Koontz, Dean R. - Mr. Murder by Dean Koontz
four-star lodging, but the rooms were clean and the bathrooms had plenty
of towels. With the holiday weekend gone and the summer tourist season
months in the future, at least half of the motel was unoccupied, and
though they were right off Pacific Coast Highway, quiet ruled.
The events of the day had taken their toll. Paige felt as if she had
been awake for a week. Even the too-soft and slightly lumpy motel
mattress was as enticing as a bed of clouds on which gods and goddesses
might sleep.
For dinner they ate pizza in the motel. Marty went out to fetch
it--also salads and cannoli with deliciously thick ricotta custard from
a restaurant a couple of blocks away.
When he returned with the food, he pounded insistently on the door, and
he was pale and hollow-eyed when he rushed inside, arms laden with
take-out boxes. At first Paige thought he had seen the look-alike
cruising the area, but then she realized he expected to return and find
them gone--or dead.
The outer doors of both rooms featured sturdy dead-bolt locks and
security chains. They engaged these and also wedged straight backed
desk chairs under the knobs.
Neither Paige nor Marty could imagine any means by which The Other could
possibly find them. They wedged the chairs under the knobs anyway.
Tight.
Incredibly, in spite of the terror they had been through, the kids were
willing to let Marty convince them that the night away from home was a
special treat. They were not accustomed to staying in motels, so
everything from the coin-operated vibrating mattress to the free
stationery to the miniature bars of fragrant soap was sufficiently
exotic to fascinate them when Marty drew their attention to it.
They were especially intrigued that the toilet seats in both rooms were
wrapped by crisp white paper bands on which were printed assurances in
three languages that the facilities had been sanitized.
From this, Emily deduced that some motel guests must be "real pigs" who
didn't know enough to clean up after themselves, and Charlotte
speculated about whether such a special notice indicated that more than
soap or Lysol had been used to sterilize the surfaces, perhaps
flamethrowers or nuclear radiation.
Marty was clever enough to realize that the more exotic flavors of soft
drinks in the motel vending machines, which the girls did not get at
home, would also delight them and lift their spirits. He bought
chocolate Yoo-Hoo, Mountain Dew, Sparkling Grape, Cherry Crush,
Tangerine Treat, and Pineapple Fizz. The four of them sat on the two
queen-size beds in one of the rooms, containers of food spread around
them on the mattresses, bottles of colorful sodas on the nightstands.
Charlotte and Emily had to taste some of each beverage before the end of
dinner, which made Paige queasy.
Through her family-counseling practice, Paige had long ago learned that
children were potentially more resilient than adults when it came to
coping with trauma. That potential was best realized when they enjoyed
a stable family structure, received large doses of affection, and
believed themselves to be respected and loved. She felt a rush of pride
that her own kids were proving so emotionally elastic and strong--then
superstitiously and surreptitiously knocked one knuckle softly against
the wooden headboard, silently asking God not to punish either her or
the children for her hubris.
Most surprisingly, once Charlotte and Emily had bathed, put on pajamas,
and been tucked into the beds in the connecting room, they wanted Marty
to conduct his usual story hour and continue the verses about Santa's
evil twin. Paige recognized an uncomfortable--in fact,
uncanny--similarity between the fanciful poem and recent frightening
events in their own lives. She was sure Marty and the girls were also
aware of the connection. Yet Marty seemed as pleased by the opportunity
to share more verses as the kids were eager to hear them.
He positioned a chair at the foot of--and exactly between--the two beds.
In their rush to get packed and out of the house, he had even remembered
to bring the notebook that was labeled Stories for Charlotte and Emily,
with its clip-on, battery-powered reading lamp.
He sat down and held the notebook at reading distance.
The shotgun lay on the floor beside him.
The Beretta was on the dresser, where Paige could reach it in two
seconds flat.
Marty waited for the silence to develop the proper quality of
expectation.
The scene was remarkably like the one Paige had witnessed so often in
the girls' room at home, except for two differences. The queen-size
beds dwarfed Charlotte and Emily, making them seem like children in a
fairy tale, homeless waifs who had sneaked into a giant's castle to
steal some of his porridge and enjoy his guest rooms. And the miniature
reading lamp clipped to the notebook was not the sole source of light,
one of the nightstand lamps was aglow as well, and would remain so all
night--the girls' only apparent concession to fear.
Surprised to discover that she, too, was looking forward with pleasure
to the continuation of the poem, Paige sat on the foot of Emily's bed.
She wondered what it was about storytelling that made people want it
almost as much as food and water, even more so in bad times than good.
Movies had never drawn more patrons than during the Great Depression.
Book sales often improved in a recession. The need went beyond a mere
desire for entertainment and distraction from one's troubles. It was
more profound and mysterious than that.
When a hush had fallen on the room and the moment seemed just right,
Marty began to read. Because Charlotte and Emily had insisted he start
at the beginning, he recited the verses they had already heard on
Saturday and Sunday nights, arriving at that moment when Santa's evil
twin stood at the kitchen door of the Stillwater house, intent upon
breaking inside.
"With picks, loids, gwizzels, and rocks, he quickly and silently opens
both locks.
He enters the kitchen without a sound.
Now chances for devilment truly abound.
He opens the fridge and eats all the cake, pondering what sort of mess
he can make.
He pours the milk all over the floor, pickles, pudding, ketchup, and
Coors.
He scatters the bread--white and rye and finally he spits right in the
pie."
"Oh, gross," Charlotte said.
Emily grinned. "Hocked a greenie."
"What kind of pie was it?" Charlotte wondered.
Paige said, "Mincemeat."
"Yuck. Then I don't blame him for spitting in it."
"At the corkboard by the phone and stool, he sees drawings the kids did
at school.
Emily has painted a kind, smiling face.
Charlotte has drawn elephants in space.
The villain takes out a red felt-tip pen, taps it, uncaps it, chuckles,
and then, on both pictures, scrawls the word
"Poo!" He always knows the
worst things to do."
punching vigorously at the air above her bed.
"Critics," Emily said exasperatedly and rolled her eyes the way she had
seen her father do a few times.
"My God," Charlotte said, covering her face with her hands, "we have a
critic in our house."
"You knew this was going to be a scary story," Marty said.
"Mad giggles from him continue to bubble, while he gets into far greater
trouble.
He's hugely more evil than he is brave, so then after he loads up the
microwave with ten whole pounds of popping corn (oh, we should rue the
day he was born), he turns and runs right out of the room, because that
old oven is gonna go BOOM!"
"Ten pounds!" Charlotte's imagination swept her away. She rose up on
her elbows, head off the pillows, and babbled excitedly, "Wow, you'd
need a forklift and a dump truck to carry it all away, once it was
popped, 'cause it'd be like snowdrifts only popcorn, mountains of
popcorn. We'd need a vat of caramel and maybe a zillion pounds of
pecans just to make it all into popcorn balls. We'd be up to our asses
in it."
"What did you say?" Paige asked.
"I said you'd need a forklift--"
"No, that word you used."
"What word?"
"Asses," Paige said patiently.
Charlotte said, "That's not a bad word."
"Oh?"
"They say it on TV all the time."
"Not everything on TV is intelligent and tasteful," Paige said.
Marty lowered the story notebook. "Hardly anything, in fact."
To Charlotte, Paige said, "On TV, I've seen people driving cars off
cliffs, poisoning their fathers to get the family inheritance, fighting
with swords, robbing banks--all sorts of things I better not catch
either of you doing."
"Especially the father-poisoning thing," Marty said.
Charlotte said, "Okay, I won't say 'ass."
"Good."
"What should I say instead? Is 'butt' okay?"
"How does 'bottom' strike you?" Paige asked.
"I guess I can live with that."
Trying not to burst out laughing, not daring to glance at Marty, Paige
said, "You say 'bottom' for a while, and then as you get older you can
slowly work your way up to 'butt," and when you're really mature you can
say 'ass."
"Fair enough," Charlotte agreed, settling back on her pillows.
Emily, who had been thoughtful and silent through all of this, changed
the subject. "Ten pounds of unpopped corn wouldn't fit in the
microwave."
"Of course it would," Marty assured her.
"I don't think so."
"I researched this before I started writing," he said firmly.
Emily's face was puckered with skepticism.
"You know how I research everything," he insisted.
"Maybe not this time," she said doubtfully.
Marty said, "Ten pounds."
"That's a lot of corn."
Turning to Charlotte, Marty said, "We have another critic in the house."
"Okay," Emily said, "go on, read some more."
Marty raised one eyebrow. "You really want to hear more of this poorly
researched, unconvincing claptrap?"
"A little more, anyway," Emily acknowledged.
With an exaggerated, long-suffering sigh, Marty glanced slyly at Paige,
raised the notebook again, and continued to read, "He prowls the
downstairs--wicked, mean looking to cause yet one more bad scene.
When he spies the presents under the tree, he says, "I'll go on a
gift-swapping spree!
I'll take out all of the really good stuff, then box up dead fish, cat
poop, and fluff In the morning, the Stillwaters will find coffee
grounds, peach pits, orange rinds.
Instead of nice sweaters, games, and toys, they'll get slimy, stinky
stuff that annoys."
"He won't get away with this," Charlotte said.
Emily said, "He might."
"He won't."
"Who's gonna stop him?"
"Charlotte and Emmy are up in their beds, dreams of Christmas filling
their heads.
Suddenly a sound startles these sleepers.
They sit up in bed and open their peepers.
Nothing should be stirring, not one mouse, but the girls sense a villain
in the house.
You can call it psychic, a hunch, osmosisor maybe they smell the troll's
halitosis.
They leap out of bed, forgetting slippers, two brave and foolhardy
little nippers.
"Something's amiss, young Emily whispers.
But they can handle it--they're sisters!"
This development--Charlotte and Emily as the heroines of the
story--delighted the girls. They turned their heads to face each other
across the gap between beds, and grinned.
Charlotte repeated Emily's question, "Who's gonna stop him?"
"We are!" Emily said.
Marty said, "Well . . . maybe."
"Uh-oh," Charlotte said.
Emily was hip. "Don't worry. Daddy's just trying to keep us in
suspense. We'll stop the old troll, all right."
"Down in the living room, under the tree Santa's evil twin is chortling
with glee.
He's got a collection of gift replacements taken from dumps, sewers, and
basements.
He replaces a nice watch meant for Lottie with a nasty gift for a girl
who's naughty, which is one thing Lottie has never been.
Forgetting her vitamins is her biggest sin.
In place of the watch, he wraps up a clot of horrid, glistening,
greenish toad snot.
From a package for Emily, he steals a doll and gives her a new gift sure
to appall.
It's oozing, rancid, and starting to freezz.
Not even the villain knows what it is."
"What do you think it is, Mom?" Charlotte asked.
"Probably those dirty kneesocks you misplaced six months ago."
Emily giggled, and Charlotte said, "I'll find those socks sooner or
later."
"If that's what's in the box, then for sure I ain't opening it," Emily
said.
"I'm not opening it," Paige corrected.
"Nobody's opening it," Emily agreed, missing the point. "Phew!"
"In jammies, supperless, now on the prowl, the girls go looking for
whatever's foul.
Right to the top of the stairs they zoom, making less noise than moths
in a tomb.
They're both so delicate, slim, and petite, and both of them have such
tiny pink feet.
How can these small girls hope to fight a Santa who's liable to kick and
to bite?
Are they trained in karate or Tae Kwon Do?
No, no, I'm afraid that the answer is no.
Grenades tucked in their jammie pockets?
Lasers implanted inside their eye sockets?
No, no, I'm afraid that the answer is no.
Yet down, down the shadowy stairs they go.
The danger below, they can't comprehend This Santa has gone far 'round
the bend.
He's meaner than flu, toothaches, blisters.
But they're tough too they're sisters!"
Charlotte defiantly thrust one small fist into the air and said,
"Sisters!"
"Sisters!" Emily said, thrusting her fist into the air as well.
Whe
night, they insisted Marty read the new verses again, and Paige found
that she, too, wanted to hear the lines a second time.
Though he pretended to be tired and needed some coaxing to oblige them,
Marty would have been disappointed if he hadn't been importuned to do
another reading.
By the time her father reached the end of the last verse, Emily was only
able to murmur sleepily, "Sisters." Charlotte was already snoring
softly.
Marty quietly returned the reading chair to the corner from which he had
gotten it. He checked the locks on the door and the windows, then made
sure there were no gaps in the drapes through which someone could look