Koontz, Dean R. - Mr. Murder Read online

  needs to find a woman in a place to which he has no connections.

  He tips precisely fifteen percent because either stinginess or

  extravagance is a sure way to be remembered.

  After returning briefly to his room for a wool-lined leather jacket

  suitable to the late-November night, he gets in the rental Ford and

  drives in steadily widening circles through the surrounding commercial

  district. He is searching for the kind of establishment in which he

  will have a chance to find the right woman.

  Daddy wasn't Daddy.

  He had Daddy's blue eyes, Daddy's dark brown hair, Daddy's too-big ears,

  Daddy's freckled nose, he was a dead-ringer for the Martin Stillwater

  pictured on the dustjackets of his books. He sounded just like Daddy

  when Charlotte and Emily and their mother came home and found him in the

  kitchen, drinking coffee, because he said, "There's no use pretending

  you went shopping at the mall after the movie. I had you followed by a

  private detective. I know you were at a poker parlor in Gardena,

  gambling and smoking cigars." He stood, sat, and moved like Daddy.

  Later, when they went out to Islands for dinner, he even drove like

  Daddy. Which was too fast, according to Mom. Or simply "the confident,

  skillful technique of a master motorman" if you saw things Daddy's way.

  But Charlotte knew something was wrong, and she fretted.

  Oh, he hadn't been taken over by an alien who crawled out of a big seed

  pod from outer space or anything so extreme. He wasn't that different

  from the Daddy she knew and loved.

  Mostly, the differences were minor. Though usually relaxed and

  easy-going, he was slightly tense. He held himself stiffly, as if

  balancing eggs on his head . . . or as if maybe he expected to be hit

  at any moment by someone, something. He didn't smile as quickly or as

  often as usual, and when he did smile, he seemed to be pretending.

  Before he backed the car out of the driveway, he turned and checked on

  Charlotte and Emily to be sure they were using seatbelts, but he didn't

  say "the Stillwater rocket to Mars is about to blast off" or "if I take

  the turns too fast and you have to puke, please throw up neatly in your

  jacket pockets, not on my nice upholstery" or "if we build up enough

  speed to go back in time, don't shout insults at the dinosaurs" or any

  of the other silly things he usually said.

  Charlotte noticed and was troubled.

  The restaurant, Islands, had good burgers, great fries--which could be

  ordered well-done salads, and soft tacos. Sandwiches and french fries

  were served in baskets, and the ambiance was Caribbean.

  "Ambiance" was a new word for Charlotte. She liked the sound of it so

  much, she used it every chance she got--though Emily, hopeless child,

  was always confused and said "what ambulance, I don't see an ambulance"

  every time Charlotte used it.

  Seven-year-olds could be such a tribulation. Charlotte was ten--or

  would be in six weeks--and Emily had just turned seven in October. Em

  was a good sister, but of course seven-year-olds were so . . . so

  sevenish.

  Anyway, the ambiance was tropical, bright colors, bamboo on the ceiling,

  wooden blinds, and lots of potted palms. Both the boy and girl

  waitresses wore shorts and bright Hawaiian-type shirts.

  The place reminded her of Jimmy Buffet music, which was one of those

  things her parents loved but which Charlotte didn't get at all.

  At least the ambiance was cool, and the french fries were the best.

  They sat in a booth in the non-smoking section, where the ambiance was

  even nicer. Her parents ordered Corona, which came in frosted mugs.

  Charlotte had a Coke, and Emily ordered root beer.

  "Root beer is a grown-up drink," Em said. She pointed to Charlotte

  Coke. "When are you going to stop drinking kid stuff?"

  Em was convinced that root beer could be as intoxicating as real beer.

  Sometimes she pretended to be smashed after two glasses, which was

  stupid and embarrassing. When Em was doing her weaving-burping-drunk

  routine and strangers turned to stare, Charlotte explained that Em was

  seven. Everyone was understanding--from a seven-year-old, what else

  could be expected?--but it was embarrassing nonetheless.

  By the time the waitress brought dinner, Mom and Daddy were talking

  about some people they knew who were getting a divorce boring adult talk

  that could ruin an ambiance fast if you paid any attention. And Em was

  stacking french fries in peculiar piles, like miniature versions of

  modern sculptures they'd seen in a museum last summer, she was absorbed

  by the project.

  With everyone distracted, Charlotte unzipped the deepest pocket on her

  denim jacket, withdrew Fred, and put him on the table.

  He sat motionless under his shell, stumpy legs tucked in, headless, as

  big around as a man's wristwatch. Finally his beaky little nose

  appeared. He sniffed the air cautiously, and then he stretched his head

  out of the fortress that he carried on his back. His dark shiny turtle

  eyes regarded his new surroundings with great interest, and Charlotte

  figured he must be amazed by the ambiance.

  "Stick with me, Fred, and I'll show you places no turtle has ever before

  seen," she whispered.

  She glanced at her parents. They were still so involved with each other

  that they had not noticed when she'd slipped Fred out of her pocket. Now

  he was hidden from them by a basket of french fries.

  In addition to fries, Charlotte was eating soft tacos stuffed with

  chicken, from which she extracted a ribbon of lettuce. The turtle

  sniffed it, turned his head away in disgust. She tried chopped tomato.

  Are you serious? he seemed to say, refusing the tidbit.

  Occasionally, Fred could be moody and difficult. That was her fault,

  she supposed, because she had spoiled him.

  She didn't think chicken or cheese would be good for him, and she was

  not going to offer him any tortilla crumbs until he ate his vegetables,

  so she nibbled on the crisp french fries and gazed around the restaurant

  as if fascinated by the other customers, ignoring the rude little

  reptile. He had rejected the lettuce and tomato merely to annoy her. If

  he thought she didn't give a hoot whether he ate or not, then he would

  probably eat. In turtle years, Fred was seven.

  She actually became interested in a heavy-metal couple with leather

  clothes and strange hair. They distracted her for a few minutes, and

  she was startled by her mother's soft squeak of alarm.

  "Oh," said her mother after she squeaked, "it's only Fred."

  The ungrateful turtle after all, Charlotte could have left him at

  home--was not beside her plate where he'd been left. He had crawled

  around the basket of fries to the other side of the table.

  "I only got him out to feed him," Charlotte said defensively.

  Lifting the basket so Charlotte could see the turtle, Mom said, "Honey,

  it's not good for him to be in your pocket all day."

  "Not all day." Charlotte took possession of Fred and returned him to

  her pocket. "Just since we left the house for dinner."

  Mom frowned. "W
hat other livestock do you have with you?"

  "Just Fred."

  "What about Bob?" Mom asked.

  "Oh, yuck," Emily said, making a face at Charlotte. "You got Bob in

  your pocket? I hate Bob."

  Bob was a bug, a slow-moving black beetle as large as the last joint of

  Daddy's thumb, with faint blue markings on his carapace.

  She kept him in a big jar at home, but sometimes she liked to take him

  out and watch him crawl in his laborious way across a countertop or even

  over the back of her hand.

  "I'd never bring Bob to a restaurant," Charlotte assured them.

  "You also know better than to bring Fred," her mother said.

  "Yes, ma'am," Charlotte said, genuinely embarrassed.

  "Dumb," Emily advised her.

  To Emily, Mom said, "No dumber than using french fries as if they're

  Lego blocks."

  "I'm making art." Emily was always making art. She was weird sometimes

  even for a seven-year-old. Picasso reincarnate, Daddy called her.

  "Art, huh?" Mom said. "You're making art out of your food, so then

  what are you going to eat? A painting?"

  "Maybe," Em said. "A painting of a chocolate cake."

  Charlotte zipped shut her jacket pocket, imprisoning Fred.

  "Wash your hands before you go on eating," Daddy said.

  Charlotte said, "Why?"

  "What were you just handling?"

  "You mean Fred? But Fred's clean."

  "I said, wash your hands."

  Her father's snappishness reminded Charlotte that he was not himself.

  He rarely spoke harshly to her or Em. She behaved not out of fear that

  he'd spank her or shout at her, but because it was important not to

  disappoint him or Mom. It was the best feeling in the world when she

  got a good grade in school or performed well at a piano recital and made

  them proud of her. And absolutely nothing was worse than messing

  up--and seeing a sad look of disappointment in their eyes, even when

  they didn't punish her or say anything.

  The sharpness of her father's voice sent her directly to the ladies'

  room, blinking back tears every step of the way.

  Later, on the way home from Islands, when Daddy got a lead foot, Mom

  said, "Marty, this isn't the Indianapolis Five Hundred."

  "You think this is fast?" Daddy asked, as if astonished. "This isn't

  fast."

  "Even the caped crusader himself can't get the Batmobile up to speeds

  like this."

  "I'm thirty-three, never had an accident. Spotless record. No tickets.

  Never been stopped by a cop."

  "Because they can't catch you," Mom said.

  "Exactly."

  In the back seat, Charlotte and Emily grinned at each other.

  For as long as Charlotte could remember, her parents had been having

  jokey conversations about his driving, though her mother was serious

  about wanting him to go slower..

  "I've never even had a parking ticket," Daddy said.

  "Well, of course, it's not easy to get a parking ticket when the

  speedometer needle is always pegged out."

  In the past their back-and-forth had always been good-humored.

  But now, he suddenly spoke sharply to Mom, "For God's sake, Paige, I'm a

  good driver, this is a safe car, I spent more money on it than I should

  have precisely because it's one of the safest cars on the road, so will

  you just give this a rest?"

  "Sure. Sorry," Mom said.

  Charlotte looked at her sister. Em was wide-eyed with disbelief.

  Daddy was not Daddy. Something was wrong. Big-Time wrong.

  They had gone only a block before he slowed down and glanced at Mom and

  said, "Sorry."

  "No, you were right, I'm too much of a worrier about some things," Mom

  told him.

  They smiled at each other. It was all right. They weren't going to get

  divorced like those people they'd been talking about at dinner.

  Charlotte couldn't recall them ever being angry with each other for

  longer than a few minutes.

  However, she was still worried. Maybe she should check around the house

  and outside behind the garage to see if she could find a giant empty

  seed pod from outer space.

  Like a shark cruising cold currents in a night sea, the killer drives.

  This is his first time in Kansas City, but he knows the streets. Total

  mastery of the layout is part of his preparation for every assignment,

  in case he becomes the subject of a police pursuit and needs to make a

  hasty escape under pressure.

  Curiously, he has no recollection of having seen--let alone studied--a

  map, and he can't imagine from where this highly detailed information

  was acquired. But he doesn't like to consider the holes in his memory

  because thinking about them opens the door on a black abyss that

  terrifies him.

  So he just leaves.

  Usually he likes to drive. Having a powerful and responsive machine at

  his command gives him a sense of control and purpose.

  But once in a while, as happens now, the motion of the car and the

  sights of a strange city--regardless of how familiar he may be with the

  layout of its streets--make him feel small, alone, adrift. His heart

  begins to beat fast. His palms are suddenly so damp, the steering wheel

  slips through them.

  Then, as he brakes at a traffic light, he looks at the car in the lane

  beside him and sees a family revealed by the street lamps. The father

  is driving. The mother sits in the passenger seat, an attractive woman.

  A boy of about ten and a girl of six or seven are in the back seat.

  On their way home from a night out. Maybe a movie. Talking, laughing,

  parents and children together, sharing.

  In his deteriorating condition, that sight is a merciless hammer blow,

  and he makes a thin wordless sound of anguish.

  He pulls off the street, into the parking lot of an Italian restaurant.

  Slumps in his seat. Breathes in quick shallow gasps.

  The emptiness. He dreads the emptiness.

  And now it is upon him.

  He feels as if he is a hollow man, made of the thinnest blown glass,

  fragile, only slightly more substantial than a ghost.

  At times like this, he desperately needs a mirror. His reflection is

  one of the few things that can confirm his existence.

  The restaurant's elaborate red and green neon sign illuminates the

  interior of the Ford. When he tilts the rearview mirror to look at

  himself, his skin has a cadaverous cast, and his eyes are alight with

  changing crimson shapes, as if fires burn within him.

  Tonight, his reflection is not enough to diminish his agitation. He

  feels less substantial by the moment. Perhaps he will breathe out one

  last time, expelling the final thin substance of himself in that

  exhalation.

  Tears blur his vision. He is overwhelmed by his loneliness, and

  tortured by the meaninglessness of his life.

  He folds his arms across his chest, hugs himself, leans forward, and

  rests his forehead against the steering wheel. He sobs as if he is a

  small child.

  He doesn't know his name, only the names he will use while in Kansas

  City. He wants so much to have a name of his own that is not as

  counterfeit as the credit cards on whic
h it appears. He has no family,

  no friends, no home. He cannot recall who gave him this assignment--or

  any of the jobs before it--and he doesn't know why his targets must die.

  Incredibly, he has no idea who pays him, does not remember where he got

  the money in his wallet or where he bought the clothes he wears.

  On a more profound level, he does not know who he is. He has no memory

  of a time when his profession was anything other than murder. He has no

  politics, no religion, no personal philosophy whatsoever. Whenever he

  tries to take an interest in current affairs, he finds himself unable to

  retain what he reads in the newspapers, he can't even focus his

  attention on television news. He is intelligent, yet he permits

  himself--or is permitted--only satisfactions of a physical nature, food,

  sex, the savage exhilaration of homicide. Vast regions of his mind

  remain uncharted.

  A few minutes pass in green and red neon.

  His tears dry. Gradually he stops trembling.

  He will be all right. Back on the rails. Steady, controlled.