Mr. Murder

chains. They engaged these and also wedged straight backed desk chairs under the knobs.
        Neither Paige nor Marty could imagine any means by which The Other could possibly find them. They wedged the chairs under the knobs anyway.
        Tight.
        Incredibly, in spite of the terror they had been through, the kids were willing to let Marty convince them that the night away from home was a special treat. They were not accustomed to staying in motels, so everything from the coin-operated vibrating mattress to the free stationery to the miniature bars of fragrant soap was sufficiently exotic to fascinate them when Marty drew their attention to it.
        They were especially intrigued that the toilet seats in both rooms were wrapped by crisp white paper bands on which were printed assurances in three languages that the facilities had been sanitized.
        From this, Emily deduced that some motel guests must be "real pigs" who didn't know enough to clean up after themselves, and Charlotte speculated about whether such a special notice indicated that more than soap or Lysol had been used to sterilize the surfaces, perhaps flamethrowers or nuclear radiation.
        Marty was clever enough to realize that the more exotic flavors of soft drinks in the motel vending machines, which the girls did not get at home, would also delight them and lift their spirits. He bought chocolate Yoo-Hoo, Mountain Dew, Sparkling Grape, Cherry Crush, Tangerine Treat, and Pineapple Fizz. The four of them sat on the two queen-size beds in one of the rooms, containers of food spread around them on the mattresses, bottles of colorful sodas on the nightstands.
        Charlotte and Emily had to taste some of each beverage before the end of dinner, which made Paige queasy.
        Through her family-counseling practice, Paige had long ago learned that children were potentially more resilient than adults when it came to coping with trauma. That potential was best realized when they enjoyed a stable family structure, received large doses of affection, and believed themselves to be respected and loved. She felt a rush of pride that her own kids were proving so emotionally elastic and strong-then superstitiously and surreptitiously knocked one knuckle softly against the wooden headboard, silently asking God not to punish either her or the children for her hubris.
        Most surprisingly, once Charlotte and Emily had bathed, put on pajamas, and been tucked into the beds in the connecting room, they wanted Marty to conduct his usual story hour and continue the verses about Santa's evil twin. Paige recognized an uncomfortable-in fact, uncanny-similarity between the fanciful poem and recent frightening events in their own lives. She was sure Marty and the girls were also aware of the connection. Yet Marty seemed as pleased by the opportunity to share more verses as the kids were eager to hear them.
        He positioned a chair at the foot of-and exactly between-the two beds.
        In their rush to get packed and out of the house, he had even remembered to bring the notebook that was labeled Stories for Charlotte and Emily, with its clip-on, battery-powered reading lamp.
        He sat down and held the notebook at reading distance.
        The shotgun lay on the floor beside him.
        The Beretta was on the dresser, where Paige could reach it in two seconds flat.
        Marty waited for the silence to develop the proper quality of expectation.
        The scene was remarkably like the one Paige had witnessed so often in the girls' room at home, except for two differences. The queen-size beds dwarfed Charlotte and Emily, making them seem like children in a fairy tale, homeless waifs who had sneaked into a giant's castle to steal some of his porridge and enjoy his guest rooms. And the miniature reading lamp clipped to the notebook was not the sole source of light, one of the nightstand lamps was aglow as well, and would remain so all night-the girls' only apparent concession to fear.
        Surprised to discover that she, too, was looking forward with pleasure to the continuation of the poem, Paige sat on the foot of Emily's bed.
        She wondered what it was about storytelling that made people want it almost as much as food and water, even more so in bad times than good.
        Movies had never drawn more patrons than during the Great Depression.
        Book sales often improved in a recession. The need went