Mr. Murder

Getting to his feet, holding on to his daughters, Marty said, “We’ve got to go.” He turned toward the front door.

Vic said, “Wait a second, Marty, buddy, you can’t just blow out of here like that, with us so damned curious and all.”

Marty had let go of Charlotte only long enough to open the door. He grabbed her hand again as the wind whistled into the foyer and rattled the framed embroidery of bluebirds and spring flowers that hung on the wall.

When the writer stepped outside without responding to Vic in any way, Vic glanced at Kathy and saw her expression had changed. Tears still glistened on her cheeks, but her eyes were dry, and she looked puzzled.

So it isn’t just me, he thought.

He went outside and saw that the writer was already off the stoop, heading down the walk in the wind- tossed rain, holding the girls’ hands. The air was chilly. Frogs were singing, but their songs were unnatural, cold and tinny, like the grinding-racheting of stripped gears in frozen machinery. The sound of them made Vic want to go back inside, sit in front of the fire, and drink a lot of hot coffee with brandy in it.

“Damn it, Marty, wait a minute!”

The writer turned, looked back, with the girls cuddling close to his sides.

Vic said, “We’re your friends, we want to help. Whatever’s wrong, we want to help.”

“Nothing you can do, Victor.”

“Victor? Man, you know I hate ‘Victor,’ nobody calls me that, not even my dear old gray-haired mother if she knows what’s good for her.”

“Sorry . . . Vic. I’m just . . . I’ve got a lot on my mind.” With the girls in tow, he started down the walkway again.

A car was parked directly at the end of the walk. A new Buick. It looked bejeweled in the rain. Engine running. Lights on. Nobody inside.

Dashing off the stoop into the storm, which was no longer the cloudburst it had been but still drenching, Vic caught up with them. “This your car?”

“Yeah,” Marty said.

“Since when?”

“Bought it today.”

“Where’s Paige?”

“We’re going to meet her.” Marty’s face was as white as the skull hidden beneath it. He was trembling visibly, and his eyes looked strange in the glow of the street lamp. “Listen, Vic, the kids are going to be soaked to the skin.”

“I’m the one getting soaked,” Vic said. “They’ve got raincoats. Paige isn’t over at the house?”

“She left already.” Marty glanced worriedly at his house across the street, where lights still glowed at both the first- and second-floor windows. “We’re going to meet her.”

“You remember what you told me—”

“Vic, please—”

“I almost forgot myself, what you told me, and then you were on your way down the walk and I remembered.”

“We’ve got to go, Vic.”

“You told me not to give the kids to anyone if Paige wasn’t with them. Not anyone. You remember what you said?”

Marty carried two large suitcases downstairs, into the kitchen.

The Beretta 9mm Parabellum was stuffed under the waistband of his chinos. It pressed uncomfortably against his belly. He wore a reindeer-pattern wool sweater, which concealed the gun. His red-and-black ski jacket was unzipped, so he could reach the pistol easily, just by dropping the bags.

Paige entered the kitchen behind him. She was carrying one suitcase and the Mossberg 12-gauge shotgun.

“Don’t open the outer door,” Marty told her as he went through the small connecting door between the kitchen and the dark garage.

He didn’t want the two-bay door open while they loaded the car because then it would become a point of vulnerability. As far as he knew, The Other might have crept back when the cops had left, might be outside at that very minute.

Following him into the garage, Paige switched on the overhead fluorescent panels. The long bulbs flickered but didn’t immediately catch because the starters were bad. Shadows leaped and spun along the walls, between the cars, in the open rafters.

Torturing his injured neck, Marty involuntarily turned his head sharply toward each leaping phantom. None of them had a face at all, let alone a face identical to his.

The fluorescent came on all the way. The hard white light, cold and flat as a winter-morning sun, brought the shadow dancers to a sudden halt.

He is within a few feet of the Buick, holding tightly to his kids’ hands, so close to getting away with them. His Charlotte. His Emily. His future, his destiny, so close, so infuriatingly close.

But Vic won’t let go. The guy is a leech. Follows them all the way from the house, as if oblivious of the rain, continuously babbling, asking questions, a nosy bastard.

So close to the car. The engine running, headlights on. Emily in one hand, Charlotte in the other, and they love him, they really love him. They were hugging and kissing him back there in the foyer, so happy to see him, his little girls. They know their daddy, their real daddy. If he can just get into the car, close the doors, and drive away, they’re his forever.

Maybe he can kill Vic, the nosy bastard. Then it would be so easy to escape. But he’s not sure he can pull it off.

“You told me not to give the kids to anyone if Paige wasn’t with them,” Vic says. “Not anyone. You remember what you said?”

He stares at Vic, not thinking about an answer as much as about wasting the son of a bitch. But he’s hungry again, shaky and weak in the knees, starting to crave the candy bars on the front seat, sugar, carbohydrates, more energy for the repairs he’s still undergoing.

“Marty? You remember what you said?”

He has no gun, either, which wouldn’t ordinarily be a problem. He’s been well-trained to kill with his hands. He might even have enough strength to do so, in spite of his condition and the fact that Vic appears to be tough enough to put up a fight.

“I thought it was strange,” Vic says, “but you told me, you said not even to give them to you unless Paige was with you.”

The problem is that the bastard does have a gun. And he’s suspicious.

Second by second, all hope of escape is crumbling, washing away in the rain. The girls are still holding his hand. He’s got a firm grip on them, yes, but they’re about to start slipping away, and he doesn’t know what to do. He gapes at Vic, mind spinning, as stuck for something to say as he was stuck for something to write when he sat in his office earlier in the day and tried to begin a new book.

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

Abruptly he realizes that to confront this problem and prevail, he needs to act like a friend, the way friends treat each other and talk with each other in the movies. That will allay all suspicion.

A river of movie memories rushes through his mind, and he flows with them. “Vic, good heavens, Vic, did I ... did I say that?” He imagines he is Jimmy Stewart because everyone likes and trusts Jimmy Stewart. “I don’t know what I meant, musta been outta my head with worry. Gosh, it’s just that . . . just that I’ve been so darned crazy scared with all this stuff that’s been happening, this crazy stuff.”

“What has been happening, Marty?”

Fearful but still gracious, halting but sincere, Jimmy Stewart in a Hitchcock film: “It’s complicated, Vic, it’s all . . . it’s screwy, unbelievable, I half don’t believe it myself. It’d take an hour to tell you, and I don’t have an hour, don’t have an hour, no sir, not now, I sure don’t. My kids, these kids, they’re in danger, Vic, and God help me if anything happens to them. I wouldn’t want to live.”