Mr. Murder

wanted to make the man in the Buick suffer.
        Along the block, a couple of people had come out on their front porches to see what the commotion was about-now that the shooting had stopped.
        Others were at their windows.
        Sirens wailed in the distance.
        Rising to his feet, Marty said, "Let's get out of here."
        "The police are coming," Paige said.
        "That's what I mean."
        "But they-"
        "They'll be as bad as last time, worse."
        He picked up Charlotte and hurried with her to the BMW as the sirens swelled louder.
        Chips of glass are lodged in his left eye. For the most part, the tempered window had dissolved in a gummy mass. It had not cut his face.
        But tiny shards are embedded deep in the tender ocular tissues, and the pain is devastating. Every movement of the eye works the glass deeper, does more damage.
        Because his eye twitches when the worst needle-sharp pains stitch through it, he keeps blinking involuntarily, although it is torture to do so. To stop the blinking, he holds the fingers of his left hand against his closed eyelid, applying only the gentlest pressure. As much as possible, he drives with just his right hand.
        Sometimes he has to let the eye twitch unattended because he needs to use the left hand to drive. With the right, he tears open one of the candy bars and crams it into his mouth as fast as he can chew.
        His metabolic furnace demands fuel.
        A bullet crease marks his forehead above the same eye. The furrow is as wide as his index finger and a little more than an inch long. To the bone. At first it bled freely. Now the clotting blood oozes thickly over his eyebrow and seeps between the fingers that he holds to the eyelid.
        If the bullet had been one inch to the left, it would have taken him in the temple and drilled into his brain, jamming splinters of bone in front of it.
        He fears head wounds. He is not confident that he can recover from brain damage either as entirely or as swiftly as from other injuries.
        Maybe he can't recover from it at all.
        Half blind, he drives cautiously. With only one eye he has lost depth perception. The rain-pooled streets are treacherous.
        The police now have a description of the Buick, perhaps even the license number. They will be looking for it, routinely if not actively, and the damage along the driver's side will make it easier to spot.
        He is in no condition to steal another car at this time. He's not only half blind but still shaky from the gunshot wounds that he suffered three hours ago. If he is caught in the act of stealing an unattended car, or if he encounters resistance when trying to kill another motorist such as the one whose raincoat he wears and who is temporarily entombed in the Buick's trunk, he is likely to be apprehended or more seriously wounded.
        Driving north and west from Mission Viejo, he quickly crosses the city line into El Toro. Though in a new community, he does not feel safe.
        If there is an APB out on the Buick, it will probably be county-wide.
        The greatest danger arises from staying on the move, increasing the risk of being seen by the cops. If he can find a secluded place to park the Buick, where it will be safe from discovery at least until tomorrow, he can curl up on the back seat and rest.
        He needs to sleep and give his body a chance to mend. He has gone two nights without rest since leaving Kansas City. Ordinarily he could remain alert and active for a third night, possibly a fourth, with no diminution of his faculties. But the toll of his injuries, combined with lost sleep and tremendous physical exertion, requires time out for convalescence.
        Tomorrow he will get his family back, reclaim his destiny. He has wandered alone and in darkness for so long. One more day will make little difference.
        He was so close to success. For a brief time his daughters be longed to him again. His Charlotte. His Emily.
        He recalls the joy he felt in the foyer of the Delorio house, holding the girls' small bodies against him. They were so sweet.
        Butterfly-soft kisses on his cheeks. Their musical voices-"Daddy, Daddy"-so full of love for him.
        Remembering how close he was to taking permanent possession of them, he is on the brink of tears. He must not cry. The convulsion of the muscles in his damaged eye will amplify