Mr. Murder

when he talked, yet he was all but babbling in his urgent desire to get them safely out of the house, incoherent for perhaps the first time in his word-obsessed life. "A problem, a thing, Jesus, you know, like a thing that happened, some trouble"
        "Marty-"
        "Come on, over to the Delorios' place, all of you."
        He stepped across the threshold, into the dark garage, hit the Genie button, and the big door rumbled upward. He met Paige's eyes.
        "They'll be safe at the Delorios' place."
        Not bothering to pull her coat off the rack, Paige shepherded the girls past him, into the garage, toward the rising door.
        "Call the police," he shouted after her, wincing at the pain that a shout cost him.
        She glanced back at him, her face lined with worry.
        He said, "I'm all right, but we got a guy here, shot bad."
        "Come with us," she pleaded.
        "Can't. Call the police."
        "Marty-"
        "Go, Paige, just go!"
        She moved between Charlotte and Emily, took each of them by the hand, and led them out of the garage, into the downpour, turning to look back at him only once more.
        He watched until they reached the end of the driveway, checked left and right for traffic, and then started across the street.
        Step by step, as they moved away through the silver curtains of rain, they looked less like real people and more like three retreating spirits. He had the disconcertingly present feeling that he would never see them alive again, he knew it was nothing more than an irrational adrenaline hyped reaction to what he'd been through, but the fear took root in him and grew nevertheless.
        A cold wet wind invaded the deepest reaches of the garage, and the perspiration on Marty's face felt as if it had been instantly transformed into ice.
        He stepped back into the kitchen and pushed the door shut.
        Though he was shivering, half freezing, he craved a cold drink because his throat burned as if it harbored a kerosene fire.
        Maybe the man in the foyer was dying, having convulsions right that second, or a heart attack. He was in damned bad shape. So it would be a good idea to get in there and watch over him, in case CPR was necessary before the authorities arrived. Marty didn't care if the guy died-wanted him dead-but not until a lot of questions were answered and these recent events made at least some sense.
        But before he did anything else, he had to get a drink to soothe his throat. Right now, every swallow was torture. When the cops arrived, he would have to be prepared to do a lot of talking.
        Tap water didn't seem cold enough to do the trick, so he opened the refrigerator, which he could have sworn was a lot emptier than it had been earlier in the day, and grabbed a carton of milk. No, the idea of milk made him gag. Milk reminded him of blood because it was a bodily fluid, which was ridiculous, of course, but the events of the past hour were irrational, so it followed that some of his reactions would be irrational as well. He returned the carton to the shelf, reached for the orange juice, then saw the bottles of Corona and sixteen-ounce cans of Coors. Nothing had ever looked more desirable than those chilled beers. He grabbed one of the cans because it contained one-third more ounces than a bottle of Corona.
        The first long swallow fueled the fire in his throat instead of quenching it. The second hurt slightly less than the first, the third less than the second, and thereafter every sip was as soothing as medicated honey.
        With the pistol in one hand and the half-empty can of Coors in the other, shivering more at the memory of what had happened and at the prospect of what lay ahead than because of the iv her h went back through the house to the foyer.
        The Other was gone.
        Marty was so startled, he dropped the Coors. The can rolled behind him, spilling foamy beer on the hardwood floor of the living room.
        Although the can had slipped out of his grasp so easily, nothing short of hydraulic prybars could have forced him to let go of the gun.
        Broken balusters, a section of handrail, and splinters littered the foyer floor. Several Mexican tiles were cracked and chipped from the impact of hard oak and Smith & Wesson steel. No body.
        From the moment the double entered Marty's office, the waking day had drifted into nightmare without the usual