Koontz, Dean R. - Mr. Murder

by Dean Koontz

  In this mechanical cave, he reverts to savagery and is, for a time,

  something less than human, tearing at his food with animalistic

  impatience, stuffing it into his mouth faster than he can swallow.

  Burgers and buns and fries crumble against his lips, his teeth, and

  leave a growing slope of organic scree across his chest, cola and

  milkshake dribble down the front of his shirt. He chokes repeatedly,

  spraying food on the steering wheel and dashboard, but eats no less

  wolfishly, no less urgently, issuing small wordless greedy sounds and

  low moans of satisfaction.

  His feeding frenzy translates into a period of numb and silent

  withdrawal much like a trance, from which he eventually arises with

  three names on his lips, whispered like a prayer, "Paige . . .

  Charlotte . . Emily. .."

  From experience he knows that, in the hours before dawn, he will suffer

  new bouts of hunger, though none as devastating and obsessive as the

  seizure he has just endured. A few bars of chocolate or cans of Vienna

  sausages or packages of hot dogs depending on whether it is

  carbohydrates or proteins that he craves--will ensure abatement of the

  pangs.

  He will be able to focus his attention on other critical issues without

  worrying about major distractions of a physiological nature.

  The most serious of those crises is the continued enslavement of his

  wife and children by the man who has stolen his life.

  "Paige. . . Charlotte. . . Emily. .."

  Tears cloud his vision when he thinks of his family in the hands of the

  hateful imposter. They are so precious to him. They are his only

  fortune, his reason for existence, his future.

  He recalls the wonder and joy with which he explored his house, standing

  in his daughters' room, later touching the bed in which he and his wife

  make love. The moment he had seen their faces in the photograph on his

  desk, he had known they were his destiny and that in their loving

  embrace he would find surcease from the confusion, loneliness, and quiet

  desperation that have plagued him.

  He remembers, as well, the first surprising confrontation with the

  imposter, the shock and amazement of their uncanny resemblance, the

  perfectly matched pitch and timbre of their voices. He had understood

  at once how the man could have stepped into his life without anyone

  being the wiser.

  Though his exploration of the house provided no clue to explain the

  imposter's origins, he was reminded of certain films from which answers

  might be garnered when he had a chance to view them again. Both

  versions of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, the first starring Kevin

  McCarthy, the second, Donald Sutherland. John Carpenter's remake of The

  Thing, though not the first version. Perhaps even Invaders from Mars.

  Bette Midler and Lily Tomlin in a film whose title he could not recall.

  The Prince and the Pauper. Moon Over Parador. There must be others.

  Movies had all the answers to life's problems. From the movies he had

  learned about romance and love and the joy of family life.

  In the darkness of theaters, passing time between killings, hungry for

  meaning, he had learned to need what he didn't have. And from the great

  lessons of the movies he might eventually unravel the mystery of his

  stolen life.

  But first he must act.

  That is another lesson he has learned from the movies. Action must come

  before thought. People in movies rarely sit around brooding about the

  predicament in which they find themselves. By God, they do something to

  resolve even their worst problems, they keep moving, ceaselessly moving,

  resolutely seeking confrontation with those who oppose them, grappling

  with their enemies in life-or-death struggles that they always win as

  long as they are sufficiently determined and righteous.

  He is determined.

  He is righteous.

  His life has been stolen.

  He is a victim. He has suffered.

  He has known despair.

  He has endured abuse and anguish and betrayal and loss like Omar Sharif

  in Doctor Zhivago, like William Hurt in The Accidental Tourist, Robin

  Williams in The World According to Garp, Michael Keaton in Batman,

  Sidney Poitier in In the Heat of the Night, Tyrone Power in The Razor's

  Edge, Johnny Depp in Edward Scissorhands. He is one with all of the

  brutalized, despised, downtrodden, misunderstood, cheated, outcast,

  manipulated people who live upon the silver screen and who are heroic in

  the face of devastating tribulations.

  His suffering is as important as theirs, his destiny every bit as

  glorious, his hope of triumph just as great.

  This realization moves him deeply. He is wrenched by shuddering sobs,

  weeping not with sadness but with joy, overwhelmed by a feeling of

  belonging, brotherhood, a sense of common humanity. He has deep bonds

  with those whose lives he shares in theaters, and this glorious Epiphany

  motivates him to get up, move, move, confront, challenge, grapple, and

  prevail.

  "Paige, I'm coming for you," he says through his tears.

  He throws open the driver's door and gets out in the rain.

  "Emily, Charlotte, I won't fail you. Depend on me. Trust me.

  I'll die for you if I have to."

  Shedding the detritus of his gluttony, he goes around to the back of the

  Honda and opens the trunk. He finds a tire iron that is a prybar on one

  end, for popping loose hubcaps, and a lug wrench on the other end. It

  has satisfying heft and balance.

  He returns to the front seat, slides in behind the wheel, and puts the

  tire iron on top of the fragrant trash that overflows the seat beside

  him.

  As he sees in memory the photograph of his family, he murmurs, "I'll die

  for you."

  He is healing. When he explores the bullet holes in his chest, he can

  probe little more than half the depth that he was previously able to

  plumb.

  In the second wound, his finger encounters a hard and gnarled lump which

  might be a wad of dislocated gristle. He quickly realizes it is,

  instead, the lead slug that didn't pass through him and out of his back.

  His body is rejecting it. He picks and pries until the misshapen bullet

  oozes free with a thick wet sound, and he throws it on the floor.

  Although he is aware that his metabolism and recuperative powers are

  extraordinary, he does not see 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 park-like 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

  midst 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 Delonos' 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."

  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 deadbolt

  lock, Paige said, "Mr. Murder?"

  "That's what they call me in the People article."

  "I haven't seen it yet."

  "Right in the headline. Oh, wait'll you read it. It makes me look

  ridiculous, spooky-old-scary-old Marty Stillwater, book hustler

  extraordinary. Jesus, if he happened to read that article today, I

  don't half blame Lowbock for thinking this was all a publicity scam of

  some kind." She said, "He's an idiot."

  "It is an unlikely damn story."

  "I believed it."

  "I know. And I love you for that."

  He kissed her. She clung to him but briefly.

  "How's your throat?" she asked.

  "I'll live."

  "That idiot thinks you choked yourself"

  "I didn't. But it's possible, I suppose."