Mr. Murder

that with him, as with her, this sudden dark hilarity was a reaction to the unbearable tension of the past hour. He said, "By all means, drop by again."
        "We'll make a nice pot of tea," Paige said.
        "And scones."
        "Crumpets."
        "Tea cakes."
        "And by all means, bring the wife," Paige said. "We're quite broad-minded. We'd love to meet her even if she is of another species."
        Marty was aware that Paige was perilously close to laughing out loud, because he was close to it himself, and he knew their behavior was childish, but he required all of his self-control not to continue making fun of Lowbock all the way out the front door, driving him backward with jokes the way that Professor Von Helsing might force Count Dracula to retreat by brandishing a crucifix at him.
        Strangely, the detective was disconcerted by their frivolity as he had never been by their anger or by their earnest insistence that the intruder had been real. Visible self-doubt took hold of him, and he looked as if he might suggest they sit down and start over again.
        But self-doubt was a weakness unfamiliar to him, and he could not sustain it for long.
        Uncertainty quickly gave way to his familiar smug expression, and he said, "We'll be taking the look-alike's Heckler and Koch, as well as your guns, of course, until you can produce the paperwork that I requested."
        For a terrible moment, Marty was sure that they had found the Beretta in the kitchen cupboard and the Mossberg shotgun under the bed upstairs, as well as the other weapons, and were going to leave him defenseless.
        But Lowbock listed the guns and mentioned only three, "The Smith and Wesson, the Korth thirty-eight, and the M16."
        Marty tried not to let his relief show.
        Paige distracted Lowbock by saying, "Lieutenant, are you ever going to get the fuck out of here?"
        The detective finally could not prevent his face from tightening with anger. "You can certainly hurry me along, Mrs. Stillwater, if you would repeat your request in the presence of two other officers."
        "Always worrying about those lawsuits," Marty said.
        Paige said, "Happy to oblige, Lieutenant. Would you like me to phrase the request in the same language I just used?"
        Never before had Marty heard her use the F-word except in the most intimate circumstances-which meant, though masked by her light tone of voice and frivolous manner, her anger was as strong as ever. That was good. After the police left, she would need the anger to get her through the night ahead. Anger would help keep fear at bay.
        When he closes his eyes and tries to picture the pain, he can see it as a filigree of fire. A beautifully luminous lacework, white-hot with shadings of red and yellow, stretches from the base of his throbbing neck across his back, encircling his sides, looping and knotting intricately across his chest and abdomen as well.
        By visualizing the pain, he has a better sense of whether his condition is improving or deteriorating. Actually, his only concern is how fast he is improving. He has been wounded on other occasions, though never this grievously, and knows what to expect, continued deterioration would be a wholly new and alarming experience for him.
        The pain had been vicious during the minute or two after he'd been shot.
        He had felt as if a monstrous fetus had come awake within him and was burrowing its way out.
        Fortunately, he has a singularly high tolerance for pain. He also draws courage from the knowledge that the agony will swiftly subside to a less crippling level.
        By the time he staggers through the rear door of the house and heads for the Honda, the bleeding stops completely, and his hunger pangs become more terrible than the pain of his wounds. His stomach knots, loosens with a spasm, but immediately knots again, violently clench that can seize the nourishment he so desperately needs.
        Driving away from his house through gray torrents at the height of the storm, he becomes so achingly ravenous that he begins to shake with deprivation. They are not mere tremors of need but wracking shudders that clack his teeth together. His twitching hands beat a palsied tattoo upon the steering wheel, and he is barely able to hold it firmly enough to control the vehicle. Fits of dry wheezing convulse him, hot flashes alternate with chills, and the sweat