Mr. Murder

thatching of bougainvillea overhead, scores of drips and drizzles splashed into puddles as black as oil in the fading light.
        Upon that liquid blackness floated crimson blossoms in patterns that, though random, seemed consciously mysterious, as portentous and full of meaning as the ancient calligraphy of some long-dead Chinese mystic.
        Around the perimeter of the backyard-small and walled, as in most southern California neighborhoods-Indian laurels and clustered eugenias shivered miserably in the brisk wind. Near the northwest corner, eucalyptus lashed the air, shedding oblong leaves as smoky-silver as the wings of dragonflies. In the shadows cast by the trees-and behind several of the larger shrubs-were places in which a man could hide.
        Marty had no intention of searching there. If his quarry had dragged himself out of the house to cower in a chilly, sodden nest of jasmine and agapanthus, weak from IQSS of blood-which was most likely the case finding him was not urgent. It was more important to be sure he was not at that moment escaping unpursued.
        Long adapted to dry conditions and accustomed to only the water provided by the sprinkler system, choruses of toads sang from their hidden niches, scores of shrill voices that were usually charming but seemed eerie and threatening now. Above their aria rose the wail of distant but approaching sirens.
        If the intruder was trying to get away before the police came, the possible routes of escape were few. He could have climbed one of the property walls, but that seemed unlikely because, regardless of how miraculous his recovery, he simply hadn't had sufficient time to cross the lawn, push through the shrubs, and clamber into one of the neighbors' yards.
        Marty turned right and ran out from under the dripping patio cover.
        Soaked to the skin in half a dozen steps, he followed the rear walkway along the house, then hurried past the back of the attached garage.
        The downpour had lured snails from moist and shadowy retreats where they usually remained until well after nightfall. Their pale, jellied bodies were stretched most of the way out of their shells, thick feelers questing ahead. Unavoidably, he stepped on a few, smashed them to pulp, and through his mind flashed the superstitious notion that a cosmic entity would at any second crush him underfoot with equal callousness.
        When he turned the corner onto the service walkway flanked by a garage wall and eugenia hedge, he expected to see the look-alike limping toward the front of the property. The walkway was deserted.
        The gate at the end stood half open.
        The sirens were much louder by the time Marty sprinted into the driveway in front of the house. He sloshed through a gutter filled with four or five inches of fast-flowing water as cold as the Styx, stepped into the street, looked left and right, but as yet no police cars were in sight.
        The Other was nowhere to be seen, either. Marty was alone on the street.
        In the next block south, too far off for him to recognize the make and model, a car was speeding away. In spite of the fact that it was moving too fast for weather conditions, he doubted it was driven by the look-alike. He was still hard-pressed to believe the injured man had been able to walk, let alone reach his car and drive away so quickly.
        Surely they would find the son of a bitch nearby, lying in shrubbery, unconscious or dead. The car turned the corner much too fast, the thin squeal of its protesting tires was audible above the plink, plop, and susurration of the rain. Then it was gone.
        From the north, the banshee shriek of sirens abruptly swelled much louder, and Marty turned to see a black-and-white police sedan negotiate that corner almost as fast as the other car had rounded the corner to the south. Revolving red and blue emergency beacons threw bright Frisbees of light through the gray rain and across the blacktop.
        The siren cut off as the sedan fishtailed to a stop twenty feet from Marty in the center of the street, with stunt-driver dramatics that seemed excessive even under the circumstances.
        The siren of a backup cruiser warbled in the distance as the front doors of the first black-and-white flew open. Two uniformed officers came out of the cruiser, staying low, sheltering behind the doors, shouting,
        "Drop it! Now! Do it! Drop it right now or die,