Mr. Murder

if he hadn't inhaled since the double had first walked into the room.
        Maybe he hadn't. Shooting a man for real was a whole hell of a lot different from shooting a character in a novel, it almost seemed as if, in some magical fashion, part of the impact of the bullets on the target redounded on the shooter himself. His chest ached, he was dizzy, and his peripheral vision briefly succumbed to a thick seeping darkness which he pressed back with an act of will.
        He didn't dare pass out. He thought the other Marty must be badly wounded, dying, maybe dead. God, the spreading blood on his chest, scarlet blossoms, sudden roses. But he didn't know for sure.
        Maybe the wounds only looked mortal, maybe the brief glimpse he'd had was misleading, and maybe the double was not only still alive but strong enough to get out of the house and away. If the guy escaped and lived, sooner or later he'd be back, just as weird and crazy but even angrier, better prepared. Marty had to finish what he started before his double had a chance to do the same.
        He glanced at the phone. Dial 911. Get the police, then go after the wounded man.
        But the desk clock was beside the phone, and he saw the time-4,26.
        Paige and the girls. On their way home from school, later than usual, delayed by piano lessons. Oh, my God. If they came into the house and saw the other Marty, or found him in the garage, they'd think he was their Marty, and they'd run to him, frightened by his wounds, wanting to help, and maybe he would still be strong enough to harm them. Was the pistol that he dropped his only weapon? Can't make that assumption.
        Besides, the son of a bitch could get a knife out of the rack in the kitchen, the butcher's knife, hide it against his side, behind his back, let Emily get close, then jam it through her throat, or deep into Charlotte's belly.
        Every second counted. Forget 911. Waste of time. The cops wouldn't get there before Paige.
        As Marty rounded the desk, his legs were wobbly, but less so as he crossed the room toward the hallway. He saw blood splattered on the wall, oozing down the spines of his own books, staining his name. A creeping tide of darkness lapped at the edges of his vision again. He clenched his teeth and kept going.
        When he reached the double's pistol, he kicked it deeper into the room, farther from the doorway. That simple act gave him a surge of confidence because it seemed like something a cop would have the presence of mind to do-make it harder for the perp to regain his weapon.
        Maybe he could handle this, get through it, as strange and scary as it was, the blood and all. Maybe he would be okay.
        So nail the guy. Make sure he's down, all the way down and all the way out.
        To write his mystery novels, he'd done a lot of research into police procedures, not merely studying police-academy textbooks and training films but riding with uniformed cops on night patrols and hanging out with plainclothes detectives on and off the job. He knew perfectly well how best to go through a doorway under these circumstances.
        Don't be too confident. Figure the creep has another weapon besides the one he dropped, gun or knife. Stay low, clear that doorway fast.
        Easier to die in a doorway than anywhere else because every door opens on the unknown. Keep your gun in both hands as you move, arms in front of you, straight and locked, sweep left and right as you cross the threshold, swinging the gun to cover both flanks Then slip to one side or the othe rand keep your back against the wall as you move, so you always know your back is safe, only three sides to worry about.
        All of that wisdom flashed through his mind, as it might have passed through the mind of one of his hard-nosed police characters-yet he behaved like any panicked civilian, stumbling heedlessly into the upstairs hall, holding the pistol in only his right hand, arms loose, breathing explosively, making more of a target than a threat of himself, because when you came right down to it, he wasn't a cop, only an asshole who sometimes wrote about them. No matter how long you indulged the fantasy, you couldn't live the fantasy, you couldn't act like a cop in a pressurized situation unless you had trained like a cop. He had been as guilty as anyone of confusing reality and fiction, thinking he was as invincible as the hero on a printed page, and he'd been