Mr. Murder

even illusory, fate might intervene to balance the scales.
        To the ancient Greeks, Fate was personified in the form of three sisters, Clotho, who spun the thread of life, Lachesis, who measured the length of the thread, and Atropos, smallest of the three but the most powerful, who snipped the thread at her whim.
        Sometimes, to Marty, that seemed a logical way to look at things.
        He could imagine the faces of those white-robed women in more detail than he could recall his own Mission Viejo neighbors. Clotho had a kind face with merry eyes, reminiscent of the actress Angela Lansbury, and Lachesis was as cute as Goldie Hawn but with a saintly aura.
        Ridiculous, but that's how he saw them. Atropos was a bitch, beautiful but cold-pinched mouth, anthracite-black eyes.
        The trick was to remain in the good graces of the first two sisters without drawing the attention of the third.
        Five years ago, in the guise of a blood disorder, Atropos had descended from her celestial home to take a whack at the thread of Charlotte's life and, thankfully, had failed to cut it all the way through.
        But this goddess answered to many names besides Atropos, cancer, cerebral hemorrhage, coronary thrombosis, fire, earthquake, poison, homicide, and countless others. Now perhaps she was paying them a return visit under one of her many pseudonyms, with Marty as her target instead of Charlotte.
        Frequently, the vivid imagination of a novelist was a curse.
        A whirring-clicking noise suddenly arose from the shadows on Charlotte's side of the room, startling Marty. As low and menacing as a rattlesnake's warning. Then he realized what it was, one half of the gerbil's big cage was occupied by an exercise wheel, and the restless rodent was running furiously in place.
        "Go to sleep, Wayne," he said softly.
        He took one more look at his girls, then stepped out of the room and pulled the door shut quietly behind him.
        He reaches Topeka at three o'clock in the morning.
        He is still drawn toward the western horizon as a migrating creature might be pulled relentlessly southward with the approach of winter, answering a call that is soundless, a beacon that can't be seen, as though it is the trace of iron in his very blood that responds to the unknown magnet.
        Exiting the freeway on the outskirts of the city, he scouts for another car.
        Somewhere there are people who know the name John Larrington, the identity under which he rented the Ford. When he does not show up in Seattle for whatever job awaits him, his strange and faceless superiors will no doubt come looking for him. He suspects they have substantial resources and influence, he must shed every connection with his past and leave the hunters with no means of tracking him.
        He parks the rental Ford in a residential neighborhood and walks three blocks, trying the doors of the cars at the curb. Only half are locked.
        He is prepared to hot-wire a car if it comes to that, but in a blue Honda he finds the keys tucked behind the sun visor.
        After driving back to the Ford and transferring his suitcases and the pistol to the Honda, he cruises in ever-widening circles, searching for a twenty-four-hour-a-day convenience store.
        He has no map of Topeka in his head because no one expected him to go there. Unnerved to see street signs on which all of the names are unfamiliar, he has no knowledge of where any route will lead.
        He feels more of an outcast than ever.
        Within fifteen minutes he locates a convenience store and nearly empties the shelves of Slim Jims, cheese crackers, peanuts, miniature doughnuts, and other food that will be easy to eat while driving.
        He is already starved. If he is going to be on the road for as much as another two days-assuming he might be drawn all the way to the coast-he will need considerable supplies. He does not want to waste time in restaurants, yet his accelerated metabolism requires him to eat larger meals and more frequently than other people eat.
        After adding three six-packs of Pepsi to his purchase, he goes to the checkout counter, where the sole clerk says, "You must be having an all-night party or something."
        "Yeah."
        When he pays the bill, he realizes the three hundred bucks in his wallet-the amount of cash he always has with him on a job-will not take him far. He can no longer