In this mechanical cave, he reverts to savagery and is, for a time,
something less than human, tearing at his food with animalistic
impatience, stuffing it into his mouth faster than he can swallow.
Burgers and buns and fries crumble against his lips, his teeth, and
leave a growing slope of organic scree across his chest, cola and
milkshake dribble down the front of his shirt. He chokes repeatedly,
spraying food on the steering wheel and dashboard, but eats no less
wolfishly, no less urgently, issuing small wordless greedy sounds and
low moans of satisfaction.
His feeding frenzy translates into a period of numb and silent
withdrawal much like a trance, from which he eventually arises with
three names on his lips, whispered like a prayer, "Paige . . .
Charlotte . . Emily. .."
From experience he knows that, in the hours before dawn, he will suffer
new bouts of hunger, though none as devastating and obsessive as the
seizure he has just endured. A few bars of chocolate or cans of Vienna
sausages or packages of hot dogs depending on whether it is
carbohydrates or proteins that he craves--will ensure abatement of the
pangs.
He will be able to focus his attention on other critical issues without
worrying about major distractions of a physiological nature.
The most serious of those crises is the continued enslavement of his
wife and children by the man who has stolen his life.
"Paige. . . Charlotte. . . Emily. .."
Tears cloud his vision when he thinks of his family in the hands of the
hateful imposter. They are so precious to him. They are his only
fortune, his reason for existence, his future.
He recalls the wonder and joy with which he explored his house, standing
in his daughters' room, later touching the bed in which he and his wife
make love. The moment he had seen their faces in the photograph on his
desk, he had known they were his destiny and that in their loving
embrace he would find surcease from the confusion, loneliness, and quiet
desperation that have plagued him.
He remembers, as well, the first surprising confrontation with the
imposter, the shock and amazement of their uncanny resemblance, the
perfectly matched pitch and timbre of their voices. He had understood
at once how the man could have stepped into his life without anyone
being the wiser.
Though his exploration of the house provided no clue to explain the
imposter's origins, he was reminded of certain films from which answers
might be garnered when he had a chance to view them again. Both
versions of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, the first starring Kevin
McCarthy, the second, Donald Sutherland. John Carpenter's remake of The
Thing, though not the first version. Perhaps even Invaders from Mars.
Bette Midler and Lily Tomlin in a film whose title he could not recall.
The Prince and the Pauper. Moon Over Parador. There must be others.
Movies had all the answers to life's problems. From the movies he had
learned about romance and love and the joy of family life.
In the darkness of theaters, passing time between killings, hungry for
meaning, he had learned to need what he didn't have. And from the great
lessons of the movies he might eventually unravel the mystery of his
stolen life.
But first he must act.
That is another lesson he has learned from the movies. Action must come
before thought. People in movies rarely sit around brooding about the
predicament in 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 available.
The Honda, with him all the way from Oklahoma, has outlived its
usefulness. It must be abandoned here.
He gets out of the car with the tire iron in his right hand.
Gripping the tapered end, he holds it close to his leg to avoid calling
attention to it.
The storm is beginning to lose some of its force. The wind is abating.
No lightning scores the sky.
Although the rain is no less cold than it was earlier, he finds it
refreshing rather than chilling.
As he heads toward the mall--and the white Buick--he surveys the huge
parking lot. As far as he can tell, no one is watching him.
None of the bracketing vehicles along that aisle is in the process of
leaving, no lights, no telltale plumes of exhaust fumes. The nearest
moving car is three rows away.
The shopper has found his keys, opened the trunk of the Buick, and
stowed away the first of the two plastic bags. Bending to pick up the
second bag, the stranger becomes aware that he is no longer alone, turns
his head, looks back and up from his bent position in time to see the
tire iron sweeping toward his face, on which an expression of alarm
barely has time to form.
The second blow is probably unnecessary. The first will have driven
fragments of facial bones into the brain. He strikes again, anyway, at
the inert and silent shopper.
He throws the tire iron in the open trunk. It hits something with a
dull clank.
Move, move, confront, challenge, grapple, and prevail.
Wasting no time looking around to determine if he is still unobserved,
he plucks the man off the wet blacktop in the manner of a bodybuilder
beginning a clean-and-jerk lift with a barbell. He drops the corpse
into the trunk, and the car rocks with the impact of the dead weight.
The night and rain provide what little cover he needs to wrestle the
raincoat off the cadaver while it lies hidden in the open trunk. One of
the dead eyes stares fixedly while the other rolls loosely in the
socket, and the mouth is frozen in a broken-toothed howl of terror that
was never made.
When he pulls the coat on over his wet clothes, it is somewhat roomy and
an inch long in the sleeves but adequate for the time being. It covers
his bloodstained, torn, and food-smeared clothes, making him reasonably
presentable, which is all that he cares about.
It is still warm from the shopper's body heat.
Later he will dispose of the cadaver, and tomorrow he will buy new
clothes. Now he has much to do and precious little time in which to do
it.
He takes the dead man's wallet, which has a pleasingly thick sheaf of
currency in it.
He tosses the second shopping bag on top of the corpse, slams the trunk
lid. The keys are dangling from the lock.
In the Buick, fiddling with the heater controls, he drives away from the
mall.
Move, move, confront, challenge, grapple, and prevail.
He starts looking for a service station, not because the Buick needs
fuel but because he has to find a pay phone.
He remembers the voices in the kitchen while he had twitched in agony
midst the ruins of the stair railing. The imposter had been hustling
Paige and the girls out of the house before they could come into the
foyer and see their real father struggling to get off his back onto his
hands and knees.
'. . . take them across the street to Vic and Kathy's . . . " And
seconds later, there had been a name more useful still, . . . over to
the Delonos' place . . . " Although they are his neighbors, he can't
remember Vic and Kathy Delorio or which house is theirs. That knowledge
was stolen from him with the rest of his life. However, if they have a
listed phone, he will be able to find them.
A service station. A blue Pacific Bell sign.
Even as he drives up beside the Plexiglas-walled phone booth, he can
dimly see the thick directory secured by a chain.
Leaving the Buick engine running, he sloshes through a puddle into the
booth. He closes the door to turn on the overhead light, and flips
frantically through the White Pages.
Luck is with him. Victor W. Delorio. The only listing under that name.
Mission Viejo. His own street. Bingo. He memorizes the address.
He runs into the service station to buy candy bars. Twenty of them.
Hershey's bars with almonds, 3 Musketeers, Mounds, Nestle's white
chocolate Crunch. His appetite is sated for the time being, he does not
want the candy now--but the need will soon arise.
He pays with some of the cash that belongs to the dead man in the trunk
of the Buick.
"You sure have a sweet tooth," says the attendant.
In the Buick again, pulling out of the service station into traffic, he
is afraid for his family, which remains unwittingly under the thrall of
the imposter. They might be taken away to a far place where he won't be
able to find them. They might be harmed. Or even killed.
Anything can happen. He has just seen their photograph and has only
begun to re-acquaint himself with them, yet he might lose them before he
ever has a chance to kiss them again or tell them how much he loves
them. So unfair. Cruel. His heart pounds fiercely, re-igniting some
of the pain that had been recently extinguished in his steadily knitting
wounds.
Oh God, he needs his family. He needs to hold them in his arms and be
held in return. He needs to comfort them and be comforted and hear them
say his name. Hearing them say his name, he once and for all will be
somebody.
Accelerating through a traffic light as it turns from yellow to red, he
speaks aloud to his children in a voice that quavers with emotion,
"Charlotte, Emily, I'm coming. Be brave. Daddy's coming. Daddy's
coming. Daddy. Is. Coming."
Lieutenant Lowbock was the last cop out of the house.
On the front stoop, as the doors of squad cars slammed in the street
behind him and engines started, he turned to Paige and Marty to favor
them with one more short-lived and barely perceptible smile.
He was evidently loath to be remembered for the tightly controlled anger
they had finally stirred in him. "I'll be seeing you as soon as we have
the lab results."
"Can't be too soon," Paige said. "We've had such a charming visit, we
simply can't wait for the next time."
Lowbock said, "Good evening, Mrs. Stillwater." He turned to Marty.
"Good evening, Mr. Murder."
Marty knew it was childish to close the door in the detective's face,
but it was also satisfying.
Sliding the security chain into place as Marty engaged the deadbolt
lock, Paige said, "Mr. Murder?"
"That's what they call me in the People article."
"I haven't seen it yet."
"Right in the headline. Oh, wait'll you read it. It makes me look
ridiculous, spooky-old-scary-old Marty Stillwater, book hustler
extraordinary. Jesus, if he happened to read that article today, I
don't half blame Lowbock for thinking this was all a publicity scam of
some kind." She said, "He's an idiot."
"It is an unlikely damn story."
"I believed it."
"I know. And I love you for that."
He kissed her. She clung to him but briefly.
"How's your throat?" she asked.
"I'll live."
"That idiot thinks you choked yourself"
"I didn't. But it's possible, I suppose."
Koontz, Dean R. - Mr. Murder Page 24
