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storeroom.”
    Bob’s mouth was suddenly dry. “Listen, take the money and go. You got what you want. Just go. Please.”
    Grinning, more confident now that he had the money, emboldened by Bob’s fear but still visibly trembling, the gunman said, “Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna kill no one. I’m a lover not a killer. All I want’s a piece of that little bitch, and then I’m out of here. ”
    Bob cursed himself for not having a gun. Laura was clinging to him, trusting in him, but he could do nothing to save her. On the way to the storeroom, he’d lunge at the junkie, try to grab the revolver. He was overweight, out of shape. Unable to move fast enough, he would be shot in the gut and left to die on the floor, while the filthy bastard took Laura into the back room and raped her.
    “Move,” the junkie said impatiently. “Now!”
    A gun fired, Laura screamed, and Bob pulled her tight against him, sheltering her, but it was the junkie who had been shot. The bullet struck his left temple, blowing out part of his skull, and he went down hard atop the Slim Jims and crackers and chewing gum that he had knocked off the counter, dead so instantaneously that he did not even reflexively pull the trigger of his own revolver.
    Stunned, Bob looked to his right and saw a tall, blond man with a pistol. Evidently he had entered the building through the rear service door and had crept silently through the storage room. Upon entering the grocery he had shot the junkie without warning. As he stared at the dead body, he looked cool, dispassionate, as if he were an experienced executioner.
    “Thank God,” Bob said, “police.”
    “I’m not the police.” The man wore gray slacks, a white shirt, and a dark gray jacket under which a shoulder holster was visible.
    Bob was confused, wondering if their rescuer was another thief about to take over where the junkie had been violently interrupted.
    The stranger looked up from the corpse. His eyes were pure blue, intense, and direct.
    Bob was sure that he had seen the guy before, but he could not remember where or when.
    The stranger looked at Laura. “You all right, sweetheart?”
    “Yes,” she said, but she clung to her father.
    The pungent odor of urine rose from the dead man, for he had lost control of his bladder at the moment of death.
    The stranger crossed the room, stepping around the corpse, and engaged the dead-bolt lock on the front door. He pulled down the shade. He looked worriedly at the big display windows over which flowed a continuous film of rain, distorting the stormy afternoon beyond. “No way to cover those, I guess. We’ll just have to hope nobody comes along and looks in.”
    “What’re you going to do to us?” Bob asked.
    “Me? Nothing. I’m not like that creep. I don’t want anything from you. I just locked the door so we could work out the story you’re going to have to tell the police. We have to get it straight before anyone walks in here and sees the body.”
    “Why do I need a story?”
    Stooping beside the corpse, the stranger took a set of car keys and the wad of money from the pockets of the bloodstained windbreaker. Rising again, he said, “Okay, what you have to tell them is that there were two gunmen. This one wanted Laura, but the other was sickened by the idea of raping a little girl, and he just wanted to get out. So they argued, it got nasty, the other one shot this bastard and skipped with the money. Can you make that sound right?”
    Bob was reluctant to believe that he and Laura had been spared.
    With one arm he held his daughter tightly against him. “I ... I don’t understand. You weren’t really with him. You’re not in trouble for killing him—after all, he was going to kill us. So why don’t we just tell them the truth?”
    Stepping to the end of the checkout counter, returning the money to Bob, the man said, “And what is the truth?”
    “Well... you happened along and saw the robbery in progress—”
    “I didn’t just