Mr. Murder

across his face, blinding him. He inhales it, burning his throat, lungs. His breath is choked off before he can cry out.
        Blur of motion now. Like a machine. Programmed. In high gear.
        Ice axe. Freed from his waistband. Smooth, powerful arc. Swung with great force. To the right temple. A crunch. The guy drops hard.
        Jerk the weapon loose.
        Second man. Second chair. Wearing earphones. Sitting at a bank of equipment behind the cab, his back to the door. Headset muffles his partner's wheezing. Senses commotion. Feels the van rock when first operative goes down. Swivels around. Surprised, reaching too late for gun in shoulder holster. Makeshift Mace showers his face.
        Move, move, confront, challenge, grapple, and prevail.
        First man on the floor, spasming helplessly. Step on him, over him, keep moving, moving, a blur, straight at the second man.
        Axe. Again. Axe. Axe.
        Silence. Stillness.
        The body on the floor is no longer spasming.
        That went nicely. No screams, no shouts, no gunfire.
        He knows he is a hero, and the hero always wins. Nevertheless, it's a relief when triumph is achieved rather than just anticipated.
        He is more relaxed than he has been all day.
        Returning to the rear door, he leans out and looks around the street.
        No one is in sight. Everything is quiet.
        He pulls the door shut, drops the ice axe on the floor, and regards the dead men with gratitude. He feels so close to them because of what they have shared. "Thank you," he says tenderly.
        He searches both bodies. Although they have identification in their wallets, he assumes it's phony. He finds nothing of interest except seventy-six dollars in cash, which he takes.
        A quick examination of the van turns up no files, notebooks, memo pads, or other papers that might identify the organization that owns the vehicle. They run a tight, clean operation.
        A shoulder holster and revolver hang from the back of the chair in which the first operative had been sitting. It's a Smith & Wesson.38 Chief's Special.
        He strips out of his varsity jacket, puts on the holster over his cranberry sweater, adjusts it until he is comfortable, and dons the jacket once more. He draws the revolver and breaks open the cylinder.
        Case heads gleam. Fully loaded. He snaps the cylinder shut and holsters the weapon again.
        The dead man on the floor has a leather pouch on his belt. It contains two speedloaders.
        He takes this and affixes it to his own belt, which gives him more ammunition than he should need merely to deal with the false father.
        However, his faceless superiors seem to have caught up with him, and he cannot guess what troubles he may encounter before he has regained his name, his family, and the life stolen from him.
        The second dead man, slumped in his chair, chin on his chest, never managed to draw the gun he was reaching for. It remains in the holster.
        He removes it. Another Chief's Special. Because of the short barrel, it fits in the relatively roomy pocket of the varsity jacket.
        Acutely aware that he is running out of time, he leaves the van and closes the door behind him.
        The first snowflakes of the storm spiral out of the northwest sky on a chill breeze. They are few in number, at first, but large and lacy.
        As he crosses the street toward the white clapboard house with green shutters, he sticks out his tongue to catch some of the flakes.
        He probably had done the same thing when, as a boy living on this street, he had delighted in the first snow of the season.
        He has no memories of snowmen, snowball battles with other kids, or sledding. Though he must have done those things, they have been expunged along with so much else, and he has been denied the sweet joy of nostalgic recollection.
        A flagstone walkway traverses the winter-brown front lawn.
        He climbs three steps and crosses the deep porch.
        At the door, he is paralyzed by fear. His past lies on the other side of this threshold. The future as well. Since his sudden self-awareness and desperate break for freedom, he has come so far.
        This may be the most important moment of his campaign for justice. The turning point. Parents can be staunch allies in times of trouble.
        Their faith.
        Their trust. Their undying love. He is