portrayed, can walk through a hail of bullets untouched and prevail in
hand-to-hand combat with half a dozen men at one time or in quick
succession. Rapid convalescence seems less exceptional, by comparison,
than the common ability of on-screen heroes to pass unscathed through
Hell itself.
Plucking a cold fish sandwich from the remaining pile of food, bolting
it down in six large bites, he leaves McDonald’s. He begins searching
for a shopping mall.
Because this is southern California, he finds what he’s looking for in
short order, a sprawling complex of department and specialty stores, its
roof composed of more sheets of metal than a battleship, textured
concrete walls as formidable as the ramparts of any Medieval fortress,
surrounded by acres of lamp-lit blacktop. The ruthless commercial
nature of the place is disguised by park-like rows and clusters of
carrotwood trees, Indian laurels, willowy melaleucas, and palms.
He cruises endless aisles of parked cars until he spots a man in a
raincoat hurrying away from the mall and burdened by two full plastic
shopping bags. The shopper stops behind a white Buick, puts down the
bags, and fumbles for keys to unlock the trunk.
Three cars from the Buick, an open parking space is available.
The Honda, with him all the way from Oklahoma, has outlived its
usefulness. It must be abandoned here.
He gets out of the car with the tire iron in his right hand.
Gripping the tapered end, he holds it close to his leg to avoid calling
attention to it.
The storm is beginning to lose some of its force. The wind is abating.
No lightning scores the sky.
Although the rain is no less cold than it was earlier, he finds it
refreshing rather than chilling.
As he heads toward the mall–and the white Buick–he surveys the huge
parking lot. As far as he can tell, no one is watching him.
None of the bracketing vehicles along that aisle is in the process of
leaving, no lights, no telltale plumes of exhaust fumes. The nearest
moving car is three rows away.
The shopper has found his keys, opened the trunk of the Buick, and
stowed away the first of the two plastic bags. Bending to pick up the
second bag, the stranger becomes aware that he is no longer alone, turns
his head, looks back and up from his bent position in time to see the
tire iron sweeping toward his face, on which an expression of alarm
barely has time to form.
The second blow is probably unnecessary. The first will have driven
fragments of facial bones into the brain. He strikes again, anyway, at
the inert and silent shopper.
He throws the tire iron in the open trunk. It hits something with a
dull clank.
Move, move, confront, challenge, grapple, and prevail.
Wasting no time looking around to determine if he is still unobserved,
he plucks the man off the wet blacktop in the manner of a bodybuilder
beginning a clean-and-jerk lift with a barbell. He drops the corpse
into the trunk, and the car rocks with the impact of the dead weight.
The night and rain provide what little cover he needs to wrestle the
raincoat off the cadaver while it lies hidden in the open trunk. One of
the dead eyes stares fixedly while the other rolls loosely in the
socket, and the mouth is frozen in a broken-toothed howl of terror that
was never made.
When he pulls the coat on over his wet clothes, it is somewhat roomy and
an inch long in the sleeves but adequate for the time being. It covers
his bloodstained, torn, and food-smeared clothes, making him reasonably
presentable, which is all that he cares about.
It is still warm from the shopper’s body heat.
Later he will dispose of the cadaver, and tomorrow he will buy new
clothes. Now he has much to do and precious little time in which to do
it.
He takes the dead man’s wallet, which has a pleasingly thick sheaf of
currency in it.
He tosses the second shopping bag on top of the corpse, slams the trunk
lid. The keys are dangling from the lock.
In the Buick, fiddling with the heater controls, he drives away from the