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covers up just below her eyes.
        She professed to dislike scary stories, but she was the quickest to complain if something frightening didn't happen in a tale sooner or later.
        "So who is it?" Emily asked. "Who tied Santa up and robbed him and ran off in his sleigh?"
        "Beware when Christmas comes this year, because there's something new to fear.
        Santa's twin-who is evil and mean-stole the sleigh, will make the scene, pretending to be his good brother.
        Guard your beloved children, mother!
        Down the chimney, into your home, here comes that vile psychotic gnome!"
        "Eeep!" Charlotte cried, and pulled the covers over her head.
        Emily said, "What made Santa's twin so evil?"
        "Maybe he had a bad childhood," Marty said.
        "Maybe he was born that way," Charlotte said under her covers.
        "Can people be born bad?" Emily wondered. Then she answered her own question before Marty could respond. "Well, sure, they can.
        "Cause some people are born good, like you and Mommy, so then some people must be born bad."
        Marty was soaking up the girls' reactions, loving it. On one level, he was a writer, storing away their words, the rhythms of their speech, expressions, toward the day when he might need to use some of this for a scene in a book. He supposed it wasn't admirable to be so constantly aware that even his own children were material, it might be morally repugnant, but he couldn't change. He was what he was. He was also a father, however, and he reacted primarily on that level, mentally preserving the moment because one day memories were all he would have of their childhood, and he wanted to be able to recall everything, the good and the bad, simple moments and big events, in Technicolor and Dolby sound and with perfect clarity, because it was all too precious to him to be lost.
        Emily said, "Does Santa's evil twin have a name?"
        "Yes," Marty said, "he does, but you'll have to wait until another night to hear it. We've reached our first stopping place."
        Charlotte poked her head out from beneath the covers, and both girls insisted that he read the first part of the poem again, as he had known they would. Even the second time through, they would be too involved to be ready to sleep. They would demand a third reading, and he would oblige, for then they would be familiar enough with the words to settle down. Later, by the end of the third reading, they finally would be either deep in sleep or on the drowsy edge of it.
        As he started with the first line again, Marty heard Paige turn out of the doorway and walk toward the stairs. She would be waiting for him in the family room, perhaps with flames crackling in the fireplace, perhaps with red wine and a snack of some kind, and they would curl up together and tell each other about their day.
        Any five minutes of the evening, now or later, would be more interesting to him than a trip around the world. He was a hopeless homebody. The charms of hearth and family had more allure than the enigmatic sands of Egypt, the glamour of Paris, and the mystery of the Far East combined.
        Winking at each of his daughters, reciting again, "Well, now Thanksgiving is safely past," he had for the moment forgotten that something disturbing had happened earlier in his office and that the sanctity of his home had been violated.
        In the Blue Life Lounge, a woman brushes against the killer and slides onto the bar stool beside him. She is not as beautiful as the dancers, but she is attractive enough for his purposes. Wearing tan jeans and a tight red T-shirt, she could be just another customer, but she is not.
        He knows her type a discount Venus with the skills of a naturalborn accountant.
        They conduct a conversation by leaning close to each other to be heard above the band, and soon their heads are almost touching. Her name is Heather, or so she