Free Mr. Murder by Dean Koontz

the men’s room. Through the rippling rain on the windshield, the killer watches the white-haired man sprint to a large silver-and-blue Road King, which he enters through the driver’s door at the front. Painted on the door is the outline of a heart, and in the heart are two names in fancy script: Jack and Frannie.
    Luck is not with Jack, the Vegas-bound retiree. The Road King is only four spaces away from the Honda, and this proximity makes it easier for the killer to do what must be done.
    The sky is purging itself of an entire ocean. The water falls straight down through the windless day, continuously shattering the mirrorlike puddles on the blacktop, gushing along the gutters in seemingly endless torrents.
    Cars and trucks come in off the highway, park for a while, leave, and are replaced by new vehicles that pull in between the Honda and the Road King.
    He is patient. Patience is part of his training.
    The engine of the motorhome is idling. Crystallized exhaust plumes rise from the twin tail pipes. Warm amber light glows at the curtained windows along the side.
    He envies their comfortable home on wheels, which looks cozier than any home he can yet hope to have. He also envies their long marriage. What would it be like to have a wife? How would it feel to be a beloved husband?
    After forty minutes, the rain still isn’t easing off, but a flock of cars leaves. The Honda is the only vehicle parked on the driver’s side of the Road King.
    Taking the pistol, he gets out of the car and walks quickly to the motorhome, watching the side windows in case Frannie or Jack parts the curtains and peers out at this most inopportune moment.
    He glances toward the restrooms. No one in sight.
    Perfect.
    He grips the cold chrome door handle. The lock isn’t engaged. He scrambles inside, up the steps, and looks over the driver’s seat.
    The kitchen is immediately behind the open cab, a dining nook beyond the kitchen, then the living room. Frannie and Jack are in the nook, eating, the woman with her back toward the killer.
    Jack sees him first, starts simultaneously to rise and slide out of the narrow booth, and Frannie looks back over her shoulder, more curious than alarmed. The first two rounds take Jack in the chest and throat. He collapses over the table. Spattered with blood, Frannie opens her mouth to scream, but the third hollow-point round drastically reshapes her skull.
    The silencer is attached to the muzzle, but it isn’t effective any more. The baffles have been compressed. The sound accompanying each shot is only slightly quieter than regular gunfire.
    The killer pulls the driver’s door shut behind him. He looks out at the sidewalk, the rainswept picnic area, the restrooms. No one in sight.
    He climbs over the gear-shift console, into the passenger’s seat, and peers out the front window on that side. Only four other vehicles share the parking lot. The nearest is a Mack truck, and the driver must be in the men’s room because no one is in the cab.
    It’s unlikely that anyone could have heard the shots. The roar of the rain provides ideal cover.
    He swivels the command chair around, gets up, and walks back through the motorhome. He stops at the dead couple, touches Jack’s back . . . then Frannie’s left hand, which lies on the table in a puddle of blood beside her lunch plate.
    “Goodbye,” he says softly, wishing he could take more time to share this special moment with them.
    Having come this far, however, he is nearly frantic to exchange his clothes for those of Frannie’s husband and get on the road again. He has convinced himself that a transmitter is, indeed, concealed in the rubber heels of his Rockport shoes, and that its signal is even now leading dangerous people to him.
    Beyond the living room is a bathroom, a large closet crammed with Frannie’s clothes, and a bedroom with a smaller closet filled with Jack’s wardrobe. In less than three minutes he strips naked and dresses in new underwear, white