Mr. Murder

windows.
        Perhaps the van is only what it appears to be, but at first sight he's convinced it's a surveillance post. For one thing, it seems too aggressi2Jely recreational, flamboyant. With his training in surveillance techniques, he knows that sometimes such vans seek to declare their harmlessness by calling attention to themselves, because potential subjects of surveillance expect a stakeout vehicle to be discreet and would never imagine they were being watched from, say, a circus wagon. Then there's the matter of the mirrored windows on the side, which allow the people within to see without being seen, providing privacy that any vacationer might prefer but that is also ideal for undercover operatives.
        He does not slow as he approaches his parents' house, and he strives to show no interest in either the residence or the candy-apple red van. Scratching his forehead with his right hand, he also manages to cover his face as he passes those reflective view windows.
        . The occupants of the van, if any, must be employed by the, unknown people who manipulated him so ruthlessly until Kansas, City. They are a link to his mysterious superiors. He is as interested in them as in re-establishing contact with his beloved mother and father.
        Two blocks later, he turns right at the corner and heads back toward a shopping area near the center of town, where earlier he passed a sporting-goods store. Lacking a firearm and, in any event, unable to buy one with a silencer, he needs to obtain a couple of simple weapons.
        Hewalks to the door of the house in front of which both vehicles are parked. The flowers are not meant for anyone at this address. He hopes no one is home. If someone answers the door, he will pretend to discover that he has the wrong house, so he can return to the street with the arrangement still held in front of him.
        He is in luck. No one responds to the doorbell. He rings it several times and, through body language, exhibits impatience.
        He turns away from the door. He follows the front walk to the street.
        Looking through the spray of flowers and greenery that he holds in front of himself, he sees this side of the red van also sports two mirrored windows on the rear compartment. Considering how deserted and quiet the street is, he knows they are watching him, for want of anything better to do.
        That's okay. He's just a florist's frustrated deliveryman. They will see no reason to fear him. Better that they watch him, dismiss him, and turn their attention again to the white clapboard house.
        He angles past the side of the surveillance vehicle. However, instead of following the cracked and hoved sidewalk to the back of the florist's van, he steps off the curb in front of it and behind the red "fun truck."
        There is a smaller mirrored porthole in the back door of the surveillance vehicle, and in case they are still watching, he fakes an accident. He stumbles, lets the arrangement slip out of his hands, and sputters in anger as it smashes to ruin on the blacktop. "Oh, shit!
        Son of a bitch. Nice, real nice. Damn it, damn it, damn it."
        Even as the expletives are flying from him, he's dropping below the rear porthole and pulling the can of deicing chemical out of his jacket pocket. With his left hand, he grasps the door handle.
        If the door is locked, he will have revealed his intentions by the attempt to open it. Failing, he will be in deep trouble because they will probably have guns.
        They have no reason to expect an attack, however, and he assumes the door will be unlocked. He assumes correctly. The lever handle moves smoothly.
        He does not check to see if anyone has come out on the street and is watching him. Looking over his shoulder would only make him appear more suspicious.
        He jerks the door open. Clambering up into the comparatively dark interior of the van, before he is sure anyone's inside, he jams his index finger down on the nozzle of the aerosol can, sweeping it back and forth.
        A lot of electronic equipment fills the vehicle. Dimly lit control boards. Two swivel chairs bolted to the floor. Two men on the surveillance team.
        The nearest man appears to have gotten out of his chair and turned to the rear door a split second ago, intending to look through the porthole. He is startled as it flies open.
        The thick stream of deicing chemical splashes