Koontz, Dean - Mr. Murder by Koontz Dean

Author:Koontz, Dean [Koontz, Dean]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

He was wearing a black coat. Only the back of his head was visible through the rain-streaked side window. His hair was darker than Vic Delorio's.

Because the car was still moving slowly as it completed the turn, MR.

Marty caught up with it again, breathing strenuously, ears filled with the hard drumming of his heart. He didn't reach for the door this time because maybe it was locked. He would squander the element of surprise by trying it. Raising the Beretta, he aimed at the back of the man's head.

The kids could be hit by a ricochet, flying glass. He had to risk it.

Otherwise, they were lost forever.

file:///G|/rah/Dean%20R.%20Koontz/Dean%20R.%20Koontz%20-%20Mr.%20Murder.txt (149 of 298) [2/9/2004 10:10:33 PM]

Though there was little chance the driver was Vic Delorio or another innocent person, Marty couldn't squeeze the trigger without knowing for sure at whom he was shooting. Still moving, paralleling the car, he shouted, "Hey, hey, hey!"

The driver snapped his head around to look out the side window.

Along the barrel of the pistol, Marty stared at his own face.

The Other. The glass before him seemed like a cursed mirror in which his reflection was not confined to precise mimicry but was free to reveal more vicious emotions than anyone would ever want the world to see, as it confronted him, that looking-glass face clenched with hatred and fury.

Startled, the driver had let his foot slip off the accelerator.

For the briefest moment the Buick slowed.

No more than four feet from the window, Marty squeezed off two rounds.

In the instant before the resonant thunder of the first gunshot echoed off an infinitude of wet surfaces across the rainswept night, he thought he saw the driver drop to the side and down, still holding the steering wheel with at least one hand but trying to get his head out of the line of fire. The muzzle flashed, and shattering glass obscured the bastard's fate.

Even as the second shot boomed close after the first, the car tires shrieked. The Buick bolted forward, as a mean horse might explode out of a rodeo gate.

He ran after the car, but it blew away from him with a backwash of turbulent air and exhaust fumes. The look-alike was still alive, perhaps injured but still alive and determined to escape.

Rocketing eastward, the Buick began to angle onto the wrong side of the two-lane street. On that trajectory, it was going to jump the curb and crash into someone's front lawn.

In his treacherous mind's eye, Marty imagined the car hitting the curb at high speed, flipping, rolling, slamming into one of the trees or the side of a house, bursting into flames, his daughters trapped in a coffin of blazing steel. In the darkest corner of his mind, he could even hear them screaming as the fire seared the flesh from their bones.

Then, as he pursued it, the Buick swung back across the center line, into its own lane. It was still moving fast, too fast, and he had no hope of catching it.

But he ran

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