mall.
Move, move, confront, challenge, grapple, and prevail.
He starts looking for a service station, not because the Buick needs
fuel but because he has to find a pay phone.
He remembers the voices in the kitchen while he had twitched in agony
midst the ruins of the stair railing. The imposter had been hustling
Paige and the girls out of the house before they could come into the
foyer and see their real father struggling to get off his back onto his
hands and knees.
‘. . . take them across the street to Vic and Kathy’s . . . ” And
seconds later, there had been a name more useful still, . . . over to
the Delonos’ place . . . ” Although they are his neighbors, he can’t
remember Vic and Kathy Delorio or which house is theirs. That knowledge
was stolen from him with the rest of his life. However, if they have a
listed phone, he will be able to find them.
A service station. A blue Pacific Bell sign.
Even as he drives up beside the Plexiglas-walled phone booth, he can
dimly see the thick directory secured by a chain.
Leaving the Buick engine running, he sloshes through a puddle into the
booth. He closes the door to turn on the overhead light, and flips
frantically through the White Pages.
Luck is with him. Victor W. Delorio. The only listing under that name.
Mission Viejo. His own street. Bingo. He memorizes the address.
He runs into the service station to buy candy bars. Twenty of them.
Hershey’s bars with almonds, 3 Musketeers, Mounds, Nestle’s white
chocolate Crunch. His appetite is sated for the time being, he does not
want the candy now–but the need will soon arise.
He pays with some of the cash that belongs to the dead man in the trunk
of the Buick.
“You sure have a sweet tooth,” says the attendant.
In the Buick again, pulling out of the service station into traffic, he
is afraid for his family, which remains unwittingly under the thrall of
the imposter. They might be taken away to a far place where he won’t be
able to find them. They might be harmed. Or even killed.
Anything can happen. He has just seen their photograph and has only
begun to re-acquaint himself with them, yet he might lose them before he
ever has a chance to kiss them again or tell them how much he loves
them. So unfair. Cruel. His heart pounds fiercely, re-igniting some
of the pain that had been recently extinguished in his steadily knitting
wounds.
Oh God, he needs his family. He needs to hold them in his arms and be
held in return. He needs to comfort them and be comforted and hear them
say his name. Hearing them say his name, he once and for all will be
somebody.
Accelerating through a traffic light as it turns from yellow to red, he
speaks aloud to his children in a voice that quavers with emotion,
“Charlotte, Emily, I’m coming. Be brave. Daddy’s coming. Daddy’s
coming. Daddy. Is. Coming.”
Lieutenant Lowbock was the last cop out of the house.
On the front stoop, as the doors of squad cars slammed in the street
behind him and engines started, he turned to Paige and Marty to favor
them with one more short-lived and barely perceptible smile.
He was evidently loath to be remembered for the tightly controlled anger
they had finally stirred in him. “I’ll be seeing you as soon as we have
the lab results.”
“Can’t be too soon,” Paige said. “We’ve had such a charming visit, we
simply can’t wait for the next time.”
Lowbock said, “Good evening, Mrs. Stillwater.” He turned to Marty.
“Good evening, Mr. Murder.”
Marty knew it was childish to close the door in the detective’s face,
but it was also satisfying.
Sliding the security chain into place as Marty engaged the deadbolt
lock, Paige said, “Mr. Murder?”
“That’s what they call me in the People article.”
“I haven’t seen it yet.”
“Right in the headline. Oh, wait’ll you read it. It makes me look
ridiculous, spooky-old-scary-old Marty Stillwater, book hustler
extraordinary. Jesus, if he happened to read that article today, I