Mr. Murder

which they find themselves. By God, they do something to resolve even their worst problems, they keep moving, ceaselessly moving, resolutely seeking confrontation with those who oppose them, grappling with their enemies in life-or-death struggles that they always win as long as they are sufficiently determined and righteous.
        He is determined.
        He is righteous.
        His life has been stolen.
        He is a victim. He has suffered.
        He has known despair.
        He has endured abuse and anguish and betrayal and loss like Omar Sharif in Doctor Zhivago, like William Hurt in The Accidental Tourist, Robin Williams in The World According to Garp, Michael Keaton in Batman, Sidney Poitier in In the Heat of the Night, Tyrone Power in The Razor's Edge, Johnny Depp in Edward Scissorhands. He is one with all of the brutalized, despised, downtrodden, misunderstood, cheated, outcast, manipulated people who live upon the silver screen and who are heroic in the face of devastating tribulations.
        His suffering is as important as theirs, his destiny every bit as glorious, his hope of triumph just as great.
        This realization moves him deeply. He is wrenched by shuddering sobs, weeping not with sadness but with joy, overwhelmed by a feeling of belonging, brotherhood, a sense of common humanity. He has deep bonds with those whose lives he shares in theaters, and this glorious Epiphany motivates him to get up, move, move, confront, challenge, grapple, and prevail.
        "Paige, I'm coming for you," he says through his tears.
        He throws open the driver's door and gets out in the rain.
        "Emily, Charlotte, I won't fail you. Depend on me. Trust me.
        I'll die for you if I have to."
        Shedding the detritus of his gluttony, he goes around to the back of the Honda and opens the trunk. He finds a tire iron that is a prybar on one end, for popping loose hubcaps, and a lug wrench on the other end. It has satisfying heft and balance.
        He returns to the front seat, slides in behind the wheel, and puts the tire iron on top of the fragrant trash that overflows the seat beside him.
        As he sees in memory the photograph of his family, he murmurs, "I'll die for you."
        He is healing. When he explores the bullet holes in his chest, he can probe little more than half the depth that he was previously able to plumb.
        In the second wound, his finger encounters a hard and gnarled lump which might be a wad of dislocated gristle. He quickly realizes it is, instead, the lead slug that didn't pass through him and out of his back.
        His body is rejecting it. He picks and pries until the misshapen bullet oozes free with a thick wet sound, and he throws it on the floor.
        Although he is aware that his metabolism and recuperative powers are extraordinary, he does not see himself as being much different from other men. Movies have taught him that all men are extraordinary in one way or another, some have a powerful magnetism for women, who are unable to resist them, others have courage beyond measure, still others, like those whose lives Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sylvester Stallone have portrayed, can walk through a hail of bullets untouched and prevail in hand-to-hand combat with half a dozen men at one time or in quick succession. Rapid convalescence seems less exceptional, by comparison, than the common ability of on-screen heroes to pass unscathed through Hell itself.
        Plucking a cold fish sandwich from the remaining pile of food, bolting it down in six large bites, he leaves McDonald's. He begins searching for a shopping mall.
        Because this is southern California, he finds what he's looking for in short order, a sprawling complex of department and specialty stores, its roof composed of more sheets of metal than a battleship, textured concrete walls as formidable as the ramparts of any Medieval fortress, surrounded by acres of lamp-lit blacktop. The ruthless commercial nature of the place is disguised by park-like rows and clusters of carrotwood trees, Indian laurels, willowy melaleucas, and palms.
        He cruises endless aisles of parked cars until he spots a man in a raincoat hurrying away from the mall and burdened by two full plastic shopping bags. The shopper stops behind a white Buick, puts down the bags, and fumbles for keys to unlock the trunk.
        Three cars from the Buick, an open parking space is