Mr. Murder

good publicity."
        "That was Nixon's first reaction to Watergate, wasn't it?"
        "We actually take two subscriptions to people. I'll give you one of our copies when you leave." Guthridge grinned impishly. "You know, until I saw the magazine, I never realized what a really scary guy you are."
        Marty groaned. "I was afraid of this."
        "It's not bad really. Knowing you, I suspect you'll find it a little embarrassing. But it won't kill you."
        "What is going to kill me, Doc?"
        Frowning, Guthridge said, "Based on this exam, I'd say old age.
        From all outward signs, you're in good shape."
        "The key word is 'outward,"
        " Marty said.
        "Right. I'd like you to have some tests. It'll be on an out-patient basis at Hog Hospital."
        "I'm ready," Marty said grimly, though he was not ready at all.
        "Oh, not today. They won't have an opening until at least tomorrow, probably Wednesday."
        "What're you looking for with these tests?"
        "Brain tumors, lesions. Severe blood chemistry imbalances. Or maybe a shift in the position of the pineal gland, putting pressure on surrounding brain tissue which could cause symptoms similar to some of yours. Other things. But don't worry about it because I'm pretty sure we're going to draw a blank. Most likely, your problem is simply stress."
        "That's what Paige said."
        "See? You could've saved my fee."
        "Be straight with me, Doc."
        "I am being straight."
        "I don't mind saying this scares me."
        Guthridge nodded sympathetically. "Of course it does. But listen, I've seen symptoms far more bizarre and severe than yours-and it turns out to be stress."
        "Psychological."
        "Yes, but nothing long-term. You aren't going mad, either, if that's what you're worried about. Try to relax, Marty.
        We'll know where we stand by the end of the week." When he needed it, Guthridge could call upon a demeanor as reassuring-and a bedside manner as soothing-as that of any gray-haired medical eminence in a three-piece suit. He slipped Marty's shirt from one of the clothes hooks on the back of the door and handed it to him. The faint gleam in his eye betrayed another shift in mood, "Now, when I book time at the hospital, what patient name should I give to them? Martin Stillwater or Martin Murder?"
        He explores his home. He is eager to learn about his new family.
        Because he is most intrigued by the thought of himself as a father, he begins in the girls' bedroom. For a while he stands just inside the door, studying the two distinctly different sides of the room.
        He wonders which of his young daughters is the effervescent one who decorates her walls with posters of dazzlingly colorful hotair balloons and leaping dancers, who keeps a gerbil and other pets in wire cages and glass terrariums. He still holds the photograph of his wife and children, but the smiling faces in it reveal nothing of their personalities.
        The second daughter is apparently contemplative, favoring quiet landscapes on her walls. Her bed is neatly made, the pillows plumped just-so. Her storybooks are shelved in orderly fashion, and her corner desk is free of clutter.
        When he slides open the mirrored closet door, he finds a similar division in the hanging clothes. Those to the left are arranged both according to the type of garment and color. Those to the right are in no particular order, askew on the hangers, and jammed against one another in a way that virtually assures wrinkling.
        Because the smaller jeans and dresses are on the left side of the closet, he can be sure that the neat and contemplative girl is the younger of the two. He raises the photograph and stares at her. The pixie. So cute. He still does not know whether she is Charlotte or Emily.
        He goes to the desk in the older daughter's side of the room and stares down at the clutter, magazines, schoolbooks, one yellow hair ribbon, a butterfly barrette, a few scattered sticks of Black Jack chewing gum, colored pencils, a tangled pair of pink kneesocks, an empty Coke can, coins, and a Game Boy.
        He opens one of the textbooks, then another. Both of them have the same name penciled in front, Charlotte Stillwater.
        The older and less disciplined girl is Charlotte. The younger girl who keeps her belongings neat is Emily.
        Again, he looks at their faces