Mr. Murder. By: Dean R. Koontz

than the one that afflicted him when he sat at the computer in his

office and attempted to write the first sentence of a new novel.

When he suddenly begins to talk, however, the words gush from him as

storm waters might explode through a bursting barricade. “A man,

there’s a man, he looks like me, exactly like me, even I can’t see any

difference, and he’s stolen my life. Paige and the girls think he’s me,

but he’s not me, I don’t know who he is or how he fools Paige.

He took my memories, left me with nothing, and I just don’t know how,

don’t know how, how he managed to steal so much from me and leave me so

empty.”

His father appears startled, and well might he be startled by these

terrifying revelations. But there’s something wrong with Dad’s

startlement, some subtle quality that eludes definition.

Mom’s hands tighten on his right hand in a way that seems more reflexive

than conscious. He dares not look at her.

He hurries on, aware that they are confused, eager to make them

understand. “Talks like me, moves and stands like me, seems to be me,

so I’ve thought hard about it, trying to understand who he could be,

where he could’ve come from, and I keep going back to the same

explanation, even if it seems incredible, but it must be like in the

movies, you know, like with Kevin McCarthy, or Donald Sutherland in the

remake, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, some thing not human, not of

this world, something that can imitate us perfectly and bleed away our

memories, become us, except some how he failed to kill me and get rid of

my body after he took what was in my mind.”

Breathless, he pauses.

For a moment, neither of his parents speak.

A look passes between them. He does not like that look. He does not

like it at all.

“Marty,” Dad says, “maybe you better go back to the beginning, slow

down, tell us exactly what’s happened, step by step.”

“I’m trying to tell you,” he says exasperatedly. “I know it’s

incredible, hard to believe, but I am telling you, Dad.”

“I want to help you, Marty. I want to believe. So just calm down, tell

me everything from the beginning, give me a chance to under stand.”

“We don’t have much time. Don’t you understand? Paige and the girls

are coming here with this . . . this creature, this inhuman thing.

I’ve got to get them away from it. With your help I’ve got to kill it

somehow and get my family back before it’s too late.”

His mother is pale, biting her lip. Her eyes blur with nascent tears.

Her hands have closed so tightly over his that she is almost hurting

him. He dares to hope that she grasps the urgency and dire nature of

the threat.

He says, “It’ll be all right, Mom. Somehow we’ll handle it. Together

we have a chance.”

He glances at the front windows. He expects to see the BMW arriving in

the snowy street, pulling into the driveway. Not yet.

They still have time, perhaps only minutes, seconds, but time.

Dad clears his throat and says, “Marty, I don’t know what’s happening

here–”

“I told you what’s happening!” he shouts. “Damn it, Dad, you don’t

know what I’ve been going through.” Tears well up again, and he

struggles to repress them. “I’ve been in such pain, I’ve been so

afraid, for as long as I can remember, so afraid and alone and trying to

understand.”

His father reaches out, puts a hand on his knee. Dad is troubled but

not in a way that he should be. He isn’t visibly angry that some alien

entity has stolen his son’s life, isn’t as frightened as he ought to be

by the news that an inhuman presence now walks the earth, passing for

human. Rather, he seems merely worried and . . . sad.

There is an unmistakable and inappropriate sadness in his face and

voice. “You’re not alone, son. We’re always here for you. Surely you

know that.”

“We’ll stand beside you,” Mom says. “We’ll get you whatever help you

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