Mr. Murder

Fred," her mother said.
        "Yes, ma'am," Charlotte said, genuinely embarrassed.
        "Dumb," Emily advised her.
        To Emily, Mom said, "No dumber than using french fries as if they're Lego blocks."
        "I'm making art." Emily was always making art. She was weird sometimes even for a seven-year-old. Picasso reincarnate, Daddy called her.
        "Art, huh?" Mom said. "You're making art out of your food, so then what are you going to eat? A painting?"
        "Maybe," Em said. "A painting of a chocolate cake."
        Charlotte zipped shut her jacket pocket, imprisoning Fred.
        "Wash your hands before you go on eating," Daddy said.
        Charlotte said, "Why?"
        "What were you just handling?"
        "You mean Fred? But Fred's clean."
        "I said, wash your hands."
        Her father's snappishness reminded Charlotte that he was not himself.
        He rarely spoke harshly to her or Em. She behaved not out of fear that he'd spank her or shout at her, but because it was important not to disappoint him or Mom. It was the best feeling in the world when she got a good grade in school or performed well at a piano recital and made them proud of her. And absolutely nothing was worse than messing up-and seeing a sad look of disappointment in their eyes, even when they didn't punish her or say anything.
        The sharpness of her father's voice sent her directly to the ladies' room, blinking back tears every step of the way.
        Later, on the way home from Islands, when Daddy got a lead foot, Mom said, "Marty, this isn't the Indianapolis Five Hundred."
        "You think this is fast?" Daddy asked, as if astonished. "This isn't fast."
        "Even the caped crusader himself can't get the Batmobile up to speeds like this."
        "I'm thirty-three, never had an accident. Spotless record. No tickets.
        Never been stopped by a cop."
        "Because they can't catch you," Mom said.
        "Exactly."
        In the back seat, Charlotte and Emily grinned at each other.
        For as long as Charlotte could remember, her parents had been having jokey conversations about his driving, though her mother was serious about wanting him to go slower..
        "I've never even had a parking ticket," Daddy said.
        "Well, of course, it's not easy to get a parking ticket when the speedometer needle is always pegged out."
        In the past their back-and-forth had always been good-humored.
        But now, he suddenly spoke sharply to Mom, "For God's sake, Paige, I'm a good driver, this is a safe car, I spent more money on it than I should have precisely because it's one of the safest cars on the road, so will you just give this a rest?"
        "Sure. Sorry," Mom said.
        Charlotte looked at her sister. Em was wide-eyed with disbelief.
        Daddy was not Daddy. Something was wrong. Big-Time wrong.
        They had gone only a block before he slowed down and glanced at Mom and said, "Sorry."
        "No, you were right, I'm too much of a worrier about some things," Mom told him.
        They smiled at each other. It was all right. They weren't going to get divorced like those people they'd been talking about at dinner.
        Charlotte couldn't recall them ever being angry with each other for longer than a few minutes.
        However, she was still worried. Maybe she should check around the house and outside behind the garage to see if she could find a giant empty seed pod from outer space.
        Like a shark cruising cold currents in a night sea, the killer drives.
        This is his first time in Kansas City, but he knows the streets. Total mastery of the layout is part of his preparation for every assignment, in case he becomes the subject of a police pursuit and needs to make a hasty escape under pressure.
        Curiously, he has no recollection of having seen-let alone studied-a map, and he can't imagine from where this highly detailed information was acquired. But he doesn't like to consider the holes in his memory because thinking about them opens the door on a black abyss that terrifies him.
        So he just leaves.
        Usually he likes to drive. Having a powerful and responsive machine at his command gives him a sense of control and purpose.
        But once in a while, as happens now, the motion of the car and the sights of a strange city-regardless of how familiar he may be with the layout of its streets-make him