Mr. Murder

of all experiences, more solemn and significant than birth. In those precious magic moments when his targets perish, he establishes relationships, meaningful bonds with other human beings, connections that briefly banish his alienation and make him feel included, needed, loved.
        Although these victims are always strangers to him-and in this case, he does not even know their names-the experience can be so poignant that tears fill his eyes. Tonight he manages to remain in complete control of himself.
        Reluctant to let the brief connection end, he places one hand tenderly against the woman's left cheek, which is unsoiled by blood and still pleasantly warm. He walks around the bed again and gives the dead man's shoulder a gentle squeeze, as if to say, Goodbye, old riend, goodbye.
        He wonders who they were. And why they had to die.
        Goodbye.
        Down he goes through the ghostly green house full of green shadows and radiant green forms. In the foyer he pauses to unscrew the silencer from the weapon and to holster both pieces.
        He removes the goggles with dismay. Without the lenses, he is transported from that magical alternate earth, where for a brief while he felt a kinship with other human beings, to this world in which he strives so hard to belong but remains forever a man apart.
        Exiting the house, he closes the door but doesn't bother locking it.
        He doesn't wipe off the brass knob, for he isn't concerned about leaving fingerprints.
        The cold breeze soughs and whistles through the portico.
        With rathke scraping and rustling, crisp dead leaves scurry in packs along the driveway.
        The sentinel trees now seem to be asleep at their posts. The killer senses that no one watches him from any of the blank black windows along the street. And even the interrogatory voice of the owl is silenced.
        Still moved by what he has shared, he does not hum his little nonsense tune on the return trip to the car.
        By the time he drives to the motor hotel where he is staying, he feels once more the weight of the oppressive apartheid in which he exists.
        Separate. Shunned. A solitary man.
        In his room he slips off the shoulder holster and puts it on the nightstand. The pistol is still in the clasp of that nylon-lined leather sleeve. He stares at the weapon for a while.
        In the bathroom he takes a pair of scissors from his shaving kit, closes the lid on the toilet, sits in the harsh fluorescent glare, and meticulously destroys the two bogus credit cards that he has used thus far on the assignment. He will fly out of Kansas City in the morning, employing yet another name, and on the drive to the airport he will scatter the tiny fragments of the cards along a few miles of highway.
        He returns to the nightstand.
        Stares at the pistol.
        After leaving the dead bodies at the job site, he should have broken the weapon down into as many pieces as possible. He should have disposed of its parts in widely separated locations, the barrel in a storm drain perhaps, half the frame in a creek, the other half in a Dumpster… until nothing was left. That is standard procedure, and he is at a loss to understand why he disregarded it this time.
        A low-grade guilt attends this deviation from routine, but he is not going to go out again and dispose of the weapon. In addition to the guilt, he feels… rebellious.
        He undresses and lies down. He turns off the bedside lamp and stares at the layered shadows on the ceiling.
        He is not sleepy. His mind is restless, and his thoughts jump from subject to subject with such unnerving rapidity that his hyperactive mental state soon translates into physical agitation. He fidgets, pulling at the sheets, readjusting blankets, pillows.
        Out on the interstate highway, large trucks roll ceaselessly toward far destinations. The singing of their tires, the grumble of their engines, and the whoosh of the air displaced by their passage form a background white noise that is usually soothing. He has often been lulled to sleep by this Gypsy music of the open road.
        Tonight, however, a strange thing happens. For reasons he can't understand, this familiar mosaic of sound isn't a lullaby but a siren song. He cannot resist it.
        He gets out of bed and crosses the dark room to the only window. He has an obscure night view of a weedy hillside and above