Mr. Murder

himself as being much different from other men. Movies have taught him that all men are extraordinary in one way or another: some have a powerful magnetism for women, who are unable to resist them; others have courage beyond measure; still others, like those whose lives Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sylvester Stallone have portrayed, can walk through a hail of bullets untouched and prevail in hand-to-hand combat with half a dozen men at one time or in quick succession. Rapid convalescence seems less exceptional, by comparison, than the common ability of on-screen heroes to pass unscathed through Hell itself.

Plucking a cold fish sandwich from the remaining pile of food, bolting it down in six large bites, he leaves McDonald’s. He begins searching for a shopping mall.

Because this is southern California, he finds what he’s looking for in short order: a sprawling complex of department and specialty stores, its roof composed of more sheets of metal than a battleship, textured concrete walls as formidable as the ramparts of any medieval fortress, surrounded by acres of lamp-lit blacktop. The ruthless commercial nature of the place is disguised by parklike rows and clusters of carrotwood trees, Indian laurels, willowy melaleucas, and palms.

He cruises endless aisles of parked cars until he spots a man in a raincoat hurrying away from the mall and burdened by two full plastic shopping bags. The shopper stops behind a white Buick, puts down the bags, and fumbles for keys to unlock the trunk.

Three cars from the Buick, an open parking space is available. The Honda, with him all the way from Oklahoma, has outlived its usefulness. It must be abandoned here.

He gets out of the car with the tire iron in his right hand. Gripping the tapered end, he holds it close to his leg to avoid calling attention to it.

The storm is beginning to lose some of its force. The wind is abating. No lightning scores the sky.

Although the rain is no less cold than it was earlier, he finds it refreshing rather than chilling.

As he heads toward the mall—and the white Buick—he surveys the huge parking lot. As far as he can tell, no one is watching him. None of the bracketing vehicles along that aisle is in the process of leaving: no lights, no telltale plumes of exhaust fumes. The nearest moving car is three rows away.

The shopper has found his keys, opened the trunk of the Buick, and stowed away the first of the two plastic bags. Bending to pick up the second bag, the stranger becomes aware that he is no longer alone, turns his head, looks back and up from his bent position in time to see the tire iron sweeping toward his face, on which an expression of alarm barely has time to form.

The second blow is probably unnecessary. The first will have driven fragments of facial bones into the brain. He strikes again, anyway, at the inert and silent shopper.

He throws the tire iron in the open trunk. It hits something with a dull clank.

Move, move, confront, challenge, grapple, and prevail.

Wasting no time looking around to determine if he is still unobserved, he plucks the man off the wet blacktop in the manner of a bodybuilder beginning a clean-and-jerk lift with a barbell. He drops the corpse into the trunk, and the car rocks with the impact of the dead weight.

The night and rain provide what little cover he needs to wrestle the raincoat off the cadaver while it lies hidden in the open trunk. One of the dead eyes stares fixedly while the other rolls loosely in the socket, and the mouth is frozen in a broken-toothed howl of terror that was never made.

When he pulls the coat on over his wet clothes, it is somewhat roomy and an inch long in the sleeves but adequate for the time being. It covers his bloodstained, torn, and food-smeared clothes, making him reasonably presentable, which is all that he cares about. It is still warm from the shopper’s body heat.

Later he will dispose of the cadaver, and tomorrow he will buy new clothes. Now he has much to do and precious little time in which to do it.

He takes the dead man’s wallet, which has a pleasingly thick sheaf of currency in it.

He tosses the second shopping bag on top of the corpse, slams the trunk lid. The keys are dangling from the lock.

In the Buick, fiddling with the heater controls, he drives away from the mall.

Move, move, confront, challenge, grapple, and prevail.

He starts looking for a service station, not because the Buick needs fuel but because he has to find a pay phone.

He remembers the voices in the kitchen while he had twitched in agony amidst the ruins of the stair railing. The imposter had been hustling Paige and the girls out of the house before they could come into the foyer and see their real father struggling to get off his back onto his hands and knees.

“. . . take them across the street to Vic and Kathy’s . . .”

And seconds later, there had been a name more useful still: “. . . over to the Delorios’ place . . .”

Although they are his neighbors, he can’t remember Vic and Kathy Delorio or which house is theirs. That knowledge was stolen from him with the rest of his life. However, if they have a listed phone, he will be able to find them.

A service station. A blue Pacific Bell sign.

Even as he drives up beside the Plexiglas-walled phone booth, he can dimly see the thick directory secured by a chain.

Leaving the Buick engine running, he sloshes through a puddle into the booth. He closes the door to turn on the overhead light, and flips frantically through the White Pages.

Luck is with him. Victor W. Delorio. The only listing under that name. Mission Viejo. His own street. Bingo. He memorizes the address.

He runs into the service station to buy candy bars. Twenty of them. Hershey’s bars with almonds, 3 Musketeers, Mounds, Nestle’s white chocolate Crunch. His appetite is sated for the time being; he does not want the candy now—but the need will soon arise.

He pays with some of the cash that belongs to the dead man in the trunk of the Buick.

“You sure have a sweet tooth,” says the attendant.

In the Buick again, pulling out of the service station into traffic, he is afraid for his family, which remains unwittingly under the thrall of the imposter. They might be taken away to a far place where he won’t be able to find them. They might be harmed. Or even killed. Anything can happen. He has just seen their photograph and has only begun to re-acquaint himself with them, yet he might lose them before he ever has a chance to kiss them again or tell them how much he loves them. So unfair. Cruel. His heart pounds fiercely, re-igniting some of the pain that had been recently extinguished in his steadily knitting wounds.

Oh God, he needs his family. He needs to hold them in his arms and be held in return. He needs to comfort them and be comforted and hear them say his name. Hearing them say his name, he once and for all will be somebody.

Accelerating through a traffic light as it turns from yellow to red, he speaks aloud to his children in a voice that quavers with emotion: “Charlotte, Emily, I’m coming. Be brave. Daddy’s coming. Daddy’s coming. Daddy. Is. Coming.”

8

Lieutenant Lowbock was the last cop out of the house.

On the front stoop, as the doors of squad cars slammed in the street behind him and engines started, he turned to Paige and Marty to favor them with one more short-lived and barely perceptible smile. He was evidently loath to be remembered for the tightly controlled anger they had finally stirred in him. “I’ll be seeing you as soon as we have the lab results.”

“Can’t be too soon,” Paige said. “We’ve had such a charming visit, we simply can’t wait for the next time.”

Lowbock said, “Good evening, Mrs. Stillwater.” He turned to Marty. “Good evening, Mr. Murder.”

Marty knew it was childish to close the door in the detective’s face, but it was also satisfying.

Sliding the security chain into place as Marty engaged the dead-bolt lock, Paige said, “Mr. Murder?”

“That’s what they call me in the People article.”

“I haven’t seen it yet.”