Children of the Storm

gleaming, well-oiled machine which he tended to with profound dedication; all that it wanted was the flip of a single switch, and it would run so smoothly, like a Swiss watch, soundlessly, efficiently, a plan to end all plans, a plan to end two small lives… But now he was improvising, because he felt that his plan had become suddenly inadequate, that events on Distingue had taken away the usefulness of his marvelous plan and demanded, instead of carefully thought-out strategy, flexibility, freshness of mind, quick and accurate insight into all new developments, and even quicker action.
        With the Doughertys gone, the time seemed most ripe. There were two less watchful antagonists to deal with now. And if he could kill the children while they were away, frolicking in California, he would not only ruin their lives, but laden them with an unbearable pack of guilt: they would never be able to forget that, while they were in California having fun, their children were destroyed in a most unmerciful manner…
        Improvise…
        He was now forced to improvise, because he had been careless in the gardens and had stumbled right into the girl. She had thrown him off his time table, she sure had. Now everyone knew that he was on the island, and he could not afford to hesitate any longer. Fortunately, he had smashed the radio earlier in the day, but now there were other things to attend to, other precautions he must make. Improvisations…
        He should have killed the girl.
        He hated himself for his failure.
        He should have used the knife instead of his hands.
        The knife would have been surer.
        Somehow, he had panicked, and he had let her get away.
        Had he only followed her far enough, he would have found her lying unconscious in the middle of the path, and he could have killed her with ease then. She deserved it for what she'd done to his foot. Thank God that she hadn't drawn blood and that he was still able to walk without limping. A limp would have ruined him, marked him at the start.
        He paced back and forth in his room, keeping his foot limber, stopping now and again to look at his reflection in the mirror.
        He thought he was a handsome man.
        He spoke to his reflection, too. He said, “Jeremy, you're just right for the part of the avenging angel. You've got a righteous jawline, a look of strength about you, of tremendous competence.”
        Jeremy was not his real name. Sometimes, he forgot this. He had been talking to the nonexistent Jeremy for years now and, at times, he felt that he was Jeremy and no one else.
        He liked being Jeremy.
        Jeremy was colorful and daring.
        And composed.
        Jeremy was afraid of nothing.
        Jeremy had the courage to strike out at those who deserved to suffer, had the tremendous, admirable strength of character required for him to act as both judge and jury, to mete out the proper punishment, no matter how severe it had to be. He had a knack for seeing, at a glance, who had led a life that was far too easy; he had a talent for picking those who simply must have their lives balanced by some pain. God had meant everyone to live through some pain, even the rich. Jeremy could act as God's instrument. He could put people in their place, he sure could, real fast.
        And he would.
        Soon.
        Maybe tonight yet.
        “Jeremy,” he told the mirror, “this is a big night for you. Tonight, you're going to make fools of everyone. You're going to make fools of Saine and Peterson and Mills and Dalton and everyone else in this house. Not to mention Kenneth Blenwell, or the vacationing Doughertys, who're going to look like even bigger fools…”
        He chuckled to himself.
        He was happy.
        He was a child on Christmas morning, with a single gift to give: death. He would give them death, just punishment, pain.
        He stood before the mirror a moment longer, talking to himself, to his. Jeremy-self. As before, when he named those he would make fools of, he included his own, real name in the list. After all, when he was Jeremy, he was not his real self; he hated his real self as much as he hated nearly everyone else on Distingue. He was only Jeremy now, no one else. When Jeremy mentioned the killer's real name, real self, he spoke of another individual, someone else altogether. And when the murders were committed, and when Jeremy faded out,