Mr. Murder

in the way he imparted essential information to his patients. He was always direct and to the point.
        Even when Charlotte had been so ill, when some doctors might have soft-pedaled the more alarming possibilities to let the parents adjust slowly to the worst-case scenario, Paul had bluntly assessed her situation with Paige and Marty. He knew that no half-truth or false optimism should ever be mistaken for compassion. If Paul didn't appear to be more than ordinarily concerned about Marty's condition and symptoms-that was good news.
        "He gave me his spare copy of the new People," Marty said.
        "Uh-oh. You say that as if he handed you a bag of dog poop."
        "Well, it isn't what I was hoping for."
        "It's not as bad as you think," she said.
        "How do you know? You haven't even seen it yet."
        "But I know you and how you are about these things."
        "In the one photo, I look like the Frankenstein monster with a bad hangover."
        "I've always loved Boris Karloff."
        He sighed. "I suppose I can change my name, have some plastic surgery, and move to Brazil. But before I book a flight to Rio, do you want me to pick up the kids at school?"
        "I'll get them. They'll be an hour later today."
        "Oh, that's right, Monday. Piano lessons."
        "We'll be home by four-thirty, she said. "You can show me People and spend the evening crying on my shoulder."
        "To hell with that. I'll show you People and spend the evening kissing your breasts."
        "You're special, Marty."
        "I love you, too, kid."
        When she hung up, Paige was smiling. He could always make her smile, even in darker moments.
        She refused to think about the strange phone call, about illness or fugues or pictures that made him look like a monster.
        Appreciate the moment.
        She did just that for a minute or so, then called Millie on the intercom and asked her to send in Samantha and Sean Acheson.
        In his office, he sits in the executive chair behind the desk. It is comfortable. He can almost believe he has sat in it before.
        Nevertheless, he is nervous.
        He switches on the computer. It is an IBM PC with substantial hard-disk storage. A good machine. He can't remember purchasing it.
        After the system runs a data-management program, the oversize screen presents him with a "Main Selection Menu" that includes eight choices, mostly word-processing software. He chooses WordPerfect 5.1, and it is loaded.
        He doesn't recall being instructed in the operation of a computer or in the use of WordPerfect. This training is cloaked in amnesiac mists, as is his training in weaponry and his uncanny familiarity with the street systems of various cities. Evidently, his superiors believed he would need to understand basic computer operation and be familiar with certain software programs in order to carry out his assignments.
        The screen clears.
        Ready.
        In the lower right-hand corner of the blue screen, white letters and numbers tell him that he is in document one, on page one, at line one, in the tenth position.
        Ready. He is ready to write a novel. His work.
        He stares at the blank monitor, trying to start. Beginning is more difficult than he had expected.
        He has brought a bottle of Corona from the kitchen, suspecting he might need to lubricate his thoughts. He takes a long swallow.
        The beer is cold, refreshing, and he knows that it is just the thing to get him going.
        After finishing half the bottle, confidence renewed, he begins to type.
        He bangs out two words, then stops, The man The man what?
        He stares at the screen for a minute, then types "entered the room."
        But what room? In a house? An office building? What does the room look like? Who else is in it? What is this man doing in this room, why is he here? Does it have to be a room? Could he be entering a train, a plane, a graveyard?
        He deletes "entered the room" and replaces it with "was tall."
        So the man is tall. Does it matter that he is tall? Will tallness be important to the story? How old is he? What color are his eyes, his hair? Is he Caucasian, black, Asian? What is he wearing? As far as that goes, does it have to be a man at all? Couldn't it be a woman?
        Or a child?
        With these questions in mind, he clears the screen and starts the