pin this on you, they'll try so hard that they'll make a mess of your life. Do you want to put Laura through that?'

'No.'

'Then do it my way.'

Bob nodded. 'I will. Your way. But who the hell are you?'

'That doesn't matter. We don't have time for it anyway.' He stepped behind the counter and stooped in front of Laura, face to face with her. 'Did you understand what I told your father? If the police ask you what happened —'

'You were with that man,' she said, pointing in the general direction of the corpse.

'That's right.'

'You were his friend,' she said, 'but then you started arguing about me, though I'm not sure why, 'cause I didn't do anything—'

'It doesn't matter why, honey,' the stranger said.

Laura nodded. 'And the next thing you shot him and ran out with all our money and drove away, and I was very scared.'

The man looked up at Bob. 'Eight years old, huh?'

'She's a smart girl.'

'But it'd still be best if the cops didn't question her much.'

'I won't let them.'

'If they do,' Laura said, 'I'll just cry and cry till they stop.'

The stranger smiled. He stared at Laura so lovingly that he made Bob uneasy. His manner was not that of the pervert who had wanted to take her into the storeroom; his expression was tender, affectionate. He touched her cheek. Astonishingly, tears shimmered in his eyes. He blinked, stood. 'Bob, put that money away. Remember, I left with it.'

Bob realized the wad of cash was still in his hand. He jammed it into his pants pocket, and his loose apron concealed the bulge.

The stranger unlocked the door and put up the shade. 'Take care of her, Bob. She's special.' Then he dashed into the rain, letting the door stand open behind him, and got into the Buick. The tires squealed as he pulled out of the parking lot.

The radio was on, but Bob heard it for the first time since 'The End of the World' had been playing, before the junkie had been shot. Now Shelley Fabares was singing 'Johnny Angel.'

Suddenly he heard the rain again, not just as a dull background hiss and patter but really heard it, beating furiously on the windows and on the roof of the apartment above. In spite of the wind rushing through the open door, the stink of blood and urine was abruptly far worse than it had been a moment ago, and just as precipitously, as if coming out of a trance of terror and regaining his full senses, he realized how close his precious Laura had come to dying. He scooped her into his arms, lifted her off the floor, and held her, repeating her name, smoothing her hair. He buried his face against her neck and smelled the sweet freshness of her skin, felt the pulse of the artery in her throat, and thanked God that she was alive.

'I love you, Laura.'

'I love you, too, Daddy. I love you because of Sir Tommy Toad and a million other reasons. But we've got to call the police now.'

'Yes, of course,' he said, reluctantly putting her down.