Mr. Murder. By: Dean R. Koontz

beckoning with as much allure as the lamps of Neptune.

Inside, where an amplified combo blasts out rock-‘n’-roll from the past

two decades, the killer moves toward the huge horseshoe bar in the

center of the room. The air is thick with cigarette smoke, beer fumes,

and body heat, it almost resists him, as if it’s water.

The crowd offers radically different images from the traditional

Thanksgiving scenes flooding television screens during this holiday

weekend. At the tables the customers are mostly raucous young men in

groups with too much energy and testosterone for their own good.

They shout to be heard above the thundering music, grab at waitresses to

get their attention, whoop in approval when the guitarist gets off a

good riff.

Their determination to enjoy themselves has the frantic quality of

insectile frenzy.

A third of the men at the tables are accompanied by young wives or

girlfriends of the big-hair and heavy-makeup persuasion. They are as

rowdy as the men–and would be as out of place at a hearthside family

gathering as screeching bright-plumed parrots would be out of place at

the bedside of a dying nun.

The horseshoe-shaped bar encircles an oval stage, bathed in red and

white spotlights, where two young women with exceptionally firm bodies

thrash to the music and call it dancing. They wear cowgirl costumes

designed to tease, all fringe and spangles, and one of them elicits

whistles and hoots when she removes her halter top.

The men on the bar stools are all ages and, unlike the customers at the

tables, each appears to be alone. They sit in silence, staring up at

the two smooth-skinned dancers. Many sway slightly on their stools or

move their heads dreamily from side to side in time to some other music

far less driving than the tunes the band is actually playing, they are

like a colony of sea anemones, stirred by slow deep currents, waiting

dumbly for a morsel of pleasure to drift to them.

He sits on one of only two empty stools and orders a bottle of Beck’s

dark from a bartender who could crack walnuts in the crooks of his arms.

All three bartenders are tall and muscular, no doubt hired for their

ability to double as bouncers if the need arises.

The dancer at the far end of the stage, the one whose breasts bounce

unfettered, is a striking brunette with a thousand-watt smile.

She is into the music and genuinely seems to enjoy performing.

Although the nearest dancer, a leggy blonde, is even more attractive

than the brunette, her routine is mechanical, and she seems to be numbed

either by drugs or disgust. She neither smiles nor looks at anyone, but

gazes at some far place only she can see.

She seems haughty, disdainful of the men who stare at her, the killer

included. He would derive a lot of pleasure from drawing his pistol and

pumping several rounds into her exquisite body one for good measure in

the center of her pouting face.

An intense thrill shakes him at the mere contemplation of taking her

beauty from her. The theft of her beauty appeals to him more than

taking her life. He places little value on life but a great deal on

beauty because his own life is often unbearably bleak.

Fortunately, the pistol is in the trunk of the rented Ford. He has left

the gun in the car precisely to avoid a temptation like this, when he

feels compelled toward violence.

As often as two or three times a day, he is gripped by a desire to

destroy anyone who happens to be near him–men, women, children, it

makes no difference. In the thrall of these dark seizures, he hates

every last human being on the face of the earth–whether they are

beautiful or ugly, rich or poor, smart or stupid, young or old.

Perhaps, in part, his hatred arises from the knowledge that he is

different from them. He must always live as an outsider.

But simple alienation is not the primary reason he frequently

contemplates random slaughter. He needs something from other people

which they are unwilling to provide, and, because they withhold it, he