Free Mr. Murder by Dean Koontz

coming.
        Abandoning the shoes in a litter of rubber shavings on the kitchen counter, he urgently searches Jack's body and takes the money out of the old man's wallet. Sixty-two bucks. He searches for Frannie's purse, finds it in the bedroom. Forty-nine dollars.
        When he leaves the motorhome, the mottled gray-black sky is convex, bent low with the weight of the thunderheads. Rain by the megaton batters the earth.
        Coils of fog serpentine among the trunks of the pine trees and seem to be reaching for him as he splashes to the Honda.
        On the interstate again, speeding through the perpetual twilight beneath the storm, he turns the car heater to its highest setting and soon crosses the state line into Texas, where the flat land becomes impossibly flatter. Having shed the last of the meager belongings from his old life, he feels liberated. Soaked by the cold rain, he shivers uncontrollably, but he is also trembling with anticipation and excitement.
        His destiny lies somewhere to the west.
        He peels the plastic wrapper off a Slim Jim and eats while he drives.
        A subtle flavor, threaded through the primary taste of the cured meat, reminds him of the metallic odor of blood in the house in Kansas City, where he left the nameless dead couple in their enormous Georgian bed.
        The killer pushes the Honda as fast as he dares on the rain-slick highway, prepared to kill any cop who pulls him over. Reaching Amarillo, Texas, just after dusk on Sunday evening, he discovers that the Honda is virtually running on empty. He pulls into a truckstop only long enough to tank up, use the bathroom, and buy more food to take with him.
        After Amarillo, rocketing westward into the night, he passes Wildorado, with the New Mexico border ahead, and suddenly he realizes that he is crossing the badlands, in the heart of the Old West, where so many wonderful movies have been set. John Wayne and Montgomery Clift in Red Riler, Walter Brennan stealing scenes left and right. Rio Bravo. And Shane was set back there in Kansas-wasn't it. -Jack Palance blowing away Elisha Cook, Jr. decades before Dorothy took the tornado to Oz.
        Stagecoach, The Gunfighter, True Grit, Destry Rides Again, The Unforgi2en, High Plains Drifter, Yellow Sky, so many great movies, not all of them set in Texas but at least in the spirit of Texas, with John Wayne and Gregory Peck and Jimmy Stewart and Clint Eastwood, legends, mythical places now made real and waiting out there beyond the highway, obscured by rain and mist and darkness. It was almost possible to believe that those stories were being played out right now, in the frontier towns he was passing, and that he was Butch Cassidy or the Sundance Kid or some other gunman of an earlier century, a killer but not really a bad guy, misunderstood by society, forced to kill because of what had been done to him, a posse on his trail…
        Memories from theater screens and late-night movies on TV-which constitute by far the largest portion of the memories he possesses-flood lost so completely in those fantasies that he pays too little attention to his driving. Gradually he becomes aware that his speed has fallen to forty miles an hour. Trucks and cars explode past him, the wind of their passage buffeting the Honda, splashing dirty water across his windshield, their red taillights swiftly receding into the gloom.
        Assuring himself that his mysterious destiny will prove to be as great as any that John Wayne pursued in films, he accelerates.
        Empty and half-empty packages of food, crumpled and smeary and full of crumbs, are heaped on the passenger seat. They cascade onto the floor, under the dashboard, completely filling the leg space on that side of the car.
        From the litter, he extracts a new box of doughnuts. To wash them down he opens a warmish Pepsi.
        Westward. Steadily westward.
        An identity awaits him. He is going to be