Mr. Murder

man in Karl Clocker's line of work. He also favored tweed jackets on the elbows, and on occasion-as now-leather lapels. He had an eccentric collection of sweater vests with bold harlequin patterns, one of which he was currently wearing. His brightly colored socks were usually chosen to clash with everything else, and without fail he wore brown suede Hush Puppies. Considering his size and demeanor, no one was likely to comment negatively on his taste in clothes, let alone make unasked-for observations about his choice of handguns.
        "Won't need heavy firepower," Oslett said.
        Without saying a word to Oslett, Clocker put the.357 Magnum on the seat beside him, next to his hat, where he could get to it easily.
        "I've got the trank gun," Oslett said. "That should do it."
        Clocker didn't even look at him.
        Before Marty would agree to get out of the rainswept street and tell the authorities what had happened, he insisted that a uniformed officer watch over Charlotte and Emily at the Delorios' house. He trusted Vic and Kathy to do anything necessary to protect the girls.
        But they would not be a match for the vicious relentlessness of The Other.
        He wasn't sanguine that even a well-armed guard was enough protection.
        On the Delorios' front porch, rain streamed from the overhang.
        It looked like holiday tinsel in the glow of the brass hurricane lamp.
        Sheltering there, Marty tried to make Vic understand the girls were still in danger. "Don't let anyone in except the cops or Paige."
        "Sure, Marty." Vic was a physical-education teacher, coach of the local high-school swimming team, Boy Scout troop leader, primary motivator behind their street's Neighborhood Watch program, and organizer of various annual charity fund drives, an earnest and energetic guy who enjoyed helping people and who wore athletic shoes even on occasions when he also wore a coat and tie, as if more formal footwear would not allow him to move as fast and accomplish as much as he wished. "Nobody but the cops or Paige. Leave it to me, the kids will be okay with me and Kathy. Jesus, Marty what happened over there?"
        "And for God's sake, don't give the girls to anyone, cops or anyone, unless Paige is with them. Don't even give them to me unless Paige is with me."
        Vic Delorio looked away from the police activity and blinked in surprise.
        In memory, Marty could hear the look-alike's angry voice, see the flecks of spittle flying from his mouth as he raged, I want my life, my Paige.
        .. my Charlotte, my Emily…
        "You understand, Vic?"
        "Not to you?"
        "Only if Paige is with me. Only then."
        "What-"
        "I'll explain later," Marty interrupted. "Everybody's waiting for me."
        He turned and hurried along the front walk toward the street, looking back once to say, "Only Paige." … my Paige… my Charlotte, my Emily…
        At home, in the kitchen, while recounting the assault to the officer who had caught the call and been first on the scene, Marty allowed a police technician to ink his fingers and roll them on a record sheet.
        They needed to be able to differentiate between his prints and those of the intruder. He wondered if he and The Other would prove to be as identical in that regard as they seemed in every other.
        Paige also submitted to the process. It was the first time in their lives that either of them had been fingerprinted. Though Marty understood the need for it, the whole process seemed invasive.
        After he got what he required, the technician moistened a paper towel with a glycerol cleanser and said that it would remove all the ink. It didn't. No matter how hard he rubbed, dark stains remained in the whorls of his skin.
        Before sitting down to make a more complete statement to the officer in charge, Marty went upstairs to change into dry clothes.
        He also took four Anacin.
        He turned up the thermostat, and the house quickly overheated.
        But periodic shivers still plagued him-largely because of the unnerving presence of so many police officers.
        They were everywhere in the house. Some were in uniforms, others were not, and all of them were strangers whose presence made Marty feel further violated.
        He hadn't anticipated how utterly a victim's privacy was peeled away beginning the moment he reported a serious crime. Policemen