Chapter Two

The next morning, Mort awoke to the screaming of the alarm clock. Sleepily, he then walked down to the kitchen, only to discover that there was nothing edible left in the house; he didn't even have any coffee.
"It's insane," he said, sighing as he pulled his coat on ",why should I have to drive all the way to New London when there's a general store right in--" he stopped short. The black hat of his alter ego lay on the porch once more. All the blood drained from Mort's face.
"Oh, God. What have I done?" he said, bringing one hand up to his face. Both anger and panic suddenly overcame him and he grabbed the hat, violently stuffing it in the nearby garbage can. He looked around for other evidence of his assumed deed. Some vital clue to fill his memory. He shuddered at the thought of the last time Shooter's hat had appeared. He had killed two men. No, no, Shooter had killed two men. Mort was postive it had been Shooter, . . wasn't he? A voice in his head assured him that it was Shooter, but Mort still wasn't sure. If he was crazy enough to hear and have conversations with voices in his head, how did he know he wasn't crazy enough to kill Tom and Ken? How could he be sure he hadn't killed Amy and Ted? He went back to the front door, seeking the solace of his cabin. As he fished in his pocket for the house key, his fingers brushed something familiar. He brought it out to look at it. The object was a practically fresh pack of L&M cigarettes. Without hesitation, he pulled one out and lit it as if he had never quit. He then walked back into the house, sitting back down on the couch to stare at the phone in contemplation once again. Should he call the police?