packed, having gotten as far as the car,
Marty knew real life was neither as extravagantly colorful as the most eventful fiction nor half as drab as the average academic novel—and less predictable than either. His fear of returning to the house to switch off the lights was irrational, the product of a too-fertile imagination and a novelist’s predilection to anticipate drama, malevolence, and tragedy in every turn of human affairs, in every change of weather, plan, dream, hope, or roll of dice.
Nevertheless, they weren’t going back into the damn house. No way in hell.
“Leave the lights on,” he said. “Lock up, raise the garage door, let’s get the kids and get out of here.”
Maybe Paige had lived with a novelist long enough for her own imagination to be corrupted, or maybe she remembered all of the blood in the upstairs hall. For whatever reason, she didn’t protest that leaving so many lights on would be a waste of electricity. She thumbed the button to activate the Genie lift, and shut the door to the kitchen with her other hand.
As Marty closed and locked the trunk of the BMW, the garage door finished rising. With a final clatter it settled into the full-open position.
He looked out at the rainy night, his right hand straying to the butt of the Beretta at his waistband. His imagination was still churning, and he was prepared to see the indomitable look-alike coming up the driveway.
What he saw, instead, was worse than any image conjured by his imagination. A car was parked across the street in front of the Delorios’ house. It wasn’t the Delorios’ car. Marty had never seen it before. The headlights were on, though the driver was having difficulty getting the engine to turn over; it cranked and cranked. Although the driver was only a dark shape, the small pale oval of a child’s face was visible at the rear window, staring out from the back seat. Even at a distance, Marty was sure that the little girl in the Buick was Emily.
At the connecting door to the kitchen, Paige was fumbling for house keys in the pockets of her corduroy jacket.
Marty was in the grip of paralytic shock. He couldn’t call out to Paige, couldn’t move.
Across the street, the engine of the Buick caught, chugged consumptively, then roared fully to life. Clouds of crystallized fumes billowed from the exhaust pipe.
Marty didn’t realize he’d shattered the paralysis and begun to move until he was out of the garage, in the middle of the driveway, sprinting through the cold rain toward the street. He felt as though he had teleported thirty feet in a tiny fraction of a second, but it was just that, operating on instinct and sheer animal terror, his body was ahead of his mind.
The Beretta was in his hand. He didn’t recall drawing it out of his waistband.
The Buick pulled away from the curb and Marty turned left to follow it. The car was moving slowly because the driver had not yet realized that he was being pursued.
Emily was still visible. Her frightened face was now pressed tightly to the glass. She was staring directly at her father.
Marty was closing on the car, ten feet from the rear bumper. Then it accelerated smoothly away from him, much faster than he could run. Its tires parted the puddles with a percolative burble and plash.
Like a passenger on Charon’s gondola, Emily was being ferried not just along a street but across the river Styx, into the land of the dead.
A black wave of despair washed over Marty, but his heart began to pound even more fiercely than before, and he found a strength he had not imagined he possessed. He ran harder than ever, splashing through puddles, feet hammering the blacktop with what seemed like jackhammer force, pumping his arms, head tucked down, eyes always on the prize.
At the end of the block the Buick slowed. It came to a full stop at the intersection.
Gasping, Marty caught up with it. Back bumper. Rear fender. Rear door.
Emily’s face was at the window.
She was looking up at him now.
His senses were as heightened by terror as if he’d taken mind-altering drugs. He was hallucinogenically aware of every detail of the scores of raindrops on the glass between himself and his daughter—their curved and pendulous shapes, the bleak whorls and shards of light from the street lamps reflected in their quivering surfaces— as if each of those droplets was equal in importance to anything else in the world. Likewise, he saw the interior of the car not just as a dark blur but as an elaborate dimensional tapestry of shadows in countless hues of gray, blue, black. Beyond Emily’s pale face, in that intricate needlework of dusk and gloom, was another figure, a second child: Charlotte.
Just as he drew even with the driver’s door and reached for the handle, the car began to move again. It swung right, through the intersection.
Marty slipped and almost fell on the wet pavement. He regained his balance, held on to the gun, and scrambled after the Buick as it turned into the cross street.
The driver was looking to the right, unaware of Marty on his left. He was wearing a black coat. Only the back of his head was visible through the rain-streaked side window. His hair was darker than Vic Delorio’s.
Because the car was still moving slowly as it completed the turn, Marty caught up with it again, breathing strenuously, ears filled with the hard drumming of his heart. He didn’t reach for the door this time because maybe it was locked. He would squander the element of surprise by trying it. Raising the Beretta, he aimed at the back of the man’s head.
The kids could be hit by a ricochet, flying glass. He had to risk it. Otherwise, they were lost forever.
Though there was little chance the driver was Vic Delorio or another innocent person, Marty couldn’t squeeze the trigger without knowing for sure at whom he was shooting. Still moving, paralleling the car, he shouted,
The driver snapped his head around to look out the side window.
Along the barrel of the pistol, Marty stared at his own face. The Other. The glass before him seemed like a cursed mirror in which his reflection was not confined to precise mimicry but was free to reveal more vicious emotions than anyone would ever want the world to see: as it confronted him, that looking-glass face clenched with hatred and fury.
Startled, the driver had let his foot slip off the accelerator. For the briefest moment the Buick slowed.
No more than four feet from the window, Marty squeezed off two rounds. In the instant before the resonant thunder of the first gunshot echoed off an infinitude of wet surfaces across the rainswept night, he thought he saw the driver drop to the side and down, still holding the steering wheel with at least one hand but trying to get his head out of the line of fire. The muzzle flashed, and shattering glass obscured the bastard’s fate.
Even as the second shot boomed close after the first, the car tires shrieked. The Buick bolted forward, as a mean horse might explode out of a rodeo gate.
He ran after the car, but it blew away from him with a backwash of turbulent air and exhaust fumes. The look-alike was still alive, perhaps injured but still alive and determined to escape.
Rocketing eastward, the Buick began to angle onto the wrong side of the two-lane street. On that trajectory, it was going to jump the curb and crash into someone’s front lawn.
In his treacherous mind’s eye, Marty imagined the car hitting the curb at high speed, flipping, rolling, slamming into one of the trees or the side of a house, bursting into flames, his daughters trapped in a coffin of blazing steel. In the darkest corner of his mind, he could even hear them screaming as the fire seared the flesh from their bones.
Then, as he pursued it, the Buick swung back across the center line, into its own lane. It was still moving fast, too fast, and he had no hope of catching it.
But he ran as if it was his own life for which he was running, his throat beginning to burn again as he breathed through his open mouth, chest aching, needles of pain lancing the length of his legs. His right hand was clamped so fiercely around the butt of the Beretta that the muscles in his arm throbbed from wrist to shoulder. And
