One Door From Heaven

toward his quarry.
        But although Curtis is sometimes fooled by appearances, he's perceptive enough to see that this is a man whose face gives out at every pore the homicidal toxins in which his brain now marinates. Pressing sweet peach juice from a handful of dried pits would be easier than squeezing one drop of pity from this hunter's heart, and mercy would more likely be wrung from any stone.
        As he moves along the salad-prep aisle, the grim cowboy looks left and right, shoving aside the men and women in his way as if they are mere furniture. His partner isn't immediately behind him, and might be approaching by a different route.
        The restaurant employees are protesting less, maybe because the hunters' steely indifference to every objection and their cold-eyed persistence is too intimidating to resist. You see guys like this on the TV news, shooting up shopping centers or office buildings because of a wife's decision to file for divorce, because they've lost a job, or just because. Yet with discreet nods and gestures, the workers continue to shepherd Curtis toward escape.
        In a half squat, shambling side to side and using his swinging arms for counterbalance, just as a frightened monkey might scamper, the boy turns a corner at a long butcher block and encounters a cook who's gazing out across the enormous kitchen, wide-eyed, watching the hunters. The white-uniformed cook might be an angel, considering that he holds a plastic-wrapped bundle of hot dogs, which he has just taken from the open cooler behind him.
        A crash rocks the room, rattles cookware. Someone slamming through the swinging door from the restroom hallway. Following the cowboys. More hard and hurried footfalls on the tile floor. Voices. Then shouting. "FBI! FBI! Freeze, freeze, freeze!"
        Curtis clutches at the hot dogs. Startled, the man lets go of the bundle. Having claimed the meaty treasure, Curtis scuttles past the cook, bound for freedom and a makeshift dinner, surprised by the arrival of the FBI, but not in the least heartened by this unexpected development.
        When it rains, it pours, his mother had said. She never claimed that the thought was original with her. Universal truths often find expression in universal cliches. When it rains, it pours, and when it pours, the river runs wild, and suddenly we're caught up in a flood. But when we're in a flood, we don't panic, do we, baby boy? And he always knew the answer to that one: No, we never panic. And she would say, Why don't we panic in the flood? And he would say, Because we're too busy swimming!
        Behind him, elsewhere in the kitchen, dishes clatter-shatter on the floor, and a soup pot or some such bounces bong-bong-bong across the tiles. Spoons or forks, or butter knives, spill in quantity, ringing off stainless-steel and ceramic surfaces with a sound like the bells that might announce a demonic holiday.
        Then gunfire.

Chapter 15
        
        THE COFFEE HAD SIMMERED long enough to turn slightly bitter. By the time she sampled her third cup, Micky didn't mind the edge that the brew acquired. In fact, Leilani's story stirred in Micky a long simmering bitterness to which the coffee was a perfect accompaniment.
        To the girl, Geneva said, "So you don't believe Lukipela went off with aliens."
        "I pretend to," Leilani said quietly. "Around Dr. Doom, I play along with his story, all agog over Luki coming back to us one day- a year from now, two years-in a new body. It's safer that way."
        Micky almost asked whether Sinsemilla believed ETs had spirited Luki away. Then she realized that the woman she'd encountered earlier would not only accept such a story but might as easily be convinced that Luki and the compassionate spacemen were sending her subliminal messages in reruns of Seinfeld, in the advertising copy on boxes of cornflakes, or in the patterns made by flocks of birds in flight.
        Leilani took the first bite from her second serving of pie. She chewed longer than cooked apples warranted, gazing at her plate, as though puzzling over a change in the texture of the dessert.
        "Why would he kill a helpless child?" Geneva asked.
        "It's what he does. Like the postman delivers the mail. Like a baker makes bread." Leilani shrugged. "Read about him. You'll see."
        "You haven't gone to the police," Micky said.
        "I'm just a kid."
        "They listen to kids," Geneva