Mr. Murder. By: Dean R. Koontz

different from shooting a character in a novel, it almost seemed as if,

in some magical fashion, part of the impact of the bullets on the target

redounded on the shooter himself. His chest ached, he was dizzy, and

his peripheral vision briefly succumbed to a thick seeping darkness

which he pressed back with an act of will.

He didn’t dare pass out. He thought the other Marty must be badly

wounded, dying, maybe dead. God, the spreading blood on his chest,

scarlet blossoms, sudden roses. But he didn’t know for sure.

Maybe the wounds only looked mortal, maybe the brief glimpse he’d had

was misleading, and maybe the double was not only still alive but strong

enough to get out of the house and away. If the guy escaped and lived,

sooner or later he’d be back, just as weird and crazy but even angrier,

better prepared. Marty had to finish what he started before his double

had a chance to do the same.

He glanced at the phone. Dial 911. Get the police, then go after the

wounded man.

But the desk clock was beside the phone, and he saw the time-4,26.

Paige and the girls. On their way home from school, later than usual,

delayed by piano lessons. Oh, my God. If they came into the house and

saw the other Marty, or found him in the garage, they’d think he was

their Marty, and they’d run to him, frightened by his wounds, wanting to

help, and maybe he would still be strong enough to harm them. Was the

pistol that he dropped his only weapon? Can’t make that assumption.

Besides, the son of a bitch could get a knife out of the rack in the

kitchen, the butcher’s knife, hide it against his side, behind his back,

let Emily get close, then jam it through her throat, or deep into

Charlotte’s belly.

Every second counted. Forget 911. Waste of time. The cops wouldn’t

get there before Paige.

As Marty rounded the desk, his legs were wobbly, but less so as he

crossed the room toward the hallway. He saw blood splattered on the

wall, oozing down the spines of his own books, staining his name. A

creeping tide of darkness lapped at the edges of his vision again. He

clenched his teeth and kept going.

When he reached the double’s pistol, he kicked it deeper into the room,

farther from the doorway. That simple act gave him a surge of

confidence because it seemed like something a cop would have the

presence of mind to do–make it harder for the perp to regain his

weapon.

Maybe he could handle this, get through it, as strange and scary as it

was, the blood and all. Maybe he would be okay.

So nail the guy. Make sure he’s down, all the way down and all the way

out.

To write his mystery novels, he’d done a lot of research into police

procedures, not merely studying police-academy textbooks and training

films but riding with uniformed cops on night patrols and hanging out

with plainclothes detectives on and off the job. He knew perfectly well

how best to go through a doorway under these circumstances.

Don’t be too confident. Figure the creep has another weapon besides the

one he dropped, gun or knife. Stay low, clear that doorway fast.

Easier to die in a doorway than anywhere else because every door opens

on the unknown. Keep your gun in both hands as you move, arms in front

of you, straight and locked, sweep left and right as you cross the

threshold, swinging the gun to cover both flanks Then slip to one side

or the othe rand keep your back against the wall as you move, so you

always know your back is safe, only three sides to worry about.

All of that wisdom flashed through his mind, as it might have passed

through the mind of one of his hard-nosed police characters–yet he

behaved like any panicked civilian, stumbling heedlessly into the

upstairs hall, holding the pistol in only his right hand, arms loose,

breathing explosively, making more of a target than a threat of himself,

because when you came right down to it, he wasn’t a cop, only an asshole

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