Mr. Murder. By: Dean R. Koontz

were on the street every day, in the thick of it, and they knew what the

world was really like. The grand poobahs in Washington and smug

eminences in courtrooms had isolated themselves from reality with high

salaries, endless perks, and lush pensions, they lived in gate-guarded

neighborhoods with private security, sent their kids to private

schools–and lost touch with the damage they perpetrated.

But not cops. Cops were blue-collar. Working men and women. In their

work they saw evil every day, they knew it was as widespread among the

privileged as among the middle-class and the poor, that society was less

at fault than the flawed nature of the human species.

The police were supposed to be the last line of defense against

barbarity. But if they became cynical about the system they were asked

to uphold, if they believed they were the only ones who cared about

justice any more, they would cease caring. When you needed them, they

would conduct their forensic tests, fill out thick files of paperwork to

please the bureaucracy, track dirt across your once clean floors, and

leave you without even sympathy.

Standing in his kitchen, holding the loaded Beretta, Marty knew that he

and Paige now constituted their own last line of defense.

No one else. No greater authority. No guardian of the public welfare.

He needed courage but also the free-wheeling imagination that he brought

to the writing of his books. Suddenly he seemed to be living in another

novel, in that amoral realm where stories by James M.

Cain or Elmore Leonard took place. Survival in such a dark world

depended upon quick thinking, fast action, utter ruthlessness. Most of

all it hinged on the ability to imagine the worst that life could come

up with next and, by imagining, be ready for it rather than surprised.

His mind was blank.

He had no idea where to go, what to do. Pack up and get out of the

house, yes. But then what?

He just stared at the gun in his hand.

Although he loved the works of Cain and Leonard, his own books were not

that dark. They celebrated reason, logic, virtue, and the triumph of

social order. His imagination did not lead him toward vigilante

solutions, situational ethics, or anarchism.

Blank.

Worried about his ability to cope when so much was riding on him, Marty

picked up the kitchen phone and called the Delorios.

When Kathy answered on the first ring, he said, “It’s Marty.”

“Marty, are you okay? We saw all the police leaving, and then the

officer over here left, too, but nobody’s made the situation clear to

us.

I mean, is everything all right? What in the world is going on?”

Kathy was a good neighbor and genuinely concerned, but Marty had no

intention of wasting time in a full recounting of what he’d been through

with either the would-be killer or the police. “Where are Charlotte and

Emily?”

“Watching TV.”

“Where?”

“Well, in the family room.”

“Are your doors locked?”

“Yes, of course, I think so.”

“Be sure. Check them. Do you have a gun?”

“A gun? Marty, what is this?”

“Do you have a gun?” he insisted.

“I don’t believe in guns. But Vic has one.”

“Is he carrying it now?”

“No. He’s–”

“Tell him to load it and carry it until Paige and I can get there to pick

up the girls.”

“Marty, I don’t like this. I don’t–”

“Ten minutes, Kathy. I’ll pick up the girls in ten minutes or less fast

as I can.”

He hung up before she was able to respond.

He hurried upstairs to the guest room that doubled as Paige’s home

office. She did the family bookkeeping, balanced the check book, and

looked after the rest of their financial affairs.

In the right-hand bottom drawer of the pine desk were files o receipts,

invoices, and canceled checks. The drawer also contained their

checkbook and savings-account passbook, which Marty retrieved fixed

together with a rubberband. He stuffed them into the pocket of his

chinos.

His mind wasn’t blank any more. He’d thought of some precautions he

ought to take, though they were too feeble to be considered a plan of