Mr. Murder. By: Dean R. Koontz

equal to Peter Waxhill’s, he was not as impeccably attired, suave, or

well-spoken as that gentleman who had briefed them over breakfast. And

unlike the muscular Jim Lomar at John Wayne Airport * in Orange

County last night, he let them carry their own luggage to the green Ford

Explorer that stood at their disposal in the parking area behind the

hangar.

Spicer was about fifty years old, five feet ten, a hundred and sixty

pounds, with brush-cut iron-gray hair. His face was all hard planes,

and his eyes were hidden behind sunglasses even though the sky was

overcast. He wore combat boots, khaki slacks, khaki shirt, and a

battered leather flight jacket with numerous zippered pockets. His

erect posture, disciplined manner, and clipped speech pegged him for a

retired–perhaps cashiered–army officer who was unwilling to change the

attitudes, habits, or wardrobe of a military careerist.

“You’re not dressed properly for Mammoth,” Spicer said sharply as they

walked to the Explorer, his breath streaming from his mouth in white

plumes.

“I didn’t realize it would be quite so cold here,” Oslett said,

shuddering uncontrollably.

“Sierra Nevadas,” Spicer said. “Almost eight thousand feet above sea

level where we stand. December. Can’t expect palm trees, hula skirts,

and pin colds.”

“I knew it would be cold, just not this cold.”

“You’ll freeze your ass off,” Spicer said curtly.

“This jacket’s warm,” Oslett said defensively. “It’s cashmere.”

“Good for you,” Spicer said.

He raised the hatch on the back of the Explorer and stood aside to let

them load their luggage into the cargo space.

Spicer got behind the wheel. Oslett sat up front. In the back seat,

Clocker resumed reading The Flatulent Ferocity from Ganymede.

Driving away from the airfield into town, Spicer was silent for a while.

Then, “Expecting our first snow of the season later today.”

“Winter’s my favorite time of the year,” Oslett said.

“Might not like it so much with snow up to your ass and those nice

oxfords turning hard as a Dutchman’s wooden shoes.”

“Do you know who I am?” Oslett asked impatiently.

“Yes, sir,” Spicer said, clipping his words even more than usual but

inclining his head slightly in a subtle acknowledgment of his inferior

position.

“Good,” Oslett said.

In places, tall evergreens crowded both sides of the roadway.

Many of the motels, restaurants, and roadside bars boasted ersatz alpine

architecture, and in some cases their names incorporated words that

called to mind images from movies as diverse as The Sound of Music and

Clint Eastwood vehicles, Bavarian this, Swiss that, Eiger, Matterhorn,

Geneva, Hofbrau.

Oslett said, “Where’s the Stillwater house?”

“We’re going to your motel.”

“I understood there was a surveillance unit staking out the Still water

house,” Oslett persisted.

“Yes, sir. Across the street in a van with tinted windows.”

“I want to join them.”

“Not a good idea. This is a small town. Not even five thousand people,

when you don’t count tourists. Lot of people going in and out of a

parked van on a residential street–that’s going to draw unwanted

attention.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Phone the surveillance team, let them know where to reach you. Then

wait at the motel. The minute Martin Stillwater calls his folks or

shows up at their door–you’ll be notified.”

“He hasn’t called them yet?”

“Their phone’s rung several times in the past few hours, but they aren’t

home to answer it, so we don’t know if it’s their son or not.”

Oslett was incredulous. “They don’t have an answering machine?”

“Pace of life up here doesn’t exactly require one.”

“Amazing. Well, if they’re not at home, where are they?”

“They went shopping this morning, and not long ago they stopped for a

late lunch at a restaurant out on Route 203. They should be home in

another hour or so.”

“They’re being followed?”

“Of course.”

In anticipation of the predicted storm, skiers were already arriving in

town with loaded ski racks on their cars. Oslett saw a bumper sticker

that read MY LIFE IS ALL DOWNHILL–AND LOVE IT!

As they stopped at a red traffic light behind a station wagon that

seemed to be stuffed full of enough young blond women in ski sweaters to

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *