Mr. Murder

final throes of a story, he usually spent as much time as possible at work because distractions were ruinous to the narrative momentum.
        Besides, he was uncharacteristically apprehensive about driving. When he thought back, he could account for the time minute by minute since he'd left the doctor and was sure he hadn't called Paige while in a fugue behind the wheel of the Ford. Of course, a fugue victim had no memory of being afflicted, so even a meticulous reconstruction of the past hour might not reveal the truth.
        Researching On hundreds of miles and interacted with dozens of people while in a disassociative condition yet later could recall nothing they'd done.
        The danger wasn't as grave as drunken driving… though operating a ton and a half of steel at high speed in an altered state of consciousness wasn't smart.
        Nevertheless, instead of going home, he went to the Mission Viejo Mall.
        Much of the workday was already shot. And he was too restless to read or watch TV until Paige and the girls got home.
        When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping, so he browsed for books and records, buying a novel by Ed McBain and a CD by Alan Jackson, hoping that such mundane activities would help him forget his troubles.
        He strolled past the cookie shop twice, coveting the big ones with chocolate chips and pecans but finding the will power to resist their allure.
        The world is a better place, he thought, if you're ignorant of good nutrition.
        When he left the mall, sprinkles of cold rain were painting camouflage patterns on the concrete sidewalk. Lightning flashed as he ran for the Ford, caissons of thunder rolled across the embattled sky, and the sprinkles became heavy volleys just as he pulled the door shut and settled behind the steering wheel.
        Driving home, Marty took considerable pleasure in the glimmer of rain-silvered streets, the burbling splash of the tires churning through deep puddles-and the sight of swaying palm fronds, which seemed to be combing the gray tresses of the stormy sky and which reminded him of certain Somerset Maugham stories and an old Bogart film. Because rain was an infrequent visitor to drought-stricken California, the benefit and novelty outweighed the inconvenience.
        He parked in the garage and entered the house by the connecting door to the kitchen, enjoying the damp heaviness of the air and the scent of ozone that always accompanied the start of a storm.
        In the shadowy kitchen, the luminous green display of the electronic clock on the stove read 4,10. Paige and the girls might be home in twenty minutes.
        He switched on lamps and sconces as he moved from room to room. The house never felt homier than when it was warm and well lighted while rain drummed on the roof and the gray pall of a storm veiled the world beyond every window. He decided to start the gas-log fire in the family-room fireplace and to lay out all of the fixings for hot chocolate so it could be made immediately after Paige and the girls arrived.
        First, he went upstairs to check the fax and answering machines in his office. By now Paul Guthridge's secretary should have called with a schedule of test appointments at the hospital.
        He also had a wild hunch his literary agent had left a message about a sale of rights in one foreign territory or another, or maybe news of an offer for a film option, a reason to celebrate.
        Curiously, the storm had improved his mood instead of darkening it, probably because inclement weather tended to focus the mind on the pleasures of home, though it was always his nature to find reasons to be upbeat even when common sense suggested pessimism was a more realistic reaction. He was never able to stew in gloom for long, and since Saturday he'd had enough negative thoughts to last a couple of years.
        Entering his office, he reached for the wall switch to flick on the overhead light but left it untouched, surprised that the stained-glass lamp and a work lamp were aglow. He always extinguished lights when leaving the house. Before he'd gone to the doctor's office, however, he'd been inexplicably oppressed by the bizarre feeling of being in the path of an unknown Juggernaut, and evidently he'd not had sufficient presence of mind to switch off the lamps.
        Remembering the panic attack at its worst, in the garage, when he'd been nearly incapacitated by terror,