Mr. Murder

them, Marty would have been disappointed if he hadn't been importuned to do another reading.
        By the time her father reached the end of the last verse, Emily was only able to murmur sleepily, "Sisters." Charlotte was already snoring softly.
        Marty quietly returned the reading chair to the corner from which he had gotten it. He checked the locks on the door and the windows, then made sure there were no gaps in the drapes through which someone could look into the room from outside.
        As Paige tucked the blankets around Emily's shoulders, then around Charlotte's, she kissed each of them goodnight. The love she felt for them was so intense, like a weight on her chest, that she could not draw a deep breath.
        When she and Marty retired to the adjoining room, taking the guns with them, they didn't turn off the nightstand lamp, and they left the connecting door wide open. Nevertheless, her daughters seemed dangerously far from her.
        By unspoken agreement, she and Marty stretched out side by side on the same queen-size bed. The thought of being separated by even a few feet was intolerable.
        One bedside lamp was lit, but he switched it off. Enough light came through the door from the adjoining unit to reveal the larger part of their own room. Shadows attended every corner, but deeper darkness was kept at bay.
        They held hands and stared at the ceiling as if their fate could be read in the curiously portentous patterns of light and shadow on the plaster.
        It wasn't only the ceiling, during the past few hours, virtually everything Paige looked at seemed to be filled with omens, menacingly significant.
        Neither she nor Marty undressed for the night. Although it was difficult to believe they could have been followed without being aware of it, they wanted to be able to move fast.
        The rain had stopped a couple of hours ago, but aqueous rhythms still lulled them. The motel was on a bluff above the Pacific, and the cadenced crashing of the surf was, in its metronomic certainty, a soothing and peaceful sound.
        "Tell me something," she said, speaking softly to prevent her voice from carrying into the other room.
        He sounded tired. "Whatever the question is, I probably don't have the answer."
        "What happened over there?"
        "Just now? In the other room?"
        "Yeah."
        "Magic."
        "I'm serious."
        "So am I," Marty said. "You can't analyze the deeper effects that storytelling has on us, can't figure out the why and how, any more than King Arthur could understand how Merlin could do and know the things he did."
        "We came here shattered, frightened. The kids were so silent, half numb with fear. You and I were snapping at each other-"
        "Not snapping."
        "Yes, we were."
        "Okay," he admitted, "we were, just a little."
        "Which, for us, is a lot. All of us were… uneasy with one another. In knots."
        "I don't think it was that bad."
        She said, "Listen to a family counselor with some experience it was that bad. Then you tell a story, a lovely nonsense poem but nonsense nonetheless… and everyone's more relaxed. It helps us knit together somehow. We have fun, we laugh. The girls wind down, and before you know it, they're able to sleep."
        For a while neither of them spoke.
        The metrical susurration of the night surf was like the slow and steady beating of a great heart.
        When Paige closed her eyes, she imagined she was a little girl again, curled in her mother's lap as she had so seldom been allowed to do, her head against her mother's breast, one ear attuned to the woman's hidden heart, listening intently for some small sound that was not solely biological, a special whisper that she might recognize as the precious sound of love. She'd never heard anything but the lub-dub of atrium and ventricle, hollow, mechanical.
        Yet she'd been soothed. Perhaps on a deep subconscious level, listening to her mother's heart, she had recalled her nine months in the womb, during which that same iambic beat had surrounded her twenty-four hours a day. In the womb there is a perfect peace never to be found again, as long as we remain unborn, we know nothing of love and cannot know the misery that arises from being deprived of it.
        She was grateful that she had Marty, Charlotte, Emily. But, as long as she lived, moments like this would occur,