His mom and dad's house is in the middle of the block. It's a modest,
two-story, white clapboard structure with forest-green shutters. The
deep front porch has heavy white balusters, a green hand rail, and
decoratively scalloped fasciae along the eaves.
The place looks warm and welcoming. It is like a house in an old movie.
Jimmy Stewart might live here. You know at a glance that a loving
family resides within, decent people with much to share, much to give.
He cannot remember anything in the block, least of all the house in
which he apparently spent his childhood and adolescence. It might as
well be the residence of utter strangers in a town which he has never
seen until this very day.
He is infuriated by the extent to which he has been brainwashed and
relieved of precious memories. The lost years haunt him. The total
separation from those he loves is so cruel and devastating that he finds
himself on the verge of tears.
However, he suppresses his anger and grief. He cannot afford to be
emotional while his situation remains precarious.
The only thing he does recognize in the neighborhood is a van parked
across the street from his parents' house. He has never seen ... ..
this particular van, but he knows the type. The sight of it alarms him.
It is a recreational vehicle. Candy-apple red. An extended wheel base
provides a roomier interior. Oval camper dome on the roof.
. Large mud flaps with chrome letters, FUN TRUCK. The rear bumper is
papered with overlapping rectangular, round, and triangular stickers
memorializing visits to Yosemite National Park, Yellowstone, the an nul
Calgary Rodeo, Las Vegas, Boulder Dam, and other tourist attractions.
Decorative, parallel green and black stripes undulate along the side,
interrupted by a pair of mirrored view windows.
Perhaps the van is only what it appears to be, but at first sight he's
convinced it's a surveillance post. For one thing, it seems too
aggressi2Jely recreational, flamboyant. With his training in
surveillance techniques, he knows that sometimes such vans seek to
declare their harmlessness by calling attention to themselves, because
potential subjects of surveillance expect a stakeout vehicle to be
discreet and would never imagine they were being watched from, say, a
circus wagon. Then there's the matter of the mirrored windows on the
side, which allow the people within to see without being seen, providing
privacy that any vacationer might prefer but that is also ideal for
undercover operatives.
He does not slow as he approaches his parents' house, and he
strives to show no interest in either the residence or the candy-apple
red van. Scratching his forehead with his right hand, he also manages
to cover his face as he passes those reflective view windows.
. The occupants of the van, if any, must be employed by the , unknown
people who manipulated him so ruthlessly until Kansas , City. They are
a link to his mysterious superiors. He is as interested in them as in
re-establishing contact with his beloved mother and father.
Two blocks later, he turns right at the corner and heads back toward a
shopping area near the center of town, where earlier he passed a
sporting-goods store. Lacking a firearm and, in any event, unable to
buy one with a silencer, he needs to obtain a couple of simple weapons.
Hewalks to the door of the house in front of which both vehicles are
parked. The flowers are not meant for anyone at this address. He hopes
no one is home. If someone answers the door, he will pretend to
discover that he has the wrong house, so he can return to the street
with the arrangement still held in front of him.
He is in luck. No one responds to the doorbell. He rings it several
times and, through body language, exhibits impatience.
He turns away from the door. He follows the front walk to the street.
Looking through the spray of flowers and greenery that he holds in front
of himself, he sees this side of the red van also sports two mirrored
windows on the rear compartment. Considering how deserted and quiet the
street is, he knows they are watching him, for want of anything better
to do.
That's okay. He's just a florist's frustrated deliveryman. They will
see no reason to fear him. Better that they watch him, dismiss him, and
turn their attention again to the white clapboard house.
He angles past the side of the surveillance vehicle. However, instead
of following the cracked and hoved sidewalk to the back of the florist's
van, he steps off the curb in front of it and behind the red "fun
truck."
There is a smaller mirrored porthole in the back door of the
surveillance vehicle, and in case they are still watching, he fakes an
accident. He stumbles, lets the arrangement slip out of his hands, and
sputters in anger as it smashes to ruin on the blacktop. "Oh, shit!
Son of a bitch. Nice, real nice. Damn it, damn it, damn it."
Even as the expletives are flying from him, he's dropping below the rear
porthole and pulling the can of deicing chemical out of his jacket
pocket. With his left hand, he grasps the door handle.
If the door is locked, he will have revealed his intentions by the
attempt to open it. Failing, he will be in deep trouble because they
will probably have guns.
They have no reason to expect an attack, however, and he assumes the
door will be unlocked. He assumes correctly. The lever handle moves
smoothly.
He does not check to see if anyone has come out on the street and is
watching him. Looking over his shoulder would only make him appear more
suspicious.
He jerks the door open. Clambering up into the comparatively dark
interior of the van, before he is sure anyone's inside, he jams his
index finger down on the nozzle of the aerosol can, sweeping it back and
forth.
A lot of electronic equipment fills the vehicle. Dimly lit control
boards. Two swivel chairs bolted to the floor. Two men on the
surveillance team.
The nearest man appears to have gotten out of his chair and turned to
the rear door a split second ago, intending to look through the
porthole. He is startled as it flies open.
The thick stream of deicing chemical splashes across his face, blinding
him. He inhales it, burning his throat, lungs. His breath is choked
off before he can cry out.
Blur of motion now. Like a machine. Programmed. In high gear.
Ice axe. Freed from his waistband. Smooth, powerful arc. Swung with
great force. To the right temple. A crunch. The guy drops hard.
Jerk the weapon loose.
Second man. Second chair. Wearing earphones. Sitting at a bank of
equipment behind the cab, his back to the door. Headset muffles his
partner's wheezing. Senses commotion. Feels the van rock when first
operative goes down. Swivels around. Surprised, reaching too late for
gun in shoulder holster. Makeshift Mace showers his face.
Move, move, confront, challenge, grapple, and prevail.
First man on the floor, spasming helplessly. Step on him, over him,<
br />
keep moving, moving, a blur, straight at the second man.
Axe. Again. Axe. Axe.
Silence. Stillness.
The body on the floor is no longer spasming.
That went nicely. No screams, no shouts, no gunfire.
He knows he is a hero, and the hero always wins. Nevertheless, it's a
relief when triumph is achieved rather than just anticipated.
He is more relaxed than he has been all day.
Returning to the rear door, he leans out and looks around the street.
No one is in sight. Everything is quiet.
He pulls the door shut, drops the ice axe on the floor, and regards the
dead men with gratitude. He feels so close to them because of what they
have shared. "Thank you," he says tenderly.
He searches both bodies. Although they have identification in their
wallets, he assumes it's phony. He finds nothing of interest except
seventy-six dollars in cash, which he takes.
A quick examination of the van turns up no files, notebooks, memo pads,
or other papers that might identify the organization that owns the
vehicle. They run a tight, clean operation.
A shoulder holster and revolver hang from the back of the chair in which
the first operative had been sitting. It's a Smith & Wesson .38
Chief's Special.
He strips out of his varsity jacket, puts on the holster over his
cranberry sweater, adjusts it until he is comfortable, and dons the
jacket once more. He draws the revolver and breaks open the cylinder.
Case heads gleam. Fully loaded. He snaps the cylinder shut and
holsters the weapon again.
The dead man on the floor has a leather pouch on his belt. It contains
two speedloaders.
He takes this and affixes it to his own belt, which gives him more
ammunition than he should need merely to deal with the false father.
However, his faceless superiors seem to have caught up with him, and he
cannot guess what troubles he may encounter before he has regained his
name, his family, and the life stolen from him.
The second dead man, slumped in his chair, chin on his chest, never
managed to draw the gun he was reaching for. It remains in the holster.
He removes it. Another Chief's Special. Because of the short barrel,
it fits in the relatively roomy pocket of the varsity jacket.
Acutely aware that he is running out of time, he leaves the van and
closes the door behind him.
The first snowflakes of the storm spiral out of the northwest sky on a
chill breeze. They are few in number, at first, but large and lacy.
As he crosses the street toward the white clapboard house with green
shutters, he sticks out his tongue to catch some of the flakes.
He probably had done the same thing when, as a boy living on this
street, he had delighted in the first snow of the season.
He has no memories of snowmen, snowball battles with other kids, or
sledding. Though he must have done those things, they have been
expunged along with so much else, and he has been denied the sweet joy
of nostalgic recollection.
A flagstone walkway traverses the winter-brown front lawn.
He climbs three steps and crosses the deep porch.
At the door, he is paralyzed by fear. His past lies on the other side
of this threshold. The future as well. Since his sudden self-awareness
and desperate break for freedom, he has come so far.
This may be the most important moment of his campaign for justice. The
turning point. Parents can be staunch allies in times of trouble.
Their faith.
Their trust. Their undying love. He is afraid he will do something, on
the brink of success, to alienate them and destroy his chances for
regaining his life. So much is at stake if he dares to ring the bell.
Daunted, he turns to look at the street and is enchanted by the scene,
for snow is falling much faster than when he approached the house. The
flakes are still huge and fluffy, millions of them, whirling in the mild
northwest wind. They are so intensely white that they seem luminous,
each lacy crystalline form filled with a soft inner light, and the day
is no longer dreary. The world is so silent and serene two qualities
rare in his experience--that it no longer seems quite real, either, as
if he has been transported by some magic spell into one of those glass
globes that contain a diorama of a quaint winter scene and that will
fill with an eternal flaky torrent as long as it is periodically shaken.
That fantasy is appealing. A part of him yearns for the stasis of a
world under glass, a benign prison, timeless and unchanging, at peace,
clean, without fear and struggle, without loss, where the heart is never
troubled.
Beautiful, beautiful, the falling snow, whitening the sky before the
land below, an effervescence in the air. It's so lovely, touches him so
profoundly, that tears brim in his eyes.
He is keenly sensitive. Sometimes the most mundane experiences are so
poignant. Sensitivity can be a curse in an abrasive world.
Summoning all his courage, he turns again to the house. He rings the
bell, waits only a few seconds, and rings it again.
His mother opens the door.
He has no memory of her, but he knows intuitively that this is the woman
who gave him life. Her face is slightly plump, relatively unlined for
her age, and the very essence of kindness. His features are an echo of
hers. She has the same shade of blue eyes that he sees when he looks
into a mirror, though her eyes seem, to him, to be windows on a soul far
purer than his own.
"Marty!" she says with surprise and a quick warm smile, opening her
arms to him.
Touched by her instant acceptance, he crosses the threshold, into her
embrace, and holds fast to her as if to let go would be to drown.
"Honey, what is it? What's wrong?" she asks.
Only then does he realize that he is sobbing. He is so moved by her
love, so grateful to have found a place where he belongs and is welcome,
that he cannot control his emotions.
He presses his face into her white hair, which smells faintly of
shampoo. She seems so warm, warmer than other people, and he wonders if
that is how a mother always feels.
She calls to his father, "Jim! Jim, come here quick!"
He tries to speak, tries to tell her that he loves her, but his voice
breaks before he can form a single word.
Then his father appears in the hallway, hurrying toward them.
Distorting tears can't prevent his recognition of his dad. They
resemble each other to a greater extent than do he and his mother.
"Marty, son, what's happened?"
He trades one embrace for the other, inexpressibly thankful for his
father's open arms, lonely no more, living now in a world under glass,
appreciated and loved, loved.
"Where's Paige?" his mother asks, looking through the open door into
the snow-filled day. "Where are the girls?"
"We were having lunch at the diner," his father says, "and Janey
Torreson said you were on the news, something about you shot someone but
maybe it's a hoax. Didn't make any sense."
He is still
choked with emotion, unable to reply.
His father says, "We tried to call you as soon as we walked in the door,
but we got the answering machine, so I left a message."
Again his mother asks about Paige, Charlotte, Emily.
He must gain control of himself because the false father might arrive at
any minute. "Mom, Dad, we're in bad trouble," he tells them.
"You've got to help us, please, my God, you've got to help."
His mother closes the door on the cold December air, and they lead him
into the living room, one on each side of him, surrounding him with
their love, touching him, their faces filled with concern and
compassion. He is home. He is finally home.
He does not remember the living room any more than he remembers his
mother, his father, or the snows of his youth. The pegged-oak floor is
more than half covered by a Persian-style carpet in shades of peach and
green. The furniture is upholstered in a teal fabric, and visible wood
is a dark red-brown cherry. On the mantel, flanked by a pair of vases
on which are depicted Chinese temple scenes, a clock ticks solemnly.
As she leads him to the sofa, his mother says, "Honey, whose jacket are
Koontz, Dean R. - Mr. Murder Page 43
