Mr. Murder. By: Dean R. Koontz

“What was what all about?”

“Kissing my breasts, for God’s sake, just like the movies, bliss.”

He hesitated, and she could hear the faint rumble of the Ford’s engine,

which meant he was in transit. After a beat he said, “Kid, you’ve lost

me.”

“A minute ago, you call here, acting as if–”

“No. Not me.”

“You didn’t call here?”

“Nope.”

“Is this a joke?”

“You mean, somebody called, said he was me?”

“Yes, he–”

“Did he sound like me?”

“Yes.”

“Exactly like me?”

Paige thought about that for a moment. “Well, not exactly. He sounded

a lot like you and then . . . not quite like you. It’s hard to

explain.”

“I hope you hung up on him when he got obscene.”

“You–” She corrected herself, “He hung up first. Besides, it wasn’t an

obscene call.”

“Oh? What was that about kissing your breasts?”

“Well, it didn’t seem obscene ’cause I thought he was you.”

“Paige, refresh my memory–when was the last time I called you at work

to talk about kissing your breasts?”

She laughed. “Well . . . never, I guess,” and when he laughed, too,

she added, “but maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea now and then, liven up

the day a little.”

“They are very kissable.”

“Thank you.”

“So’s your tush.”

“You’ve got me blushing,” she said, and it was true.

“So’s your–”

“Now this is getting obscene,” she said.

“Yeah, but I’m the victim.”

“How do you figure?”

“You called me and pretty much demanded that I talk dirty.”

“I guess I did. Women’s liberation, you know.”

“Where will it all end?”

A disturbing possibility had occurred to Paige, but she was reluctant to

express it, Perhaps the call had been from Marty, made on his car phone

while he was in a fugue state similar to the one on Saturday afternoon

when he’d monotonously repeated those two words into a tape recorder for

seven minutes and later had no memory of it.

She suspected the same thought had just occurred to him because his

sudden reticence matched hers.

At last Paige broke the silence. “What- did Paul Guthridge have to

say?”

“He thinks it’s probably stress.”

“Thinks?”

“He’s setting up tests for tomorrow or Wednesday.”

“But he wasn’t worried?”

“No. Or he pretended he wasn’t.”

Paul’s informal style was not reflected in the way he imparted essential

information to his patients. He was always direct and to the point.

Even when Charlotte had been so ill, when some doctors might have

soft-pedaled the more alarming possibilities to let the parents adjust

slowly to the worst-case scenario, Paul had bluntly assessed her

situation with Paige and Marty. He knew that no half-truth or false

optimism should ever be mistaken for compassion. If Paul didn’t appear

to be more than ordinarily concerned about Marty’s condition and

symptoms–that was good news.

“He gave me his spare copy of the new People,” Marty said.

“Uh-oh. You say that as if he handed you a bag of dog poop.”

“Well, it isn’t what I was hoping for.”

“It’s not as bad as you think,” she said.

“How do you know? You haven’t even seen it yet.”

“But I know you and how you are about these things.”

“In the one photo, I look like the Frankenstein monster with a bad

hangover.”

“I’ve always loved Boris Karloff.”

He sighed. “I suppose I can change my name, have some plastic surgery,

and move to Brazil. But before I book a flight to Rio, do you want me

to pick up the kids at school?”

“I’ll get them. They’ll be an hour later today.”

“Oh, that’s right, Monday. Piano lessons.”

“We’ll be home by four-thirty, she said. “You can show me People and

spend the evening crying on my shoulder.”

“To hell with that. I’ll show you People and spend the evening kissing

your breasts.”

“You’re special, Marty.”

“I love you, too, kid.”

When she hung up, Paige was smiling. He could always make her smile,

even in darker moments.

She refused to think about the strange phone call, about illness or

fugues or pictures that made him look like a monster.

Appreciate the moment.

She did just that for a minute or so, then called Millie on the intercom