Mr. Murder

neither Alfie's father nor a man of the cloth, and therefore in no way could lay a legitimate claim to the honorific, his heart nevertheless would have been gladdened if he had heard the whispered and obedient reply, I am at peace, Father. Those five simple words, in an answering murmur, would have meant that all was essentially well, that Alfie's deviation from his instructions was less a rebellion than a temporary confusion of purpose, and that the killing spree on which he had embarked was something that could be forgiven and put behind them.
        Though he knew it was useless, Oslett tried a third time, speaking louder than before, "Be at peace, Alfie."
        When nothing in the darkness answered him, he switched on the flashlight and climbed into the Road King.
        He couldn't help but think what a waste and humiliation it would be if he got himself shot to death in a strange motorhome along an interstate in the Oklahoma vastness at the tender age of thirty-two. Such a bright young man of such singular promise (the mourners would say), with two degrees-one from Princeton, one from Harvard-and an enviable pedigree.
        Moving out of the cockpit as Clocker entered behind him, Oslett swept the beam of the flashlight left and right. Shadows billowed and flapped like black capes, ebony wings, lost souls.
        Only a few members of his family-fewer still among that circle of Manhattan artists, writers, and critics who were his friends-would know in what line of duty he had perished. The rest would find the details of his demise baffling, bizarre, possibly sordid, and they would gossip with the feverishness of birds tearing at carrion.
        The flashlight revealed Formica-sheathed cabinets. A stove top.
        A stainless-steel sink.
        The mystery surrounding his peculiar death would ensure that myths would grow like coral reefs, incorporating every color of scandal and vile supposition, but leaving his memory with precious little tint of respect. Respect was one of the few things that mattered to Drew Oslett. He had demanded respect since he was only a boy. It was his birthright, not merely a pleasing accoutrement of the family name but a tribute that must be paid to all of the family's history and accomplishments embodied in him.
        "Be at peace, Alfie," he said nervously.
        A hand, as white as marble and as solid-looking, had been waiting for the flashlight beam to find it. The alabaster fingers trailed on the carpet beside the padded booth of a dining nook. Higher up, the white-haired body of a man slumped over the bloodstained table.
        Paige got up from the dining-room table, went to the nearest window, tilted the shutter slats to make wider gaps, and stared out at the gradually fading storm. She was looking into the backyard, where there were no lights. She could see nothing clearly except the tracks of rain on the other side of the glass, which seemed like gobs of spit, maybe because she wanted to spit at Lowbock, right in his face.
        She had more hostility in her than did Marty, not just toward the detective but toward the world. All her adult life, she had been struggling to resolve the conflicts of childhood that were the source of her anger. She had made considerable progress. But in the face of provocation like this, she felt the resentments and bitterness of her childhood rising anew, and her directionless anger found a focus in Lowbock, making it difficult for her to keep her temper in check.
        Conscious avoidance facing the window, keeping the detective out of sight-was a proven technique for maintaining self-control. Counselor, supposed to reduce anger as well.
        She hoped it worked better for her clients than it worked for her, because she was still seething.
        At the table with the detective, Marty seemed determined to be reasonable and cooperative. Being Marty, he would cling as long as possible to the hope that Lowbock's mysterious antagonism could be assuaged. Angry as he might be himself-and he was angrier than she had ever seen him-he still had tremendous faith in the power of good intentions and words, especially words, to restore and maintain harmony under any circumstances.
        To Lowbock, Marty said, "It had to be him drank the beers."
        "Him?" Lowbock asked.
        "The look-alike. He must've been in the house a couple of hours while I was out."
        "So the intruder drank the three