Mr. Murder

desperately. "What's happening, what's wrong?"
        Hour after hour, the speedometer needle quivers between 90 and 100 on the gauge. The steering wheel vibrates under his palms until his hands ache. The Honda shimmies, rattles. The engine issues a thin unwavering shriek, unaccustomed to being pushed so hard.
        Rust-red, bone-white, sulfur-yellow, the purple of desiccated veins, as dry as ashes, as barren as Mars, pale sand with reptilian spines of mottled rock, speckled with withered clumps of mesquite, the cruel fastness of the Mojave Desert has a majestic barrenness.
        Inevitably, the killer thinks of old movies about settlers moving west in wagon trains. He realizes for the first time how much courage was required to make their journey in those rickety vehicles, trusting their lives to the health and stamina of dray horses.
        Movies. California. He is in California, home of the movies.
        Move, move, move.
        From time to time, an involuntary mewling escapes him. The sound is like that of an animal dying of dehydration but within sight of a watering hole, dragging itself toward the pool that offers salvation but afraid it will perish before it can slake its burning thirst.
        Paige and Charlotte were already in the garage, getting in the car, when they both cried, "Emily, hurry up!"
        As Emily turned away from the breakfast table and started toward the open door that connected the kitchen to the garage, Marty caught her by the shoulder and turned her to face him. "Wait, wait, wait."
        "Oh," she said, "I forgot," and puckered up for a smooch.
        "That comes second," he said.
        "What's first?"
        "This." He dropped to one knee, bringing himself to her level, and with a paper towel he blotted away her milk mustache.
        "Oh, gross," she said.
        "It was cute."
        "More like Charlotte."
        He raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"
        "She's the messy one."
        "Don't be unkind."
        "She knows it, Daddy."
        "Nevertheless."
        From the garage, Paige called again.
        Emily kissed him, and he said, "Don't give your teacher any trouble."
        "No more than she gives me," Emily answered.
        Impulsively he pulled her against him, hugged her fiercely, reluctant to let her go. The clean fragrance of Ivory soap and baby shampoo breath.
        He had never smelled anything sweeter, better. Her back was frightfully small under the flat of his hand. She was so delicate, he could feel the beat of her young heart both through her chest-which pressed against him-and through her scapula and spine, against which his hand lay. He was overcome with the feeling that something terrible was going to happen and that he would never see her again if he allowed her to leave the house.
        He had to let her go, of course-or explain his reluctance, which he could not do.

    Honey, see, the problem is, something's wrong in Daddy's head, and I keep getting these scary thoughts, like I'm going to lose you and Charlotte and Mommy. Now, I know nothing's going to happen, not really, because the problem is all in my head, like a big tumor or something.
        Can you spell "tumor"? Do you know what it is? Well, I'm going to see a doctor and have it cut out, just cut out that bad old tumor, and then I won't be so frightened for no reason…
        He dared say nothing of the sort. He would only scare her.
        He kissed her soft, warm cheek and let her go.
        At the door to the garage, she paused and looked back at him.
        "More poem tonight?"
        "You bet."
        She said, "Reindeer salad…"
        "… reindeer soup…"
        "… all sorts of tasty…"
        "… reindeer goop," Marty finished.
        "You know what, Daddy?"
        "What?"
        "You're soooo silly."
        Giggling, Emily went into the garage. The ca-chunk of the door closing behind her was the most final sound Marty had ever heard.
        He stared at the door, willing himself not to rush to it and jerk it open and shout at them to get back into the house.
        He heard the big garage door rolling up.
        The car engine turned over, chugged, caught, raced a little as Paige pumped the accelerator before shifting into reverse.
        Marty hurried out of the kitchen, through the dining room, into the living room. He went to one of the front windows from which he could see the driveway. The