Mr. Murder

they crossed the street through the snow, Oslett didn't care if a dozen nosy neighbors were at their windows. The situation was already blown wide open and couldn't be salvaged. He, Clocker, and Spicer would clear out, with their dead, in less than ten minutes, and after that no one would ever be able to prove they'd been there.
        They walked boldly onto the elder Stillwaters' porch. Oslett rang the bell. No one answered. He rang it again and tried the door, which proved to be unlocked. From across the street it would appear as if Jim or Alice Stillwater had opened up and invited them inside.
        In the foyer, Clocker closed the front door behind them and drew his Colt.357 Magnum from his shoulder holster. They stood for a few seconds, listening to the silent house.
        "Be at peace, Alfie," Oslett said, even though he doubted that their bad boy was still hanging around the premises. When there was no ritual response to that command, he repeated the four words louder than before.
        Silence prevailed.
        Cautiously they moved deeper into the house-and found the dead couple in the first room they checked. Stillwater's parents.
        Each of them somewhat resembled the writer-and Alfie, too, of course.
        During a swift search of the house, repeating the command phrase before they went through each new doorway, the only thing of interest they found was in the laundry. The small room reeked of gasoline. What Alfie had been up to was made apparent by the scraps of cloth, funnel, and partly empty box of detergent that littered the counter beside the sink.
        "He's taking no chances this time," Oslett said. "Going after Stillwater as if it's war."
        They had to stop the boy-and fast. If he killed the Stillwater family or even just the writer himself, he would make it impossible to implement the murder-suicide scenario which would so neatly tie up so many loose ends. And depending on what insane, fiery spectacle he had in mind, he might draw so much attention to himself that keeping his existence a secret and returning him to the fold would become impossible.
        "Damn," Oslett said, shaking his head.
        "Sociopathic clones," Clocker said, almost as if trying to be irritating, "are always big trouble."
        Sipping hot chocolate, Paige took her turn at guard duty by the front window.
        Marty was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with Charlotte and Emily, playing with a deck of cards they'd gotten from the game chest. It was the least animated game of Go Fish that Paige had ever seen, conducted without comment or argument. Their faces were grim, as if they weren't playing Go Fish at all but consulting a Tarot deck that had nothing but bad news for them.
        Studying the snowswept day outside, Paige suddenly knew that both she and Marty shouldn't be waiting in the cabin. Turning away from the window, she said, "This is wrong."
        "What?" he asked, looking up from the cards.
        "I'm going outside."
        "For what?"
        "That rock formation over there, under the trees, halfway out toward the county road. I can lie down in there and still see the driveway."
        Marty dropped his hand of cards. "What sense does that make?"
        "Perfect sense. If he comes in the front way, like we both think he will-like he has to-he'll go right past me, straight to the cabin.
        I'll be behind him. I can pump a couple of rounds into the back of the bastard's head before he knows what's happening."
        Getting to his feet, shaking his head, Marty said, "No, it's too risky."
        "If we both stay inside here, it'll be like trying to defend a fort."
        "A fort sounds good to me."
        "Don't you remember all those movies about the cavalry in the Old West, defending the fort? Sooner or later, no matter how strong the place was, the Indians overran it and got inside."
        "That's just in the movies."
        "Yeah, but maybe he's seen them too. Come here," she insisted.
        When he joined her at the window, she pointed to the rocks, which were barely visible in the sable shadows under the pines. "It's perfect."
        "I don't like it."
        "It'll work."
        "I don't like it."
        "You know it's right."
        "Okay, so maybe it's right, but I still don't have to like it," he said sharply.
        "I'm going out."
        He searched her eyes, perhaps looking for signs of fear