Lightning

the guy, and didn't want publicity, so you left?"
    Impatient, the stranger raised his voice. "An armed man just happens to stroll by while the robbery's in progress and decides to be a hero? The cops won't believe a cockeyed story like that."
    "That's what happened—"
    "But they won't buy it! Listen, they'll start thinking maybe
you
shot the junkie. Since you don't own a gun, at least not according to public record, they'll wonder if maybe it was an illegal weapon and if you disposed of it after you shot this guy, then cooked up a crazy story about some Lone Ranger type walking in and saving your ass."
    "I'm a respectable businessman with a good reputation."
    In the stranger's eyes a peculiar sadness arose, a haunted look. "Bob, you're a nice man… but you're a little naive sometimes."
    "What're you—"
    The stranger held up a hand to silence him. "In a crunch a man's reputation never counts for as much as it ought to. Most people are good-hearted and willing to give a man the benefit of the doubt, but the poisonous few are eager to see others brought down, ruined." His voice had fallen to a whisper, and although he continued to look at Bob, he seemed to be seeing other places, other people. "Envy, Bob. Envy eats them alive. If you had money, they'd envy you that. But since you don't, they envy you for having such a good, bright, loving daughter. They envy you for just being a happy man. They envy you for
not
envying them. One of the greatest sorrows of human existence is that some people aren't happy merely to be alive but find their happiness only in the misery of others."
    The charge of naivete was one that Bob could not refute, and he knew the stranger spoke the truth. He shivered.
    After a moment of silence, the man's haunted expression gave way to a look of urgency again. "And when the cops decide you're lying about the Lone Ranger who saved you, then they'll begin to wonder if maybe the junkie wasn't here to rob you at all, if maybe you knew him, had a falling out with him over something, even
planned
his murder and tried to make it look like a robbery. That's how cops think, Bob. Even if they can't pin this on you, they'll try so hard that they'll make a mess of your life. Do you want to put Laura through that?"
    "No."
    "Then do it my way."
    Bob nodded. "I will. Your way. But who the hell are you?"
    "That doesn't matter. We don't have time for it anyway." He stepped behind the counter and stooped in front of Laura, face to face with her. "Did you understand what I told your father? If the police ask you what happened—"
    "You were with that man," she said, pointing in the general direction of the corpse.
    "That's right."
    "You were his friend," she said, "but then you started arguing about me, though I'm not sure why, 'cause I didn't do anything—"
    "It doesn't matter why, honey," the stranger said.
    Laura nodded. "And the next thing you shot him and ran out with all our money and drove away, and I was very scared."
    The man looked up at Bob. "Eight years old, huh?"
    "She's a smart girl."
    "But it'd still be best if the cops didn't question her much."
    "I won't let them."
    "If they do," Laura said, "I'll just cry and cry till they stop."
    The stranger smiled. He stared at Laura so lovingly that he made Bob uneasy. His manner was not that of the pervert who had wanted to take her into the storeroom; his expression was tender, affectionate. He touched her cheek. Astonishingly, tears shimmered in his eyes. He blinked, stood. "Bob, put that money away. Remember, I left with it."
    Bob realized the wad of cash was still in his hand. He jammed it into his pants pocket, and his loose apron concealed the bulge.
    The stranger unlocked the door and put up the shade. "Take care of her, Bob. She's special." Then he dashed into the rain, letting the door stand open behind him, and got into the Buick. The tires squealed as he pulled out of the parking lot.
    The radio was on, but Bob heard it for the first time since "The End of the World" had been playing, before the junkie had been shot. Now Shelley Fabares was singing "Johnny Angel."
    Suddenly he heard the rain again, not just as a dull background hiss and patter but really
heard
it, beating furiously on the windows and on the roof of the apartment above. In spite of the wind rushing through the open door, the stink of blood and urine was abruptly far worse than it had been a moment ago, and just as precipitously, as if coming out of a trance of terror and regaining