Mr. Murder

mother was so unhappy about it.
        When she saw that one meaning of the word was obscene slang for "testicles," she checked that mysterious word in the same dictionary, learned what she could, then sneaked into Daddy's office and used his medical encyclopedia to discover more. It was pretty bizarre stuff.
        But she understood it. Sort of. Maybe more than she wanted to understand. She had explained it as best she could to Em.
        But Em didn't believe a word of it and, evidently, promptly forgot about it.
        "Just like in the movie Saturday," Charlotte reminded her. "If things get real bad and he goes berserk, kick him between the legs."
        "Oh, yeah," Em said dubiously, "kick him in his tickles."
        "Testicles."
        "It was tickles."
        "It was testicles," Charlotte insisted firmly.
        Emily shrugged. "Whatever."
        Mrs. Delorio walked into the family room, drying her hands on a yellow kitchen towel. She was wearing an apron over her skirt and blouse.
        She smelled of onions, which she had been chopping, she'd been starting to prepare dinner when they'd arrived. "Are you girls ready for more Pepsi?"
        "No, ma'am," Charlotte said, "we're fine, thank you. Enjoying the show.
        "It's a great show," Emily said.
        "One of our favorites," Charlotte said.
        Emily said, "It's about a boy with tickles and everyone keeps kicking them."
        Charlotte almost thumped the little twerp on the head.
        Frowning with confusion, Mrs. Delorio glanced back and forth from the television screen to Emily. "Tickles?"
        "Pickles," Charlotte said, making a lame effort at covering.
        The doorbell rang before Em could do more damage.
        Mrs. Delorio said, "I'll bet that's your folks," and hurried out of the family room.
        "Peabrain," Charlotte said to her sister.
        Emily looked smug. "You're just mad because I showed it was all a lie.
        She never heard of boys having tickles."
        "Sheesh!"
        "So there," Emily said.
        "Twerp."
        "Snerp."
        "That's not even a word."
        "It is if I want it to be."
        The doorbell rang and rang as if someone was leaning on it.
        Vic peered through the fish-eye lens at the man on the front stoop.
        It was Marty Stillwater.
        He opened the door, stepping back so his neighbor could enter.
        "My God, Marty, it looked like a police convention over there. What was that all about?"
        Marty stared at him intensely for a moment, especially at the gun in his right hand, then seemed to make some decision and blinked.
        Wet from the rain, his skin looked glazed and as unnaturally white as the face of a porcelain figurine. He seemed shrunken, shriveled, like a man recovering from a serious illness.
        "Are you all right, is Paige all right?" Kathy asked, entering the hall behind Vic.
        Hesitantly, Marty stepped across the threshold and stopped just inside the foyer, not entering quite far enough to allow Vic to close the door.
        "What," Vic asked, "you're worried about dripping on the floor?
        You know Kathy thinks I'm a hopeless mess, she's had everything in the house Scotchgarded! Come in, come in."
        Without entering farther, Marty looked past Vic into the living room, then up toward the head of the stairs. He was wearing a black raincoat buttoned to the neck, and it was too large for him, which was part of the reason he seemed shrunken.
        Just when Vic thought the man was stricken mute, Marty said, "Where're the kids?"
        "They're okay," Vic assured him, "they're safe."
        "I need them," Marty said. His voice was no longer raspy, as it had been earlier, but wooden. "I need them."
        "Well, for God's sake, old buddy, can't you at least come in long enough to tell us what-"
        "I need them now," Marty said, "they're mine."
        Not a wooden voice, after all, Vic Delorio realized, but tightly controlled, as if Marty was biting back anger or terror or some other strong emotion, afraid of losing his grip on himself. He trembled a little. Some of that rain on his face might have been sweat.
        Coming forward along the hall, Kathy said, "Marty, what's wrong?"
        Vic had been about to ask the same question. Marty Stillwater was usually such an easy-going guy, relaxed, quick to smile, but now he was stiff, awkward. Whatever