Mr. Murder

Charlotte and Emily not to slam their door until the act was done and the echo of it reverberated through the surrounding trees.
        Paige hadn't gotten into the BMW yet. She was standing at her open door, watching the house, the Mossberg raised and ready.
        Where were the damn keys?
        He leaned forward, crunching down, trying to feel farther back under the seat.
        As Marty's fingers closed over the keys, the Mossberg boomed.
        He snapped his head up as an answering shot missed Paige, passed through the open car door, and smashed into the dashboard inches from his face.
        A gauge shattered, showering him with shards of plas "Down!" he shouted to the girls in the back seat.
        Paige fired the shotgun and again drew return fire.
        The Other stood in the gaping hole where the front door of the cabin had been, framed by jagged ruins, his right arm extended as he squeezed off the shot. Then he ducked back into the living room, perhaps to reload.
        Though the shotgun would keep him from coming any closer, he was too far away to be greatly hurt by it, especially considering his unusual recuperative abilities. His handgun, however, packed a solid punch at that distance.
        Marty jammed the key in the ignition. The engine turned over without a protest. He released the hand brake, put the BMW in gear.
        Paige got in the car, pulled her door shut.
        He looked over his shoulder through the rear window, reversed past the front of the cabin, and then turned into the tire tracks left by the Jeep on its kamikaze run.
        "Here he comes!" Paige cried.
        Still backing up, Marty glanced through the windshield and saw The Other bounding off the porch, down the steps, across the yard, a wine bottle in each hand, rag wicks in the necks, flames leaping off both.
        Jesus. They were burning furiously, might explode in his hands at any second, but he seemed to have no concern for his own safety, a savage and almost gleeful look on his face, as if he was born for this, nothing but this. He skidded to a stop and cocked his right arm like a quarterback ready to pass the ball to his receiver.
        "Go!" Paige shouted.
        Marty was already going, and he didn't need encouragement to go faster.
        Instead of turning to look through the back window, he used the rearview mirror to be sure he stayed on the driveway and didn't angle off into any trees or ditches or jutting rocks, so he was aware of the first bottle arcing through the snow and shattering against the BMW's front bumper. Most of the contents splashed harmlessly onto the driveway, where a patch of snow seemed to burst into flames.
        The second bottle slammed into the hood, six inches from the windshield, directly in front of Paige. It shattered, the contents exploded, burning fluid washed the glass, and for a moment the only forward view they had was of seething fire.
        In the back, seatbelts engaged, staying down, holding tightly to each other, the girls shrieked in terror.
        Marty couldn't do anything to reassure them except to keep backing up, as fast as he dared, hoping the fire on the hood would burn out and the heat wouldn't cause the windshield to implode.
        Halfway to the county road. Two-thirds. Accelerating. A hundred yards to go.
        The blaze on the windshield was extinguished almost at once, as the thin film of gasoline on the glass was consumed, but flames continued to leap off the hood and off the fender on the passenger side. The paint had ignited.
        Through fire and billowing black smoke, Marty saw The Other running toward them again, not as fast as the car but not a whole lot slower, either.
        Paige fished two shotgun shells out of a pocket of her ski jacket and stuffed them into the magazine tube, replacing the rounds she had expended.
        Sixty yards to the county road.
        Fifty.
        Forty.
        Because of intervening trees and vegetation, Marty could not see downhill, and he was afraid he'd reverse into the path of an oncoming vehicle. Yet he didn't dare slow down.
        The roar of the BMW prevented him from hearing the shot. A bullet hole appeared, with a sharp snap, in the windshield below the rearview mirror, between him and Paige. An instant later a second round drilled the windshield, three inches to the right of the first, so close to Paige it was a miracle she wasn't hit. With the