Blackburn and the Blade

Bradley Denton

Part One

Blackburn drove back across the bridge from Rock Island and saw the gibbous moon reflected in the black Mississippi. The twin moons had an odd reddish tint, so together, they were like bloodshot eyes watching him from both above and below. But he didn't think any other eyes had been watching him tonight. He hoped not, anyway.

     The river looked cold as steel, and Blackburn felt the same way. For one thing, the puke-green Ford Falcon he had stolen in Des Moines was the worst junker he had ever driven. And that was saying something. He wouldn't have minded so much if the heater had worked. But it didn't. There was just enough warmth seeping back from the engine to hint at potential comfort. And all that did was put Blackburn into a bad mood.

     But he had been in a bad mood the whole month of December. Ever since he'd left Kansas City, things had been going wrong. First, his Dodge Dart had thrown a rod just over the Iowa line. So he had slung his duffel over his shoulder, cradled Dog in his arms, and trudged northward on the I-35 shoulder, his balls aching from his vasectomy bruise, until a church van had stopped for him. By then he'd been so cold that he would have ridden with anyone, but by the time the van had reached Des Moines he'd been ready to strangle all six Baptists on board. They had yammered on about Jesus this and Jesus that for a solid hour -- and Blackburn had long ago heard all he would ever care to hear about that guy.

     But he had let the Baptists live. They had saved him from freezing his fingers or further damaging his balls, so listening to their sermon had been the price he'd had to pay. On the other hand, he hadn't felt obligated to give them any gas money. So he'd still had almost three hundred dollars of his Kansas City cash, and he and Dog had splurged on twenty hours of rest and warmth at a Best Western.

     Then, refreshed, he had stolen the Falcon from a used-car lot. It had been sitting unlocked with its key in the ignition, and a morose-looking fat dude had watched the theft from a corrugated-metal office without making a move. Blackburn hadn't questioned the gift horse at the time. But later, chugging eastward on U.S. Highway 6, he had realized that the used-car lot's theft insurance would probably pay more for the loss of the Falcon than a customer would have paid to own it. Besides its lack of a working heater, its windows leaked and its upholstery smelled like cat piss. Worst of all, its top speed was fifty-six miles per hour, and its transmission had a habit of popping from Drive to Low on a whim. The jolt sent Dog tumbling every time, and her response was to pee on the already-stinking seats to demonstrate her annoyance.

     So by the time Blackburn had coaxed the Falcon a hundred and sixty-five miles to Davenport, he had been ready for a longer rest. For a while, then, he and Dog would make their home at the Quad City Motor Court at the north end of town, on Highway 61. It was a dump, but it was a cheap place to stay while Blackburn acquired the cash for a better vehicle. He couldn't see himself driving the Falcon all the way to Chicago.

     And he didn't want to risk stealing a nicer car, because the highways between the Quad Cities and Chicago would be well-patrolled. It would be too much to bear to be busted, or to have to kill some cops, before reaching his destination. Because the more he thought about Chicago, the more he liked the thought of being there. For one thing, it would be the biggest city he had ever lived in, with lots of dark corners where he and Dog could hide. For another, it was Midwestern, so he would understand its inhabitants a whole lot better than he had understood those people in San Francisco. Also, he really wanted to try one of those big stuffed pizzas he had heard so much about.

     So, with the goal of being in Chicago by New Year's Eve, Blackburn had decided to make Davenport/Bettendorf/ Rock Island/Moline his home for the time being. But he didn't want "the time being" to last more than a few weeks, so he wouldn't get one of his usual fast-food jobs. Instead, he would acquire the funds he needed by illegal means. Sometimes that was what a situation required.

     Now, after just over two weeks in the Quad Cities, he was almost ready. The upscale neighborhoods in Rock Island had been fruitful, and the pawnbrokers in Davenport were discreet. Blackburn had the impression that this sort of cross-river commerce had been going on for a long time, and that everyone involved -- the pawnbrokers, insurance companies, and police departments -- all had an unspoken agreement about when to look the other way. A certain amount of larceny would be tolerated, because a certain portion of the local economy depended on it. That was true anywhere, but it might be easier to manage here than in most places . . . because no one expected four cities in two states to be able to coordinate their law-enforcement efforts anyway.

     Of course, there would be a limit. If anyone got too greedy, the various police forces might suddenly become quite efficient. So Blackburn would only steal enough to buy the cream-colored '76 Thunderbird he had spotted at Hawkeye Bob's Pre-Owned Vehicles on 4th Street in Davenport. It was marked at two thousand dollars. And now, as he drove back from his latest raid on Rock Island, he knew he was close to that total. Three big Victorian homes had been good to him tonight. They had been closed up and abandoned for the winter, so Blackburn had been able to take his time. Apparently, the houses' owners had remained home long enough for a traditional heartland Christmas, but had fled south immediately afterward.

     Or so Blackburn guessed. He didn't care where they had gone or why. All that mattered to him was that he could stroll through their homes and help himself to their gaudy crap with little fear of repercussion. Some of them wouldn't return home for months, and even then they might not notice their losses for a while. Blackburn was careful not to break any windows or locks when he could help it, and once inside he didn't go for the obvious items like TVs and stereos. Instead, he stuck to jewelry, silverware, and gold-plated knickknacks -- the sort of stuff that was worth cash at a pawn shop, but was almost useless in even a wealthy person's day-to-day life. So the thefts wouldn't all be reported in a clump, and the cops wouldn't realize that they had a new serial burglar in town until he wasn't in town anymore.

     Another night like tonight, Blackburn figured, and he would have his Thunderbird. Then he and Dog could be in Chicago for the dawn of 1983. But it would take some luck and some cooperation from the Davenport pawn shops. It was already Wednesday morning, and New Year's Eve was Friday night. He would have to hock tonight's take, make an educated guess about how many more houses to hit, and set off for another raid on Rock Island or Moline on Wednesday night. He would make his final pawnshop run on Thursday morning. Then, assuming he was over the two thousand dollar mark, he could have the Thunderbird by lunchtime. He would then collect Dog at the Motor Court and be in the Windy City by Thursday evening.

     If everything went well. Otherwise, Blackburn and Dog would be out of luck until next week, because a sign at Hawkeye Bob's said it would be closed from December 31 to January 3. And Blackburn really didn't want to steal the Thunderbird. It was nice and noticeable, so that meant paying for it. Or getting the wealthy farts in Rock Island to do it for him.

     Thinking about the Thunderbird made Blackburn want to make sure it was still waiting for him. So once the Falcon had chugged across the river to Bettendorf, Blackburn headed west into Davenport. There was little traffic after midnight, and the few cars on the street were all trailed by white wisps from their tailpipes. The air was still, but it was as cold as Blackburn had ever felt it in Kansas. And that was pretty damn cold. Last week's snow still covered the medians and embankments, reflecting the streetlights so River Drive was a wide, curving black strip in the center of a relentless whiteness. Out in the river, Arsenal Island slid by like an enormous tree-dotted iceberg.

     But even though it was freezing, Blackburn could see why some people liked it here. For a small metropolitan area, there was a lot of variety in the landscape and architecture. There were trees, hills, and beautiful old homes. And there was the undeniable allure of the Mississippi. But although he could understand the Quad Cities' charms, Blackburn knew this place wasn't for him. Despite its diversity, despite the river, and despite the fact that two of the four cities were in Illinois, he still had an overwhelming sense of being in Iowa. And that felt too much like Kansas. Too much like home.

     As the dam at the western tip of Arsenal Island receded on Blackburn's left, he hung a right up Brady and then turned left onto one-way 4th Street. A glance to the south now revealed no hint of the Mississippi. It might as well have been a thousand miles away. Instead there were two- and three-story brick buildings, the boarded-up ones looking as if they might crumble at any moment, the others looking sturdy but hollow. And they all looked cold, as if they had never held any more warmth inside their walls than Blackburn had inside the Falcon. He imagined that Chicago would be different. In Chicago, there had to be streets that stayed warm all night long.

     Ten blocks down, he came abreast of Hawkeye Bob's, a flat, clean lot of asphalt between a bail-bond office and an appliance store. The Thunderbird was still there, sitting toward the back of the lot next to the aluminum cube that was the sales office. The snow had been brushed from the car's roof and hood, and its creamy finish looked as smooth as a pretty girl's cheek. The moon had slid behind some clouds, but even the harsh glare of the mercury-vapor streetlights couldn't diminish the Thunderbird's beauty.

     Blackburn pulled the Falcon to the curb for a minute while he gazed at his heart's desire. He wasn't sure why he was so drawn to the Thunderbird, because he had no love for Fords in general. His experience with the Falcon had cemented that. But the Thunderbird was different. Behind its wheel, Blackburn imagined, he would be like a force of nature. Like a storm.

     He almost laughed at the thought. But his jaw was trembling from the cold, so all that came out was a shuddering wheeze. Now that the Falcon was standing still, no heat at all was being blown back from the engine. Blackburn had to get moving again. The Thunderbird was still there, and it would remain there until he was ready to liberate it. Otherwise, he would become seriously unhappy with the Quad Cities.

     He put the Falcon back into Drive. It lurched away from the curb, dropped into Low, and then clunked back into Drive. But at least it was moving. Blackburn turned south at the next cross street, then east onto one-way 3rd. It was time to get back to the Motor Court so he could let Dog out for a pee. Assuming that she hadn't already soaked the grungy brown carpet again. Dog wasn't quite full-grown, so she still had a lot of bad puppy-habits. And her previous owner -- whom Blackburn had left with a slug in his head and a stick of dynamite in his mouth -- hadn't taught her a thing. Blackburn had lost count of how many times he'd had to clean up after her. But she was worth the trouble, especially when she curled up against his chest at night. That went a long way toward banishing the December cold.

     Blackburn was thinking about that, about being warm again, when he saw the brightly lit shop ahead on his left. The windows glowed yellow, and a taupe Cadillac and a white Chevy van were parked on the street in front. The letters P-A-W-N burned above the door like red coals. The place was open. In the middle of the night. Blackburn couldn't believe it. He had made note of this shop before, in daylight, and it was on his list of places to hock his Rock Island goods. But he hadn't been inside yet, because it was at the end of the list along with a couple of other shops that hadn't looked too prosperous.

     Now, lit up and alive when everything around it was dark and dead, it looked like the most promising joint in town. It looked like glowing money.

     So Blackburn pulled over behind the van and switched off the Falcon, which dieseled and twitched before going silent. Dog would be all right for a bit longer. It wasn't as if she'd hold it in and suffer if she had to go. Besides, the chance to convert at least some of tonight's take into immediate cash was too appealing to pass up.

     He opened the duffel bag on the seat beside him, rooting under a few wadded T-shirts to sort through tonight's acquisitions. There was too much stuff to take into one store at one time, especially if he and the pawnbroker didn't already know each other. So he selected a gold-plated watch, a chunky Northwestern University class ring, and a white-gold man's wedding band. Some of the women's jewelry in the duffel was worth more, but hocking women's jewelry was too risky for an initial transaction. These three items would do for now. He stuffed them into a pocket of his jean jacket, opened the creaking Falcon door, and stepped onto the sidewalk. He put his duffel into the trunk so the rest of tonight's acquisitions would be out of sight, then stepped across to the shop's glass door.

     A hand-lettered sign on the door said that from December 27 through December 30, "Uncle Bill's Pawn" would have extended hours of 10:00 AM to 1:00 AM. So that explained it. Uncle Bill was staying open late to take advantage of certain folks' post-Christmas, pre-New-Year's need to hock. Certain folks like Blackburn.

     A cowbell clanked to announce him. At the far end of the narrow store, a heavy, balding, cigar-puffing man glanced toward him from behind a scarred wooden counter. He had been talking to a thin, dark man in an old Army jacket on this side of the counter, but now he took a moment to assess Blackburn.

     Blackburn wasn't worried. He kept himself clean and his hair cut short, but he took care not to dress too sharp. Pawnbrokers didn't give good deals to bums, but they didn't like fancy boys either. So Blackburn aimed down the middle: Black Nikes. Blue jeans with some fading, but no rips. A dark gray sweatshirt with minimal stains. A worn but clean denim jacket. All of which was the sort of clothing that happened to be ideal for breaking into houses, too. Which meant Blackburn was always dressed to do business, whatever it might be.

     "Buying or pawning?" the heavy man asked around his cigar.

     "Pawning," Blackburn said. "Got a watch and a couple of gold rings." He took a look around and saw that this end of the shop was stocked with a variety of tools. "Maybe buying, too, if you can cut me a deal."

     The heavy man waved at the overflowing shelves. "Make yourself at home. I'm Uncle Bill, so if there's a deal to be cut, I'm the man to do it. Be with you soon as I finish helping this gentleman."

     Blackburn nodded, then moved down a short side aisle stocked with chain saws on one side and automotive tools on the other. Odds were that the Thunderbird wouldn't have more than a tire tool and a jack included in its purchase price. If that. So Blackburn thought he might work out a trade for a few things here. He had never had adequate tools in any of his previous vehicles, including the Falcon, and he had regretted it more than once. It was not an experience he was willing to repeat with a car as fine as the Thunderbird.

     He picked up and examined a small air compressor that plugged into a car's cigarette lighter. And then he heard a metallic racking sound from the counter, and he flung the compressor away as he dropped to the floor.

     He wished he hadn't left his Colt Python under the Falcon's front seat. He wished he had tucked it into the back waistband of his jeans before coming inside. The sound he had just heard was a pump shotgun being cocked, and that was never a good sound to hear if you didn't have a weapon of your own. At least, that had been his experience.

     Someone yelled "The fuck!" and then the flying compressor hit a shelf of socket wrenches. More yells mingled with the clatter. Blackburn thought he could hear several male voices and a woman's, but he couldn't be sure because of the crashing wrenches and sockets. It sounded as if the voices were all between him and the shotgun, though, which meant he could probably make it out the door without getting shot. He took a deep breath and got ready to scramble.

     But then he heard Uncle Bill's voice as the last of the sockets bounced and rolled. "Jesus H. Christ!" Uncle Bill shouted. "It ain't loaded! I was just demonstrating that all the movin' parts work."

     Blackburn stayed down for a few more seconds to be on the safe side, but he began breathing normally again. Okay, this was a pawn shop. Pawn shops sold shotguns. No big deal.

     He stood up and looked over the shelves toward the counter. Uncle Bill was holding a 12-gauge hunting gun with the muzzle pointed at the ceiling, and both he and his customer were staring at Blackburn as if he had just farted in church.

     "I apologize," Blackburn said. "I knocked some tools off the shelf here. I'll pick them up."

     Uncle Bill blinked, then shook his head. "Nah, that's okay. I'll get 'em later. My fault for rackin' the pump when you weren't lookin'. It's a noise bound to provoke a response."

     "That's true," Blackburn said. But he still felt embarrassed. He should have known from the hollowness of the sound that there was no shell in the chamber.

     Uncle Bill glanced toward the east side of the store, at a U-shaped rack festooned with guitars. "You kids all right over there?"

     "Yeah," a young male voice answered. "We just thought somebody was gonna shoot us, is all."

     Blackburn peered between the hanging guitars, and he caught glimpses of three people he hadn't seen when he'd first come in. Two of them were just now rising from the floor. So Blackburn hadn't been the only one.

     Uncle Bill chuckled. "Ain't nobody gonna shoot you, Jason. Just relax."

     Uncle Bill and his customer resumed their examination of the shotgun, and the three people in the guitar cubbyhole began mumbling to each other. Blackburn turned away and picked up the tools he had knocked down, replacing them where he thought they belonged. He had decided not to trade for any of them. He would just see what cash he could get for the watch and rings, then clear out of here. The shotgun incident had left him feeling edgy. Besides, Dog still needed to be let out.

     When he had finished replacing the tools, he walked toward the counter, hoping that his approach would hurry up the current transaction. But Uncle Bill and his customer didn't even seem to notice him now. They were deep into the subjects of shot loads and full chokes.

     Blackburn paused, then looked into the guitar cubbyhole. All three of the people inside appeared to be teenagers, maybe sixteen to nineteen years old. Two were typical Midwestern-pale, stringy-haired males. The larger one had a wispy mustache, and the smaller one had Band-Aids on several fingers. Those were the only things about either of them that were notable.

     But the third, the girl, was stunning. She was dressed in the same uniform of patched jeans and oversized sweatshirt as the boys, but her clothes couldn't hide the fact that she was beautiful. She had huge brown eyes and short black hair that gleamed even in the dingy pawnshop light. Her skin looked creamy and smooth, like white chocolate. Like the paint on the Thunderbird. Blackburn was transfixed. He felt something stir, and was pleased that it didn't hurt. His vasectomy wound was almost completely healed.

     "What you lookin' at?" the mustached boy asked. Blackburn recognized his voice as belonging to the one Uncle Bill had called Jason. Jason was now attempting to speak in a belligerant snarl, but it came out nasal and whiny.

     "Sorry," Blackburn said. He didn't blame the kid. If he'd been with a girl like that, he'd be antagonistic toward staring strangers, too. "I was just looking at that guitar." It was a lie, but Blackburn thought it would help avoid further unpleasantness.

     "Yeah? Which one?" It was a challenge.

     Blackburn considered. There were too many witnesses to just break the kid's neck. But he didn't feel like backing off, either, so he stepped into the cubbyhole. "The one behind the lady."

     The other boy, the one without a mustache, reached up and touched a bright red guitar. "This Stratocaster?"

     "Yes." Sure, Blackburn thought. Why not?

     The boy nodded, looking wistful. "It's a '72. I like the big Strat headstock. Jason wants it, but it costs too much."

     The girl touched his shoulder. "Let's get out of the way so this guy can look at it, Gerald." She had a voice like warm honey.

     Gerald nodded, and he and the girl began to edge their way out of the cubbyhole. Jason grumbled and gave Blackburn an evil glare. But then he went with the others.

     Blackburn felt bad. He hadn't wanted to drive them off. Not the girl, anyway. "Don't go on my account," he said, following them out to the main aisle. "I was just looking."

     "Us too," the girl said.

     "That's all we ever do now," Jason muttered.

     Blackburn thought he saw the girl's shoulders tighten. He wasn't sure what nerve had been hit, but he wasn't able to find out because the thin, dark man who had been at the counter approached, cradling the shotgun.

     "Pardon me," the man said. His voice was thin and dark, too. "The clouds are moving away from the moon. I have to hurry."

     Blackburn stepped back toward the guitar cubbyhole to make room for the man to pass. None of the kids moved, though, and the man pushed past them, bumping Gerald aside and heading out the door. The cowbell clanged behind him.

     "Excuse you, jackoff!" Jason yelled after him.

     At that, Uncle Bill barked "Hey!" and the kids -- and Blackburn -- all turned toward him.

     "Hey what?" Jason said.

     Uncle Bill took his cigar from his mouth and pointed the glowing end at Jason. "You know what. It's fine with me if Amy brings you boys in so you can fool with the guitars, but don't be harassing my customers."

     "But the guy pushed Gerald," Jason whined. "Didn't you see it?"

     Uncle Bill replaced his cigar. "Nope."

     Amy looked back toward the door. "He said something about the moon," she said. Then she turned to Blackburn. "Did you hear what it was?"

     Blackburn was glad to have her attention, if only for a moment. "Something about the clouds moving, so he had to hurry. It was like he didn't want to see the moon."

     Amy shook her head. "Just the opposite, I think." She was almost whispering.

     Blackburn was about to ask what she meant, but Uncle Bill spoke again before he had a chance.

     "You ready to show me somethin', sir?" Uncle Bill asked. "Or are you occupied?"

     Blackburn wanted to be annoyed, but Uncle Bill had a point. This was a place of business. So he gave Amy a polite smile and approached the counter. The teenagers returned to the guitar cubbyhole.

     "Let's see what you've got," Uncle Bill said.

     Blackburn took out the watch and rings and set them on the counter. "Cute kids," he said.

     Uncle Bill gave him a wry look. "If you say so, old timer. What are you, twenty?"

     "Twenty-four," Blackburn said.

     Uncle Bill snorted. Then he picked up the watch. "Goddamn. A gen-u-wine Rolex."

     Blackburn knew what the tone of Uncle Bill's "gen-u-wine" meant. It meant he knew the watch was stolen, but wanted a reason to pretend otherwise. "Uh-huh," Blackburn said. "I inherited it, but it's too fancy for me."

     Uncle Bill put the watch back down. "For me, too."

     Blackburn stiffened. "Pardon?"

     Uncle Bill puffed his cigar. "What I mean is, I can't give you a fair price. If you want to pawn it for some quick cash, I could go fifty bucks. Then you could maybe get it back in a few weeks."

     "I won't be here in a few weeks," Blackburn said. "I'm passing through. But I know this is worth more than fifty bucks, even as a hock."

     "That's my point," Uncle Bill said. "I can't sell it to the clientele I get in here. Not for a decent price. And it's too much trouble to middle-man it to another dealer. So my advice is, you go to one of the guys in town specializes in expensive items. There's a jeweler on North Harrison takes stuff like this."

     Blackburn was discouraged. "And the rings?"

     "Almost the same deal. I could go thirty for the two of 'em, with sincere apologies."

     At least Uncle Bill wasn't trying to pretend he was offering fair value. "Well, then," Blackburn said. "If you don't take watches and jewelry, what do you take?"

     Uncle Bill grinned, and his cigar bobbed. "Look around, son. Tools, guns, and the occasional gee-tar."

     It was beginning to look as if this wasn't a place where Blackburn could do business. "In other words, you deal in things folks actually use."

     "Yup. So if you ever happen to have a power drill or fine quality firearm to unload, I'm your boy."

     Blackburn perked up, and the thin twang of an unamplified electric guitar punctuated his next question. "What do you mean by 'fine quality' firearms?"

     Uncle Bill jerked a thumb at the wall behind him, which was festooned with rifles, shotguns, and pistols. "I mean well-made American weapons for serious hunting or home security. I mean Browning, Winchester, Colt, and Smith and Wesson. I guess I'd take an Uzi or a Glock, but those never seem to come in. But I won't take no cheap Asian knockoffs. I buy top quality, and I pay top dollar."

     Blackburn began to consider something he had never considered before. On the one hand, he didn't want to sell his Colt Python. On the other hand, if Uncle Bill really did pay top dollar, then the Python might make the difference between getting his Thunderbird by New Year's Eve or being stuck in the Quad Cities another two weeks.

     "Okay," he said, scooping up the watch and rings. "I might have something for you. Let me get it."

     "I close in fifteen minutes," Uncle Bill warned.

     "I'll be back in two. With a .357 Magnum Colt Python."

     The end of Uncle Bill's cigar glowed bright red. "Damn. I ain't had an actual Python in a coon's age. Only .357s I usually get are Smith & Wesson shitkickers. So, hell, if it's in good shape I might even want to keep it myself. Got a couple of speedloaders down here in my safe that'd go with it like nuts on a sundae."

     "Hang on, then."

     Blackburn turned and went past the guitar cubbyhole, and he couldn't help looking in at Amy as he did. She was watching Jason plink away on the red Strat, but she wasn't doing it with any love in her eyes. In fact, she looked a little bored. Blackburn took heart in that. He even let himself fantasize about driving her back to the Motor Court with him. She was probably eighteen. Pretty close, anyway. And she had seemed to like him, so --

     Then the unmistakable sound of a shotgun blast out on the street jerked Blackburn back to the real world. So he resolved to kill whoever had done it. If he had the chance.

     But when he went outside, he saw it was too late. The moon had emerged from the clouds, and its weird ochre light mingled with the glow from the shop to reveal what had happened. The driver's door of the Chevy van was open, and the thin, dark-haired man who had bought the shotgun was slumped on the seat inside. He couldn't really be identified as "dark-haired" anymore, though, because the top of his head was gone, along with half of his face. Blackburn only knew who it was because of the Army jacket. And the shotgun. He recognized that too. The polished walnut stock was clamped between the man's knees, and his thumb was still on the trigger. The shotgun's muzzle was inside what was left of his mouth.

     Blackburn was perturbed. This guy had not been considerate. If he was going to blow off his own head, he could have at least gone home first. . . .

Part Two

       Blackburn and the Blade

      Part One

                                Part Two

      Part Three

      The  following "Part Two" is from the novella "Blackburn and the Blade," first published in Joe R. Lansdale's LORDS OF THE RAZOR edited by Bill Sheehan and William Schafer (Subterranean Press,       July 2006).  Cover art by Timothy Truman; interior illustrations by Glenn Chadbourne.

     Please do not publish, post, or otherwise reproduce any part of this story without the permission of the author.

                                  Part Two of      

             Blackburn and the Blade

  . . . Then the unmistakable sound of a shotgun blast out on the street jerked Blackburn back to the real world. So he resolved to kill whoever had done it. If he had the chance.

     But when he went outside, he saw it was too late. The moon had emerged from the clouds, and its weird ochre light mingled with the glow from the shop to reveal what had happened. The driver's door of the Chevy van was open, and the thin, dark-haired man who had bought the shotgun was slumped on the seat inside. He couldn't really be identified as "dark-haired" anymore, though, because the top of his head was gone, along with half of his face. Blackburn only knew who it was because of the Army jacket. And the shotgun. He recognized that too. The polished walnut stock was clamped between the man's knees, and his thumb was still on the trigger. The shotgun's muzzle was inside what was left of his mouth.

     Blackburn was perturbed. This guy had not been considerate. If he was going to blow off his own head, he could have at least gone home first. By doing it here, he had interfered with other people's lives.

     The bell on the pawnshop door clanged, and then Uncle Bill was standing next to Blackburn, cradling another shotgun.

     "Oh," Uncle Bill said. His cigar dropped from his mouth, and he stared at the mess in the van. "Oh. I thought . . . I thought maybe there was some trouble out here."

     "Not exactly," Blackburn said. He glanced down at the shotgun Uncle Bill was holding. "So you might want to take that back inside before the cops come. Just so they don't get nervous before they understand the situation."

     Uncle Bill looked pale, but he nodded. "Yeah. Good idea. Good thinking."

     Blackburn could see that Uncle Bill was rattled. "Don't worry," he said. "This didn't have anything to do with you. He killed himself."

     Uncle Bill couldn't seem to stop staring at the man in the van. "Yeah, but they'll still question me. Because I traded him for that shotgun. He got it from me."

     "It's his thumb on the trigger. That's what counts."

     "But why go to all that trouble?"

     "All sorts of reasons," Blackburn said. "Life is too hard for some folks."

     Uncle Bill scratched his jaw. "That's not what I mean. I mean, why come to my shop and dicker for a shotgun? Why not just park the van in his garage and gas himself?"

     Blackburn looked at the corpse and shrugged. "Maybe he doesn't have a garage. Or maybe he just wanted to make sure. A shotgun in the mouth is pretty definite." He gave Uncle Bill a sidelong glance. "What'd he trade for it, anyway?"

     "Stack of silver dollars," Uncle Bill said, shifting his gun to the crook of his left arm. "1911 to 1932. Plus an old straight razor with a carved ivory handle. That was the clincher. Beautiful thing. He coulda used that, too, come to think of it. It's probably a hundred years old, but it still has an edge. Coulda slit his wrists in his bathtub, passed out in the water, and died peaceful."

     "But if he'd done that," Blackburn said, "you wouldn't have your silver dollars."

     Now, finally, Uncle Bill looked away from the van. "Yeah, well. Suppose I'd better call the police."

     "I expect they're already on their way. Sound carries on a cold night."

     "But I have to call 'em anyway." Uncle Bill nodded toward the Falcon, as if he knew without asking that it was Blackburn's vehicle. "And you might want to clear out. This wasn't none of your affair, so you shouldn't have to answer any questions or have the law poking around your car. We'll have to take a rain check on that .357."

     Blackburn saw the wisdom of getting the hell away. There were a number of items in the Falcon that he wouldn't want a cop to discover. "You make a good point," he said. "I'm sorry we couldn't do business."

     "It's just temporary. Come back in twelve hours."

     Blackburn looked past Uncle Bill and saw all three teenagers staring out through the shop windows. And now they all seemed younger than they had before. Especially Amy. With her eyes wide in horror, she looked about thirteen.

     "Crap," Blackburn said.

     Now Uncle Bill noticed them too. "Aw, Jesus H.," he said. "I hate for my niece to see this."

     Blackburn was surprised. "So you really are their Uncle Bill?"

     "Just Amy's. Them boys live next door to her, out near the fairgrounds. But they call me Uncle Bill, too. Everybody does." Uncle Bill closed his eyes. "Hell. She went through enough shit three and a half weeks ago."

     "What happened three and a half weeks ago?" Blackburn asked.

     Uncle Bill opened his eyes and frowned. "Never mind. It was bad, and this'll just remind her. But I'm her ride home, so there ain't nothin' to do about it." He spat on the sidewalk. "Goddamn Christmas break. They wouldn't even be here if they had school tomorrow."

     Blackburn looked at the girl again. He didn't know what she had already been through, but she didn't look as if she deserved to go through anything at all. "I could give her a ride."

     Uncle Bill's frown became a glare. "Yeah, you bet. One stranger trades me for a shotgun, and he eats it right outside my store. Then another stranger, who claims he has a .357 handy, offers to give my niece a ride home. Do I look dumb enough to let Amy get in a car with a guy might be a rapist or a psycho killer?"

     "I give you my word that I'm not a rapist."

     "Maybe not," Uncle Bill said. "But that don't mean you're a fine human being. For one thing, you don't seem at all perturbed by this dead man here."

     "He's not the first one I've seen. And if you don't mind my saying so, Uncle Bill, you don't seem too perturbed, either. Here we are having a conversation while he's dripping."

     Uncle Bill squatted down, picked up his cigar from the cracked sidewalk, and replaced it in his mouth. It had gone out, but he didn't seem to notice. "He ain't my first, either. Although he's for sure the most fucked-up."

     "He's a mess, all right," Blackburn said. "Which means the cops, the coroner, and whoever they get to pick up the pieces will all be here for several hours. So I'm offering to help you out. If you don't want Amy here for the circus, I can take her home right now."

     Uncle Bill's expression softened. "Look, I appreciate the offer. But my sister-in-law Nadine, that's Amy's mother, gets off her shift at the waffle house on I-80 at 1:00 AM. So she'll be home pretty soon. And if she knew I'd let a stranger give Amy a ride, I'd never see the child again. See, ever since my dumbass brother drove into an overpass support and got killed, Nadine's let me be a sort of part-time daddy -- but she could pull the plug on that anytime she likes. You understand."

     "I do," Blackburn said. "But I also understand that you don't want Amy here for this, and you can't take her home yourself until after it's over. So here's my suggestion. I give you my Colt as collateral for her safety, with the understanding that you'll make me a deal for it tomorrow. And I can take the boys home, too. I'll even let the big one drive, if he's old enough. You said they live right next door to her?"

     "Yeah, but Nadine . . . "

     Blackburn didn't let him finish. "If we leave now, we can have them home before Nadine gets there. It's an easy shot out to the fairgrounds this time of night. But if you wait to take them home yourself, there's no telling how late you'll be. Probably after sunup."

     "I could call her," Uncle Bill said. He was almost muttering, talking to himself. "But if I tell her why we're gonna be late . . . Jesus H., she'd have a stroke." He glanced at the dead man, grimaced, and then looked at Blackburn again. "Amy sits up front with Jason," he said. "He's seventeen, got a license and everything. You sit in the back with Gerald."

     Blackburn couldn't help giving a slight smile. "I guess that means you trust me with Gerald."

     "I don't give a damn about Gerald. Now let's see the Colt. I think I hear a siren."

     Blackburn didn't hear a siren yet, but he sympathized with Uncle Bill's nervousness. If the police weren't on their way, they would be soon. So he went to the Falcon, opened the driver's door, and pulled the Colt from under the seat.

     "Any other weapons in there?" Uncle Bill asked. "Just out of curiosity."

     "No." Blackburn handed the gun over. "But feel free to look."

     "Nah, that's okay." Uncle Bill held the pistol in his right hand and peered at the cylinder. "I see it's loaded."

     "Empty chamber under the hammer," Blackburn said.

     Uncle Bill nodded. "Speaking of which. If Amy and her little friends don't get home safe, I'll empty another chamber into your balls. Got me?"

     "Yes," Blackburn said. "And don't worry. My balls have had enough trauma recently." If he had been in Uncle Bill's place, he thought, he would have insisted that the kids take the car without him. But if Uncle Bill didn't bring it up, he wasn't going to offer. The Quad City Motor Court was too far away to walk to.

     Uncle Bill tucked the pistol into his waistband, went to the shop door, and opened it. The cowbell clanged. "Amy? This gentleman's gonna give you and the boys a lift." Then he looked back at Blackburn. "By the way, what's your name, son?"

     "Jimmy," Blackburn said. "Jimmy Doyle."

     "Huh. Name like that you must be Irish. Where you staying in town, Irish?"

     "Quad City Motor Court, up on 61. Room 12." Blackburn took his room key from his pocket and held it up. The blue plastic oval dangling from the key caught the moonlight, and the flaking gold number 12 flashed.

     Uncle Bill squinted, then gave a nod. "Yeah, okay." He stuck his head inside the shop. "Go on, all three of you, get in Mr. Doyle's car. And don't look at the van. Jason, you're driving. Amy, you're shotgun." He coughed as he said the word.

     Amy came outside. "We already looked," she said. Her voice was toneless.

     That bothered Blackburn. It seemed to him that a teenage girl ought to be a little upset at the sight of a man with most of his head blown off. He knew his sister Jasmine would be, anyway. It didn't bother him, of course. But he was a lost cause.

     Amy went around the Falcon and got in on the passenger side without another word. Jason got in on the driver's side, and Blackburn climbed into the back seat and slid across so Gerald could get in on the curb side. Gerald got in, closed the door, and started to roll down the window, but the crank came off in his Band-Aided fingers after four turns. He looked horrified.

     "Don't worry about it," Blackburn said. He reached into his pocket, fished out the Falcon's ignition key, and handed it up to Jason, who sneered at him in the rearview mirror.

     On the sidewalk, Uncle Bill leaned down and spoke into the eight-inch window gap that Gerald had made before the crank had broken. "Jason, if you can drive this heap to Amy's house without wrecking it, I'll let you play that red guitar plugged into an amp tomorrow. Amy, you call me as soon as you get into the house."

     "What should I do?" Gerald asked.

     "Sit on your hands and keep your mouth shut," Uncle Bill said.

     It was clear to Blackburn that Uncle Bill didn't care for Gerald, although it seemed to him that Jason was the less likable of the two. But as long as neither of them did anything to him, he didn't guess it was any of his business.

     Jason put the key into the ignition, cranked it, and pumped the gas pedal. The Falcon coughed to life in less than ten seconds, and Blackburn's opinion of Jason went up a bit. So the kid was surly. Blackburn had been surly in his teens, too. It was even possible that he was still surly on occasion, although twelve of the possible witnesses to that fact were no longer available to confirm it.

     Uncle Bill slapped the Falcon's roof, and Jason pulled around the van and hit the gas. The Falcon roared, but its acceleration didn't match the noise. Streetlights began sending slow pulses of white through the car, and Blackburn found himself staring at the translucent fuzz on the back of Amy's neck. The fuzz was much lighter than the black fringe of her haircut. It looked like frost.

     As Jason turned north onto Gaines, Blackburn saw two police cars, lights flashing but sirens silent, turn from Gaines onto 4th. They were heading to Uncle Bill's via the same route he had taken.

     "See those cops?" Jason asked, giving Blackburn a sharp glance in the rearview.

     "Hard to miss," Blackburn said.

     "You do anything to us, they'll know."

     "I won't do anything," Blackburn said.

     Jason's eyes were hateful. "You say."

     Blackburn couldn't take offense. Jason had the usual teenage chip on his shoulder, but he also seemed to be paranoid enough to see the world for what it was. It wasn't personal. It was just good sense.

     "You'll see," Blackburn said. "Even if I wanted to do something, I wouldn't have time."

     Now Amy turned to look back at him. Her cheek had a little frost, too.

     "Why not?" she asked.

     "I have to get to my motel so I can let my dog out to pee."

     Amy gave him a pout. "Too bad," she said, and faced forward again.

     Now Blackburn was confused. Staring out the pawnshop window, Amy had seemed about thirteen. But just now, she had sounded like a twenty-two-year-old who knew how to be coquettish and contemptuous in the same breath. And she had looked it, too.

     As Jason turned west onto Locust, Blackburn glanced at Gerald. Gerald was staring out at the night, shivering in the frigid air that was slapping his face through the half-open window. His breath had made a foggy half-moon at the top edge of the glass. He had to be freezing, but he kept his face in the wind. He was sitting on his hands, and his mouth was shut. He hadn't been this withdrawn in the pawn shop. So maybe he had gotten too close a look at the guy in the van. Or maybe he was afraid to disobey Uncle Bill.

     Blackburn watched as Gerald's unblinking right eye began to water. A clear droplet crawled up into his stringy hair. And although Blackburn couldn't see it after that, he was pretty sure it turned to ice.

     The kids lived on a narrow street in a neighborhood that had once been suburban and middle-class, but was now city-swallowed and rundown. Blackburn had seen streets just like it in Kansas City and Wichita, streets with pocked and patched asphalt and decaying two-bedroom houses with crooked porches and rust-stained siding. Throw in some malnourished, winter-stripped trees and a couple of dull, flickering streetlights, and Blackburn's single room at the Motor Court didn't look too bad in comparison.

     Jason stopped the Falcon in front of a snow-crusted gravel driveway that led to one of the little houses. The house's porch light was on, but there was no car in the driveway or any other sign of life. "Looks like your mom ain't home yet," Jason said. "I guess that's good. Now she won't freak out."

     Amy pushed her hair back. Blackburn couldn't see her face, but he saw her hand come over the top of her head and knot into a fist, bunching the black hair into a stiff brush above the frost.

     "She'll find some reason to freak out anyway," Amy said. "She comes home, freaks out, and wakes me up. That's what she does."

     "Want to come over to our house instead?" Jason asked.

     Amy shook her head while still clutching her hair. "We might wake up your dad. 'Sides, it'll be worse if I'm not here when Mom decides to show up." She released her hair, pulled the door handle, and pushed with her shoulder. But the door didn't budge.

     "You have to unlock it first," Blackburn said.

     Amy didn't seem to have heard him. She just kept straining against the door. So Blackburn reached around the edge of the front seat to unlock it himself. But Amy reached for the button at the same time, and their cold fingers met. Blackburn tried to do the polite thing and pull away, but Amy's hand closed around his middle finger and squeezed. And when Blackburn was able to pull away, his finger was warm.

     He glanced at Jason, who was glaring at him. But the glare wasn't any more vicious than it had been earlier, so Blackburn didn't think Jason had noticed the finger-squeezing. That was probably a good thing.

     Amy pulled the lock button, opened the door, and stepped out. "Thanks for the ride, Jason," she said, leaning down and looking back into the car. She turned toward Blackburn then, and her dark eyes locked on his. "You too, Mister Doyle."

     For a moment, Blackburn forgot that his name was supposed to be Doyle. Then he remembered, and he gave a nod. He didn't think it would be a good idea to say anything. His finger was throbbing, and he was afraid he would ask her why she had squeezed it.

     Amy shifted her gaze to Gerald. "See you tomorrow, Gerald."

     Gerald was staring off across the street, but his shoulders moved a little. It might have been a shrug.

     "See you, Amy," Jason said. "I'll stay here 'till you're inside."

     Amy's eyes seemed to go black, but Blackburn looked up and saw that a cloud was passing over the moon again. He looked back down at Amy then and wondered what she would look like in the light of day. Her skin was so pale and her hair so dark that he had trouble imagining her under anything brighter than moonlight and streetlamps. She looked as if sunlight would make her dissolve like a snowy image on TV.

     "That's okay," Amy said. "I'm fine." She closed the door a little harder than necessary and walked up the driveway to the house. Her sneakers crunched on the icy gravel.

     Jason sat watching her. But Blackburn noticed that Amy didn't look back at him. Not even when she was on the porch, unlocking the door, and going inside.

     When a light came on in a window at the corner of the house, Jason drove the Falcon another twenty yards to the next driveway and pulled in. This house here was a mirror image of Amy's. The only difference was that the driveway had once been paved. Now it was potholed and broken. It made cracking sounds as the Falcon bounced to a stop behind a brown Rambler station wagon parked under an aluminum carport.

     "Looks like Dad's home," Jason said. Gerald didn't respond.

     Jason put the Falcon in Park, then got out and started walking toward the house. He didn't thank Blackburn, and he didn't seem to notice that Gerald was still sitting in the back seat with his face against the half-open window.

     Blackburn couldn't make up his mind about Jason. Cut him a break, or break his neck? It was a tossup.

     He opened his door and stepped out, expecting that Gerald would do the same. But Gerald remained in the same position he'd been in since downtown. His breath was still maintaining a foggy circle on the glass. But otherwise, he was as still as a cadaver.

     Blackburn gave a sharp whistle to stop Jason, and Jason came running back with an expression of mingled anger and fear on his face. The Falcon's headlights made the puffs of his breath look like glowing smoke.

     "What the hell?" Jason said. "My dad's trying to sleep."

     Blackburn nodded at the car. "Your brother's not moving."

     "So? Wake him up."

     "I don't think he's asleep." Blackburn came around the back end of the Falcon and met Jason at the left rear door. Gerald's cheekbone was resting against the top edge of the glass, and now Blackburn could see that both of the boy's eyes were open and unblinking. "Looks more like catatonic."

     "You some kinda expert on that?"

     Blackburn raised an eyebrow. "No. But I've seen awake, asleep, and dead, and this doesn't look like any of those. Process of elimination."

     Jason reached in through the open window, grasped Gerald's hair, and bounced his face against the glass. The circle of fog smeared. "Hey, dumbass," Jason said. "Wake up. We're home."

     Gerald blinked, then turned to stare up at Blackburn.

     "God?" Gerald asked.

     "I hope not," Blackburn said.

     This seemed to interest Gerald. "You're not sure?" he asked.

     Jason made a noise in his throat. "Not again," he grumbled, then yanked open the door.

     Gerald began to fall out, but Blackburn caught him and pulled him up, then steadied him from behind with a hand on each shoulder. He could feel that if he took his hands away, the boy would topple like a piece of wood.

     "We may have to carry him," Blackburn said. He was annoyed at the prospect, but didn't want to let the kid collapse. Word might get back to Uncle Bill, and their business arrangement might suffer.

     Jason slammed the car door, and the window fell down the rest of the way.

     "Hey," Blackburn said. He had never killed anyone under voting age, but there was a first time for everything.

     For a moment, Jason looked a little startled. "Sorry," he said.

     Blackburn was satisfied. "No problem. I'm getting rid of this thing in a few days anyway." He lifted his hands from Gerald's shoulders for a second, and the boy began to fall to the left. Blackburn caught him. "Is this typical?" he asked. "Or should he go to a hospital?"

     Jason grasped Gerald's left arm. "No, he's okay. I mean, he will be. He comes out of it."

     Blackburn took his hands away so Jason could support Gerald. "If you say so."

     "Thanks for the ride," Jason said. He pulled Gerald forward a few steps, and then they both almost fell when they hit an icy spot. They stopped and wobbled while Jason tried to get a better grip.

     Blackburn sighed. If they had just gotten past the Falcon's driver's door, he could have gotten in and been gone. He hoped Uncle Bill was going to give him a heck of a lot of money for the Python.

     He stepped up and took Gerald's right elbow. "I'll help you get him to the house."

     Jason gave a grunt. "We gotta go to the back door. My dad has the only key to the front."

     Blackburn and Jason began shuffling up the icy driveway, half-dragging Gerald between them. Blackburn slipped on a patch of ice as they went under the carport, but he caught himself by putting a hand on the Rambler's hood. The cold metal made a whumpa sound as Blackburn lifted his hand again.

     "Watch it," Jason whispered. "You'll wake up my dad."

     Blackburn didn't say anything. Tough if their dad did wake up. If he was anything like Blackburn's old man, he didn't deserve any sleep anyway.

     They made it through the carport and went around the corner of the house. The light from the street was blocked now. But the moon had come out again, so Blackburn was able to avoid the old toys and auto parts that cluttered the tiny back yard. Everything seemed to be the color of rust. But then Blackburn glanced up and saw that the moon looked rusty, too. The reddish hue had deepened. It was almost the color of a fresh bloodstain on white cloth.

     "Look at that," he murmured.

     "At what?" Jason said.

     "The moon. It's red."

     Now Gerald looked up at Blackburn with his big, unblinking eyes. "You are God," he said.

     They had reached the back door. Blackburn held Gerald upright while Jason dug a key from his pocket and struggled to get it into a deadbolt lock.

     Gerald swayed in Blackburn's grasp and tried to reach up to touch his face, but Blackburn leaned away from the quivering fingers. Jason continued to struggle with the lock.

     "Please don't hurt me, God," Gerald said. "I'll be good." He kept reaching for Blackburn's face.

     Blackburn was just about to drop Gerald and head back to the Falcon when a yellow bulb under the eaves came on, and the door was pulled open from the inside. A small, stoop-shouldered man wearing thermal underwear stood there blinking. His thinning, stringy hair flopped down to his eyes, and Blackburn could tell that it was usually combed back over his bald spot.

     "I wonder if you boys could make a little more noise," the man said. His voice was thick and sleepy. "I was havin' a dream where this winged dragon was carryin' me up to the stratosphere. And if you let me go back to sleep, who knows, he might drop me, which could result in sweet death."

     "Only in the dream," Blackburn said.

     The man gave him a bleary stare. "You die in a dream, you die in real life too. Didn't you know that? And who the hell are you, anyway?"

     "This is Mr. Doyle, Dad," Jason said before Blackburn could answer. "He gave us a ride from Uncle Bill's."

     "I thought Uncle Bill was gonna do that."

     "He was," Jason said. "But there was a guy shot himself outside the store, so he had to wait for the cops. And now Gerald's having another episode."

     "Shit. This fuckin' town." The boys' father stepped back and pulled the door open wide. "Well, bring him in. What're you doin' standin' out there in the cold?"

     Jason went inside without another word or glance to Blackburn. And now Blackburn was stuck with Gerald, because the boys' father was shuffling away from the door and turning on a kitchen light. So Blackburn propelled Gerald inside, then closed the door with his foot before continuing into the small gray kitchen. The room was illuminated by a bare ring-shaped fluorescent bulb in the ceiling, and it smelled like cold potatoes. Jason had already disappeared into another part of the house, but the boys' father was sniffing at the filter basket of a grimy coffeemaker. He gestured toward the Formica table in the center of the room.

     "Sit him down there," he said. "If I put him to bed when he's like this, he'll start screaming. But if I can get some coffee into him, sometimes he comes around without the screaming."

     Blackburn steered Gerald to the table and managed to get the boy into one of three red-vinyl chairs.

     "Thank you, God," Gerald murmured. Blackburn could barely hear him. "Thank you for not cutting me up."

     "Don't mention it," Blackburn said. He looked over at the boys' father, who had snapped the filter basket in place and was now pouring water into the machine. "Guess I'll be going now."

     The man gave Blackburn a scraggly smile. "Stay for a cup of coffee if you like, Mr. Doyle. By the way, I'm Don Leymer. Guess you've already met my boys."

     "Yes. And the girl next door."

     "That'd be Amy." Leymer flipped the switch on the coffeemaker and shuffled over to the table, scratching his chest through the thermal undershirt. "Sweet girl. Gerry here's got a crush on her. Hell, they both do. Now that Annie's gone, I mean. That was the one Jason really liked." He ruffled Gerald's hair. "Fuckin' shame."

     "What's that?"

     Leymer peered at Blackburn. "You must be from out of town."

     "Been here a couple weeks."

     "Haven't seen a newspaper? The Quad-City Times?"

     "I've been pretty busy."

     "Oh. Well, then." Leymer sat down in one of the red chairs as the coffeemaker began to make gurgling sounds. "Amy's sister Annie got killed, I guess it musta been four weeks ago. December 3rd, after some kinda dance at the high school. The boy she was out with got killed too. David something-or-other. Football player. Both of them seventeen. And whoever done it cut them up real bad. Took Annie's head clean off, and almost did the same to the boy. The medical examiner says the murder weapon had an edge like a razor. And after the guy killed them, he stripped 'em naked and left 'em in the back seat of the boy's car. The cops found 'em at Devil's Glen Park over in Bettendorf, posed like they was . . . well, you can imagine."

     Blackburn glanced down at Gerald, who was swaying in his chair.

     "Don't worry," Leymer said. "When he's like this, he don't seem to be aware of anything anybody else says."

     Blackburn looked toward the back door. None of this was any of his business. But just as he was about to thank Leymer for the coffee offer and leave, Gerald grabbed his hand.

     "Forgive me," Gerald said, staring up at Blackburn again. "I didn't mean to be bad. Forgive me. Please."

     Leymer looked surprised. "This is a new one. He's been having these spells for a month, but this is the first time I've heard him say anything like that. What's he want you to forgive him for?"

     "I don't know," Blackburn said, pulling his hand from Gerald's and taking a step back. "But he's called me God a few times already."

     Leymer stiffened. "That so." He stood up and went back to the coffeemaker. The machine was dripping brown liquid into its carafe, and steam was rising from the vent at the top. There was only an inch of coffee in the carafe, but Leymer reached for its handle anyway.

     Blackburn could see what he was about to do. "If you throw that," he said, "I'll have to do something about it."

     Leymer stopped with his fingers touching the handle. "I wasn't going to."

     "Yes, you were." Blackburn considered leaving. But now he was curious. "How come?"

     Leymer ran his hand through his sparse hair, glanced at Gerald, and then took a chipped green mug from a draining rack by the sink. He set the mug beside the coffeemaker and watched the brown liquid rise in the carafe.

     "The cops don't know who cut up Annie and her boyfriend," Leymer said. "But they think Gerald might've seen the guy. What happened was, Nadine, that's Annie and Amy's mother, came home about 3:00 AM that morning and found Gerald sittin' in her driveway. Gerald and Jason had been hangin' around with Amy and some other kids outside the dance, but Jason says they got bored and came home about midnight. Anyway, Nadine finds Gerald in her driveway havin' one of these spells. The first one, in fact. But I don't really know just what happened, because I wasn't here. I was workin' the night janitorial shift at the osteopathic hospital." Leymer's voice turned bitter. "When I got home, the cops gave me shit for not lookin' after my boys every minute. Like it's my fault their mother ran off to fuckin' California, or that I got a job that makes me work some nights. But they're fourteen and seventeen, so how much motherin' or daddyin' should they need at this point?"

     Blackburn thought of his own daddy again, and wished he had been more like Mr. Leymer. Gone a lot. Or like Amy's daddy. Dead.

     "Did they give Nadine shit too?" Blackburn asked. "After all, you said she wasn't home until 3:00."

     "Hell, no." Leymer lowered his voice. "But that's 'cause she throws the cops a free one now and then. In between all the truckers. If you know what I mean."

     "Seems clear enough."

     Leymer's expression softened. "Look, I won't pretend that I think much of Nadine. But even she don't deserve the news she got that night. Way I understand it, she's in the driveway tryin' to get Gerald to move, when the cops pull up and tell her they found Annie out at Devil's Glen. And then Gerald starts jabberin' that God cut Annie to pieces. Thing is, at that point the cops hadn't said she'd been cut, or even that she was dead. All they said was they found her. So they figure he saw somebody outside the school. Somebody maybe waiting to follow some kids to Devil's Glen."

     "And now," Blackburn said, "you figure I might be that somebody. Because he's calling me God."

     Leymer didn't answer. But he glanced at the coffeemaker.

     "I don't blame you," Blackburn said. "You don't know me. But I wasn't in town on the 3rd. And I don't cut up teenagers."

     Leymer held up his hands. "All right. All right. Nobody said otherwise."

     "Just making sure." Blackburn took a step toward the door, then paused. "And if I were you, I'd talk to Uncle Bill. See, the man who shot himself outside Uncle Bill's store tonight did some business with him first. He traded an old straight razor for a shotgun. Then he went out and ate the gun."

     Leymer's eyes widened. "Like a man with a guilty conscience might do." He looked over at Gerald, who was now staring down at the tabletop and rocking back and forth. "Hear that, Gerry? The man who cut Annie is dead. So you don't have to act like this no more."

     Gerald just kept staring and rocking.

     "I'll be going now," Blackburn said. "Best of luck to you."

     "You won't stay for coffee?" Leymer asked.

     "No thanks." Blackburn started to leave, then paused again and looked over at the dark doorway that led to the rest of the house. "Best of luck to you too, Jason."

     Jason took a step into the wavering kitchen light. He was holding a rust-spotted butcher knife.

     "What the fuck you doing with that?" Leymer snapped.

     Jason glared across the kitchen at Blackburn. "Just being safe."

     "It's okay," Blackburn said to Leymer. "Under the circumstances, I'd've done the same." Then he turned away and went to the back door.

     As he opened it, he heard Gerald's voice behind him.

     "Thank you, God," Gerald said. "Thank you for not cutting us."

     "No problem," Blackburn said, and stepped out into the rusty moonlight.

                                         #

     By the time he stopped the Falcon in the Motor Court parking lot in front of Room 12, Blackburn had no hope that Dog could have held it this long. But he jumped from the car and hurried to the door anyway. He could hear Dog scratching and whining on the other side as he jiggled the key, and then she burst out in a small black-and-white blur as he shouldered the door open. She ran past him into the gravel lot and began dashing back and forth like a berserk rabbit, spraying gravel and dirty snow with each turn.

     Blackburn leaned against the doorjamb and watched her run. Room 12 was at the end of the building, and the only other occupied room was Room 1, down by the office. So he didn't think anyone would be bothered by the scrabbling sounds Dog was making as she ran and spun. Poor Dog. He had left her alone far too long. But then, he couldn't have predicted the turn his evening would take after his raid on Rock Island.

     Dog ran off the edge of the parking lot into a frozen field and squatted. Blackburn strained to see whether she was peeing or pooping, but she was too far away. The only reason he could see her at all was because of her white patches. He began to worry that she might run off into the darkness, and that the odd light from the moon wouldn't be enough for him to find her. So he stepped away from Room 12 and began to stroll toward Dog at what he hoped was a casual pace. He wanted to be able to get close enough to grab her if necessary.

     But Blackburn stopped as he came alongside the left rear door of the Falcon, the one with the fallen window. Amy was sitting inside, looking out at him.

     Blackburn was startled, but he tried not to let it show. "Thought I dropped you off," he said.

     Amy tilted her head. "I got back in when you went into Jason and Gerald's house. And I laid down so you wouldn't see me and make me get out."

     "I can see you now," Blackburn pointed out.

     "I don't care if you make me get out now."

     Blackburn looked across at Dog, who was now sniffing a clump of dead weeds a little further out in the field. He could just make her out.

     "Do what you like," Blackburn said. "I have to get my dog."

     "It's a cute dog," Amy said.

     "Thanks." Blackburn went around the car to the edge of the gravel, clucking his tongue and making kissing noises. Sometimes Dog responded to that.

     But this wasn't one of those times. As Blackburn stepped into the field, Dog scampered away another twenty feet, staying just at the edge of visibility. And as Blackburn tried to get closer, she kept doing the same thing -- waiting and scampering, waiting and scampering, staying just within vision and just out of reach. She led him into the depths of a stubbled field that had once grown crops, but was now cold and defunct. She was punishing him for leaving her alone so long. He just hoped she would forgive him in time for him to get Amy back home before her mother called the cops.

     Out in the middle of the field, Blackburn had a better view of the sky than he'd had all night. And damned if the almost-full moon wasn't still a dusky pink color even though it was high in the sky. The clouds had all slipped away, but there was the moon looking as if it were shining through a red candy wrapper. Or as if the spray from a man hit by a shotgun blast had risen up to cloak it in a crimson mist.

     He liked it. It was different.

     He didn't realize how long he had been standing still, staring up at the moon, until Dog rubbed her face on his jeans. Then he held out his arms, and when she jumped up into them he knew he was forgiven. He carried her back to the motel while she licked his cheeks and nipped his chin. She had grown a lot in the weeks since he had acquired her in Kansas City, but she was still less than thirty pounds. He hoped she wouldn't get much over thirty-five, because he liked being able to hold and protect her like this. Of course he knew that nobody could ever really protect anything, but he liked having the feeling anyway.

     When Blackburn and Dog got back to the parking lot, Blackburn saw that Amy was no longer in the Falcon. He also saw that the door to Room 12 was closed. But the key was still in the knob, so he opened the door with one hand while Dog wriggled in the crook of his other arm. He let her down once they were inside, and she immediately ran to Amy, who was sitting on the edge of the bed in an oval of light cast by the nightstand lamp. Amy had taken off her sweatshirt, and now she was in a black tank top that showed more of her than Blackburn felt comfortable seeing.

     Amy rubbed Dog's ears, which excited Dog enough to jump onto Amy's lap. "He's adorable," Amy said, leaning back as Dog tried to lick her on the mouth.

     "She," Blackburn said. He took the room key from the knob and put it in his jeans pocket. But he didn't close the door.

     "What's her name?" Amy asked.

     "Dog."

     Amy frowned. "She needs a better name than that."

     "It wouldn't change who she is," Blackburn said.

     "Why would you want to change that?"

     "I wouldn't. That's my point."

     Dog turned in a circle on Amy's lap, then flopped down as if settling for the night. Amy caressed Dog's head and looked at Blackburn with an expression that was almost a smile.

     "I think she peed on the carpet over there by the bathroom," Amy said. "I put a towel over it so you wouldn't step in it like I did."

     "Sorry about that."

     "It's okay. It's not like I was barefoot. And I hope you don't mind me using your bathroom."

     "What I mind," Blackburn said, "is you sneaking into my car. See, what I want to do now is go to bed, but instead I have to take you home. Which I already did once."

     "You sound mad."

     "Just annoyed."

     "Are you sure?" Amy was giving him the same big-eyed look that Dog often gave him.

     "If I was mad," Blackburn said, "you'd know it. Now come on. I'm freezing my ass off here."

     "So close the door."

     "This isn't funny," Blackburn said. "Your mom'll be home soon if she's not already, and I'd rather not be accused of anything."

     Amy's expression went blank as she continued to stroke Dog's head. "You know about my sister," she said. It wasn't a question.

     "Mr. Leymer told me."

     "Her name was Ann," Amy said. "She liked dogs, too. She used to volunteer at the animal shelter twice a month. You know, feeding the dogs and stuff like that. She said she paid extra attention to the ones they were gonna put to sleep."

     Blackburn found himself starting to like someone who was dead. "That was good of her."

     Amy nodded. "She wasn't very nice to me, but it was only because she wanted a dog. Mom wouldn't let us have one, 'cause she said it was hard enough feeding the two of us. So Ann blamed me. She said if I hadn't come along, she could've had a puppy."

     "My sister didn't like me, either," Blackburn said.

     "Is she dead too?"

     "I don't think so. I haven't checked in a while, though."

     "Oh. You said she 'didn't' like you, as if she was gone or something."

     "No. I'm the one who's gone."

     "Well, you should check on her," Amy said. "Because, you know, even though Ann was mean to me, I still wish what happened to her never happened. You don't want to feel like that. Trust me."

     "That's why I need to get you home," Blackburn said. "So nobody thinks something's happened to you, too."

     "Just close the door," Amy said. Her voice was flat.

     Blackburn was getting fed up. "How about this. Go get in the car, or I'll carry you there."

     "If you do, I'll scream."

     Blackburn looked into her dark eyes and knew she would. "Why are you doing this to me?"

     Amy's face began to show signs of life again. "Because I like you," she said.

     Blackburn closed the door, but he didn't move any closer to the bed. "How old are you?" he asked.

     "Seventeen," Amy said. "Why? How old are you?"

     "Old enough to know you're not seventeen."

     "But you can say that's what I told you."

     "Yeah, that always works," Blackburn said. "Except I know Ann was older than you, and she was seventeen."

     Amy stopped petting Dog, and she scooted back on the bed so her feet came up off the floor. Dog looked up, surprised, but didn't move from Amy's lap.

     "My mom won't worry about me," Amy said, "because she won't be home until 8:00 or 9:00."

     "That's not what I hear. I hear she's home by 3:00 --" He glanced at his cheap plastic watch. " -- which is coming up."

     "Well, you heard wrong," Amy said. "She gets off work at 1:00, but she's been going on dates after that. They usually buy her breakfast."

     Amy's tone was so matter-of-fact that for a moment Blackburn thought she might be legal after all. But then he made himself study her pale, unlined face, and he knew better.

     "You're fifteen," he said.

     Amy flinched, and Dog sprang off her lap to the floor. Then Dog ran to Blackburn, rubbed against his shin, and turned around to give Amy a single, sharp bark.

     "Dog knows it too," Blackburn said.

     "So what?" Amy said. "I'm sixteen in three weeks. And even if I wasn't, I'd still get to decide what I do."

     Blackburn leaned down and stroked Dog's back. "After what happened to Annie," he said, "I'd think you'd be more careful."

     Amy's eyes widened. For a second, Blackburn thought she was going to make good on her threat to scream. But then she just turned away and lay down on her side, curled up in a fetal position.

     Blackburn considered sneaking up on her, clamping a hand over her mouth, and carrying her out to the Falcon. But then he realized he would have to take his hand away to open the car door, and that would be it.

     "You wouldn't hurt me," Amy said with her back to him. "Besides, the police say whoever killed Ann probably left town right after he did it."

     "I don't think so," Blackburn said. "In fact, I think he killed himself outside Uncle Bill's store tonight. And maybe because seeing that happen didn't bother me, you think that hanging around me will keep it from bothering you too. But it should bother you. And so should I."

     Now Amy rolled over to face him. But she stayed on her side with her cheek on her shoulder and her black hair fanned out around her pale upper arm.

     "You're wrong about everything," she said. "That guy in the van was gross, and it about made me throw up. But he wasn't the one who killed Ann. And neither were you."

     "How do you know?

     Amy licked her lips, and Blackburn suppressed a pang of desire.

     "Because," Amy said, "neither one of you is God."

     Blackburn hadn't been expecting that. But he had a response anyway.

     "Your friend Gerald disagrees," he said. Amy sat up again. "Gerald didn't see God. I did." She reached back and clutched her hair the way she had on the ride to her house. "What happened was, there was this Homecoming thing at school three Fridays ago, and I was hanging around outside with Gerald and Jason and some other guys. Ann had a date, and I wanted to mess it up because she'd been awful to me all week. So I sent Jason and Gerald home without me and said I'd get a ride from David. That was the guy Ann was with. He was on the second-string football team. Jason hated him."

     Blackburn thought of Jason standing in his kitchen with a butcher knife. "But it wasn't Jason who decided to mess up their date?"

     "No," Amy said. "That was me. I hid in the back seat of David's car like I did in yours. Then when they came out from the dance, David drove to Devil's Glen so they could, you know, do stuff. And I was gonna jump up and scream when they started. Then they'd have to take me home."

     "Sounds like a plan," Blackburn said.

     Amy was pulling on her hair so hard that her face was stretched tight. "Except that when David parked the car, they got out. That made me think they were gonna move to the back seat, so I decided I'd sit up and scream when they opened the back door. But then I heard David talking to someone else. It was like it was someone they came there to meet. So I sat up and looked. And there in this little clearing in the trees, I saw God."

     Blackburn was skeptical. "How? It was dark, wasn't it?"

     "There was lots of moonlight," Amy said. "The moon was full on the 1st. Like it'll be again tomorrow. There are two this month."

     "Okay, then," Blackburn said. "Tell me what God looks like."

     "He's taller than you. He wears a hat."

     "Lots of people are taller than me. And it's winter, so lots of people wear hats."

     Amy shook her head. "Not like this one. This was like one of those tall black hats in old Fred Astaire movies. The ones where they dance in tuxedos."

     This girl wasn't like any other fifteen-year-old Blackburn had ever encountered. "Where'd you see a Fred Astaire movie?" he asked. "I've never even seen one of those."

     "You should watch more TV," Amy said.

     "I'll do that. Maybe I'll watch one of those Sunday morning church shows so I can see whether God wears a Fred Astaire hat."

     Amy released her hair and gave Blackburn an I-can't-believe-you're-this-stupid look that only teenage girls can give. "Those shows are talking about a different God," she said. "They're talking about the God of peace and love and all that crap. They're talking about the Jesus God."

     "Oh," Blackburn said. "Well, then, what God did you see?"

     "The one who makes sacrifices to himself. The one who cuts people. The one who killed my sister."

     "You saw him do that?"

     "No," Amy said. "But I know he did." Her face went smooth again, and she began speaking in the same tone of voice that Gerald had used in his trance. "Ann and David walked toward him, and I screamed at them to stop, but I guess they couldn't hear me because I was in the car. They just kept walking. They were between God and me, and I couldn't see him except for his forehead and his hat. And for a second or two I think a cloud went over the moon, because the clearing got dark and I couldn't see him at all anymore. I could still see Ann and David, but it was like God had gotten smaller or something. Then the moon came back, and so did God. That's when he took off his hat, and fire and smoke came out of his head."

     "Or maybe," Blackburn said, "he lit a cigarette."

     She didn't seem to hear him. "And then I saw God's arm come up, and he was holding something bright. It was a pinkish silver color, like the moon is now. It was like this long blade made of light that was shining through glass smeared with blood. And I could see what God was going to do with it. But Ann and David just kept walking toward him anyway. So I got out of the car and screamed at them again, but they still didn't hear me."

     Amy fell silent then, and she stared at Blackburn as if daring him to finish the story himself.

     So he did. "And then," he said, "you ran away."

     She nodded. "I ran out to Devil's Glen Road," she said. "And then I kept running and yelling, and my feet were numb, but nobody stopped. Finally I got down to State Street, and a Bettendorf cop pulled over. I told him what God was doing, but he wouldn't go try to stop it. Instead he called for other cops, and he made me sit in his car and wait. After a while he got a call that said to take me home, and when we got there my mom and Gerald and two other cops were in the driveway. Those cops asked me a lot of questions, and they wouldn't say why. But I knew."

     Blackburn nudged Dog to one side and headed for the bathroom. "I've heard the rest already," he said. "And all I can tell you is that being with me won't change anything. I'm making a pit stop, and then I'm taking you home."

     "But you want me to stay," Amy said. "I see how you look at me. Besides, I called Uncle Bill when you dropped me off at home the first time. So he won't worry about me. And I swear, my mom won't be home for hours. So we can do whatever you want."

     Blackburn didn't reply to that, because replying to it would make him think about it. He went into the bathroom and closed the door. Amy had left the light on, and he noticed that Dog had eaten all of the food he'd left in the plastic margarine tub on the floor. He turned on the cold water tap at the sink because he didn't want Amy to hear him piss, and then felt dumb. There wasn't any point in being embarrassed around this girl.

     When he was finished, he turned off the tap and came out to find that Amy had taken off her shoes and jeans. Now she lay on the bed wearing only the tank top and a pair of blue cotton panties. She looked good. Dog was on the bed again, licking Amy's toes.

     Amy giggled. "That tickles."

     Blackburn was about to jump out of his own skin. "What'd I ever do to you?" he asked.

     Amy went serious again. "You haven't done anything yet. But you will, because God's coming back. Gerald says his blade gets hungry for a few days around the full moon."

     "Well, since Gerald also says that I'm God," Blackburn said, "I think we've established that he's full of shit. See, if I thought I needed to do something to someone, I wouldn't wait around for the moon to hit the right phase. I'm not a werewolf, and I'm not God, either."

     "But it was an understandable mistake for Gerald to make," Amy said. "The thing is, you're not God. You're the Devil."

     She kept on surprising him. "Beg pardon?"

     "You're like God's flip side. I could tell from the way you looked at the guy in the van like he was an empty paper bag or something. That's when I knew you weren't a regular person. But I knew you weren't God, either. Not the one I saw, and not the peace and love one. So you must be the Devil. And that's why I want to be with you."

     Now Blackburn understood. "You're think God's coming back. And the only thing with a chance of stopping God is the Devil."

     It was as if Amy's whole face had lit up from within. "Yes. But don't just stop him, okay? Kill him."

     "We'll see." Blackburn went to the foot of the bed, where Dog was still licking Amy's toes. He made a kissing noise, and Dog leaped into his arms. "Dog and I are going to spend the rest of the night parked on the street in front of your house. If anyone besides your mom tries to get in, I'll know." He started for the door.

     "Wait," Amy said. "I have to put on my pants."

     "Make it quick. Car's leaving in one minute." Blackburn opened the door and stepped outside.

     He got the Falcon started with only a little trouble, and he reached over and opened the passenger door when Amy came out of Room 12 wearing her jeans and sweatshirt. Dog wriggled happily as Amy got in, then turned around a few times and curled up on the seat between her and Blackburn.

     "I thought you might be less cold up here," Blackburn said. "I don't think that window back there'll go up now."

     Amy nodded, but didn't speak.

     "What's wrong?" Blackburn asked.

     "You think I'm a slut," she said.

     Blackburn put the Falcon in reverse. It made a chunk  sound and lurched backward.

     "If I thought that," Blackburn said, glancing over his shoulder and turning the wheel, "I wouldn't be taking you home."

     Amy gazed out the window. "The moon sure is ugly," she said.

     Blackburn put the Falcon in Drive and took it out to Highway 61. "Yeah, I don't know why it's that color. It's not right."

     Amy looked at him. "You don't know why?"

     "I just said I didn't." He had to raise his voice over the growing whistle of wind from the back window. "What, are you going to tell me God did it?"

     "No," Amy said. "God probably prefers its natural color. It's like this now because of the volcano."

     "I didn't know there were volcanos in Iowa."

     "There aren't, dip. But there's one in Mexico called El Chichon, and it erupted in March. Now all that ash is spread out through the atmosphere, and it changes the color of the moon and stars."

     "Mercy," Blackburn said. "The things they teach in school these days."

     Amy made a spitting noise. "They don't teach anything in school. I heard about the volcanic ash on TV. It was in the newspaper, too. Seriously, don't you watch TV? Or read the newspaper?"

     "I've been pretty busy."

     "Well, you might want to take a look at them sometime. You might learn something."

     "Thanks for the tip. But since I'm the Devil, I already know what counts. Everybody's going to hell. Whether they watch TV or not."

     Neither of them spoke again until Blackburn turned onto Amy's street. He stopped the Falcon just short of her driveway, then switched off the lights and engine. The driveway was still empty. And except for the porch light, the house was dark.

     "Looks like your mom's still not home," Blackburn said.

     "Told you." Amy was gently stroking Dog's fur from head to tail. Dog was curled up asleep.

     "I'll watch you go in," Blackburn said.

     "You aren't going to walk me? To make sure it's safe?"

     "It's safe," Blackburn said. He had seen some movement at the side of the house, but he had also seen who it was. It wasn't a problem.

     "I don't know," Amy said. "God could be in there waiting for me."

     "He's not. I should know. Go on in. You can look out your window if you want to see I'm still here."

     Amy stopped petting Dog and opened her door. Her shoes made a crunching sound as she stepped out. Then she looked back at Blackburn. "You're making fun of me. You really don't believe in God, do you? Not in the one I saw, or any other one. Or the Devil either, even though it's you."

     Blackburn shrugged. "What people believe never seems to have much to do with what they actually have to deal with. And that's all I'm interested in."

     "But if you don't believe in God," Amy said, "then nothing that happens makes sense."

     "I'm used to that."

     "And just because you don't have to deal with something doesn't mean it isn't real. You probably haven't seen any bald eagles around here. But they're out there on islands in the river right this minute."

     "That's fine," Blackburn said. "They don't bother me, I won't bother them."

     Amy made a face. "Good night, Mr. Doyle."

     "Jimmy," Blackburn said. "You can call me Jimmy."

     Amy shook her head, and that gorgeous black hair brushed her cheeks again.

     "I already have a Jason and a Gerald next door," she said. "So I'd rather not." Then she shut the door and went up the driveway to the house.

     Dog lifted her head as the car door closed and gave Blackburn a sleepy look. Blackburn scratched her ears and watched as Amy went into the house, and then as the light in the corner window came on. He saw Amy open the curtains and wave. He waved too, and then the curtains fell over the window again. A few minutes later, the light went out.

     Soon after that, Gerald emerged from the shadows at the side of the house and crept back to his own home. He cast nervous glances at the Falcon as he crept, but Blackburn remained still so as not to scare him. He was glad that Gerald had snapped out of his trance, or whatever it had been . . . and he wondered how long the boy had been waiting for Amy to come home so he could catch a glimpse of her.

     It was a cold night, and what Gerald had done required a fair amount of dedication. So Blackburn hoped that the kid had gotten a good look before Amy had shut off her light.

                                           #

     Blackburn dozed off as the sky began to turn from black to gray, but that didn't last long. Dog jumped onto his lap, put her paws on the steering wheel, and yapped as a faded yellow Chevy Nova pulled into the driveway. The Nova had to make its turn right in front of the Falcon's grille, so Blackburn snapped awake just in time to see the its driver glaring at him. She was a hard-jawed woman with blonde-streaked brown hair. She didn't much resemble Amy, but Blackburn knew she had to be the girl's mother. Nadine. She looked pissed off, and Blackburn wished he'd had a chance to leave before she pulled in. Now he would have to stick around long enough to explain himself. Otherwise she might call the police.

     He looked at his watch as the woman got out of the Nova and strode back up the driveway. It was 7:28. Nadine was home a little earlier than Amy had predicted. She was wearing a pink waitress's uniform that looked as if it had gone through three or four shifts since being washed. But Nadine herself, apart from her tangled hair and the set of her jaw, was an attractive woman. Nice knees, Blackburn thought. And she was over the age of consent, too.

     She opened her purse as she came up to Blackburn's window, pulled out a snubnose .22, and tapped on the glass. Blackburn began to think that maybe his chances with her weren't so good.

     Dog yapped once more, then got off Blackburn's lap and lay down again. Apparently, now that Dog had sounded the alert, she figured that the woman with the gun was Blackburn's problem.

     Blackburn rolled down his window and waited for Nadine to speak. People brandishing weapons usually wanted the first word. And the last. And most of the ones in between.

     "Mind telling me what you're doin' parked in front of my house?" Nadine asked. Her voice had the rasp of a two-pack-a-day habit, and her damp-ashtray breath confirmed it.

     Blackburn glanced at her face, thought she looked pretty but worn, and then focused on the .22. The barrel was resting on the top edge of the glass, pointing at his neck.

     "My name's Jimmy Doyle," he said. "I met your daughter Amy and her friends at Uncle Bill's pawn shop, and I gave them a ride home. Then Amy asked if I could wait out here until her mother came home. I assume that's you." He decided to leave out the part where Amy had gone to his motel room.

     The .22 remained on the glass. "Why would my daughter ask you to do that?"

     Blackburn watched Nadine's trigger finger. If it started to flex, he might have time to open the door and knock her on her butt before the gun fired. Nadine hadn't thought to tell him to put his hands on the wheel, so she couldn't see his left hand. He curled it around the cold chrome of the door handle.

     "She knew you wouldn't be home until daylight," Blackburn said. He didn't see any reason to sugarcoat it. "And she was afraid to be alone all night. I didn't know how to say no."

     "I'll just bet you didn't," Nadine said.

     Blackburn was becoming irritated. He looked up from the gun and stared into Nadine's hard eyes. "I didn't touch her," he said. "I didn't even go in the house. But after she told me what happened to her sister the last time there was a full moon, I understood why she might not want to be alone all night."

     Nadine's face changed. It was as if she had been slapped. She took a step back, and the pistol dropped to her side.

     "That didn't happen here," she said. "It was over in Bettendorf. It's safe here. The boys next door would call the police if anyone tried to break in."

     "Maybe," Blackburn said. "Unless they were asleep."

     Nadine's expression began to harden again. "Well, what am I supposed to do? I could go on welfare, but that wouldn't pay enough to keep the house."

     Blackburn nodded. "I see your point. But it's none of my business."

     "You're damn right it's not," Nadine said. She gestured up the street with the .22. "So why don't you get out of here?"

     At least she wasn't going to shoot him. Blackburn grasped the ignition key and gave it a turn, but the Falcon only whined and shuddered. Too much had been asked of it in the past twelve hours.

     "Get going," Nadine snapped. "And don't think I'll be giving you a jump."

     Blackburn gave her a sidelong look. "I didn't think you would."

     He cranked the ignition again, and this time the Falcon sputtered to life. Good. Now he could get away from all these people. He'd had enough of Jason and Gerald and their daddy Don. He'd even had enough of Amy, who was nice but too young to do him any good. And he'd especially had enough of Nadine. He didn't care for people who tried to intimidate him, which was one reason he'd never cared for cops. In fact, he thought he might have made an exception to his never-kill-a-woman rule just for Nadine -- except that it would upset Amy. And even if she was too young to do him any good, he still liked her. She was smart. Smarter than most, anyway. She reminded him of Jasmine, although he didn't want to think about that too much.

     Dog snuggled up against Blackburn's hip as he drove, and he was glad. The air blowing into the Falcon was frigid. It seemed even colder than it had in the night. But Blackburn thought that might be a trick his mind was playing on him because he was driving toward the newly risen sun. The morning was cloudless and bright, and the sky was as blue as a baby's eyes. It promised warmth, but delivered none. So that made the cold air feel even colder.

     At least the earth didn't lie. The ground was brown and white, and the trees were bare sticks. Except for the evergreens. And even those looked frozen into sharp points. Like God's green daggers.

     Blackburn was ready to get out of the Quad Cities right now. But he had to wait until Uncle Bill opened his pawn shop and paid him for the Python. Then, maybe, he would be able to snag the Thunderbird, and he and Dog could be on their way to the Windy City. Sure, it would be cold there too. But Chicago wouldn't lie to them. A place like that could only show you what it really was. Besides, they would be in a Thunderbird. That would make a world of difference.

     He took Dog back to the Motor Court, figuring they could get a little more sleep since they had a few hours to kill. Dog was all for the plan, and she curled up on the bed against Blackburn's ribs. But Blackburn lay awake staring at the speckled texture of Room 12's ceiling, which was illuminated by a thin, bright knife of sunlight slicing between the dusty curtains. He was exhausted, but his brain was jumping as if from jolts of caffeine or electricity. It wouldn't let him rest.

     The problem, he realized after several attempts to keep his eyes closed, was all those damn people and their connections to each other . . . those fathers, uncles, mothers, sisters, brothers, and friends. They reminded him of when he'd had some of those things too. And he wished he could punish someone for that.

     It was too bad that the man who had murdered Amy's sister had eaten his new shotgun. If he hadn't, then Blackburn would have had a deserving target.

     Except that if the guy hadn't killed himself, Blackburn would never have heard about what had happened to Ann and her boyfriend. He wouldn't have had to deal with Amy and her mother, or with Gerald, Jason, and their father. He wouldn't be lying here awake and agitated. He would have been able to sell his Colt Python to Uncle Bill without any delays or distractions.

     And he wouldn't have had to think about every single word Amy had said to him, and the look on her face when she'd said it. He realized now that she reminded him not only of his sister Jasmine, but of Leslie Bonner, the anti-abortion activist he had fallen in love with in Kansas City. There was a darkness in their eyes that was similar and that Blackburn found appealing.

     But his desire for Leslie Bonner hadn't ended well. In fact, it had ended with her death due to a pipe bomb. Blackburn thought there was a lesson in that. And the lesson was that getting too involved with people just wasn't a good idea.

     "Chicago," he said aloud. Dog lifted her head and gave a quizzical whimper. "In Chicago," Blackburn explained as he petted Dog to reassure her, "there are so many people that we won't have spend more than a minute dealing with any one person. With so much shit going on all the time, nobody'll even notice us. It'll be like we're invisible. Sound good?"

     Dog rested her chin on his belly and thumped her tail. Whatever Blackburn wanted to do was fine with her, and a tail-thump was the only communication required to acknowledge it. That was one of the reasons he loved her.

     Dog fell asleep, but Blackburn lay awake thinking about Amy. He was fully recovered from his vasectomy now, so he couldn't help getting an erection. And he didn't like it. So he slid out from under Dog's chin, sat on the end of the bed, and turned on the TV. Amy had said he should watch more TV. So okay, he would watch more TV. Maybe he would learn something.

     It was hard to learn anything at first, though, because the black-and-white unit had crackly sound and a picture that was mostly dancing specks of white. But finally, after turning the entire set first one way and then another, he managed to obtain a watchable picture. The morning news was on, and the weatherman was talking about the moon, the sky, the volcanic ash in the atmosphere, and a lunar eclipse that would occur early the next day. Blackburn was astonished. He actually had learned something.

     Then the weather was followed by a clot of commercials, including one for the film Grease 2. Blackburn perked up. He hadn't seen the movie and had no intention of doing so, but he liked the commercial. That Michelle Pfeiffer was something else. So he was able to get his mind off Amy for a while.

     At 9:00 AM, he took a shower and put on fresh clothes. He debated whether to pack his duffel, put it and Dog in the Falcon, and turn in his room key before leaving for Uncle Bill's. He had visions of getting his Thunderbird immediately after getting his cash, then hitting the road before lunch. But he realized that wasn't realistic. Today he would be doing things in a strictly legal manner, and doing things in a strictly legal manner always took too long. If he checked out of the Motor Court now, Dog would be stuck in a car in cold weather for hours. Better to leave her in Room 12 for now and collect her when he was sure they could cruise out of town in style and warmth.

     Dog had awakened while Blackburn dressed and was now dancing about at the prospect of going for a ride. Blackburn hated to disappoint her, but he promised to make it up to her soon. In the meantime, he gave her a quick walk in the field beside the parking lot, and he was glad to see how delighted she was to flush a covey of quail. There were six of them, and they fluttered up in a panic, shedding feathers as they weaved first one way and then another, finally bolting toward the municipal airport where a red-and-white Beechcraft was rising into the sky. Blackburn listened to the airplane's drone, the covey's flapping, and Dog's excited yips, and he was as close to happy as he had been since killing Officer Johnston seven years before.

     When Dog finally gave up on the long-gone quail, Blackburn took her back to Room 12 and gave her fresh water and kibble. She started munching away like it was going out of style. He left the TV on to keep her company, then went to the Falcon and got it started with minimal frustration. Then he headed south on Highway 61. Visions of Thunderbirds danced in his head.

     But as he approached downtown Davenport, he checked his watch and saw that he would reach the pawn shop at about a quarter to 10:00. And he had a feeling Uncle Bill wouldn't open up early for anyone. So to kill time, he drove down to River Drive and headed west along the bank of the Mississippi. He pulled off at an overlook at the mouth of Black Hawk Creek and was happy to see that he had the picnic area to himself. Not that this was too surprising on a frigid Wednesday morning.

     He left the Falcon running as he got out and sat on the hood, looking across the river at Credit Island. And there in a bare tree at the edge of the island, as clear and bright as the back of a quarter, was a bald eagle. Just as Amy had said. It was the first one Blackburn had ever seen.

     "I'll be damned," he said.

     Then he watched as the eagle launched itself from the tree, swooped down to the water, and came up with a struggling fish in its talons. And then it disappeared off toward the other side of the island.

     For a moment, Blackburn wished he could go with it. Then he glanced at his watch and decided to do the next best thing. It was five minutes to 10:00. He got back into the Falcon and drove to Uncle Bill's. The eagle had inspired him. When he got to Chicago, he would find a Long John Silver's and have fish for supper.

                                          #

     Blackburn knew Uncle Bill was at the shop because the taupe Cadillac was there again, parked in a slightly different place at the curb. The Chevy van was gone, of course. In its place was a gray Crown Victoria. Apparently, Blackburn wouldn't be Uncle Bill's first customer of the morning. It was only a few minutes after 10:00, but someone had beaten him here anyway.

     He switched off the Falcon's ignition, and the engine dieseled, rattling and spitting, perversely refusing to shut down. For weeks, it had been a struggle to get the thing to run at all. And now it was rubbing his nose in it. So Blackburn just got out of the car and left it that way, left it shuddering behind the Crown Vic. He didn't care if it shook itself to pieces. Once he had the money from the sale of the Python, he would walk to Hawkeye Bob's if he had to. It wasn't far. Even as cold as it was, he wouldn't mind a bit. His Thunderbird would be waiting for him at the end.

     The cowbell clanged when Blackburn pushed open the door, and both Uncle Bill and the man he was talking to looked at him. Uncle Bill was on the far side of the counter again, and the other man, a tall guy with a lot of dark blond hair slicked back with grease, was on the customer side. But as soon as the man looked back at him, Blackburn knew he wasn't a customer. He was wearing a wrinkled overcoat over a cheap brown suit, and he had kept his sunglasses on even though he was indoors. So Blackburn looked for a bulge under the guy's left armpit, spotted it, and then knew for sure that he was a Davenport plainclothes cop. Small-city plainclothes cops were the worst kind, in Blackburn's opinion, because they always thought they deserved to be big-city detectives. So they had a tendency to be nasty. The unmarked Crown Victoria should have been a tipoff, Blackburn realized. Crown Vics were the most common cop cars in the nation. But he had been so excited about getting his money that he hadn't stopped to think about it.

     And now it was too late to avoid the guy. If he turned around and walked out, the cop would come after him and ask why. So instead Blackburn had to take a few steps toward the counter, make a throat-clearing noise, and ask, "Do you have any electric sanders?"

     Uncle Bill caught his drift. "Yeah, check the aisle there to your right."

     Blackburn nodded and moved into the aisle of tools. He pretended to examine the power drills and circular saws with great interest while keeping tabs on the cop in his peripheral vision. To his relief, the cop didn't seem interested in him. Instead, the cop turned back to Uncle Bill, leaned on the counter, and spoke in a low voice. Blackburn couldn't make out the words, but the tone sounded threatening. Then again, a cop's tone of voice was almost always threatening. He just hoped it wouldn't put Uncle Bill into an ungenerous mood.

     The slick-haired cop left a minute later, and Blackburn made sure to glance up and nod at him as he went toward the door. Nothing made a cop notice you more than if you looked away from him, and Blackburn really didn't want to be noticed. His tactic worked. The cop gave him a dismissive glance, then shouldered his way out the door. The cowbell clanked, cold air blew in, and Blackburn was alone in the shop with Uncle Bill.

     Uncle Bill chuckled as Blackburn approached the counter. "Sorry about that, Mr. Doyle. Leftover business from that mess last night. Lieutenant Thurston of the Davenport P.D. decided he wanted to hassle me a little more. My theory is his old lady burned his toast this morning."

     "I hope it worked out okay for you," Blackburn said.

     Uncle Bill gave a shrug. "He warned me he's coming back, but if he does it'll just be jerkin' off on his part. See, the guy in the van left a suicide note, and the lieutenant says it mentioned the antique razor I told you about. So he thinks I have it, and he wants it. Claims he had a razor like that stolen a few months ago. I said that's a shame, but I don't know a thing about it."

     Blackburn was puzzled. "Why not just let him have it and avoid the hassle?"

     Uncle Bill frowned. "Can't do that. If I give it up I'm screwed on the whole transaction. They're keepin' the shotgun, of course, but they also took the silver dollars I got for it. That's what I wrote down as our trade on the guy's receipt, so that makes 'em evidence. They swear I'll get 'em back, but I seriously doubt it."

     "Didn't you write the razor on the receipt too?" Blackburn asked.

     "Nope. Wanna know why?"

     Blackburn wasn't sure he did. But he could tell that Uncle Bill wanted him to, so he said, "Sure."

     Uncle Bill put a heavy forearm on the counter and leaned toward Blackburn. "Because in this business you have to keep a certain number of items off the books. Otherwise, you get taxed out of business. And when I saw that razor -- well, I knew it was one of those things. It's a collector's item, and sooner or later I'll find somebody who wants it bad enough to pay a nice chunk of change for it."

     Blackburn nodded, pretending to be interested. He wanted Uncle Bill in a good mood. "I see," he said. "That makes sense."

     "Yes, it does," Uncle Bill said. "And the reason I mention it is because the transaction I'm about to have with you will be similar. You're selling me your Colt Python, and I'll be giving you cash for it. But we won't be doing any paperwork. Is that okay with you?"

     "That's extremely okay with me."

     Uncle Bill took his arm from the counter and stood up straight, his plaid-flannel belly-bulge pressing against the edge of the counter. "All right, then. What'd we say, two hundred?"

     Blackburn's upper lip twitched. "We didn't say anything specific. But if we had, two hundred would have made me walk away. I've seen used Colt Pythons for five hundred."

     Uncle Bill's eyebrows rose. "Well, son, yours isn't in the best of shape. So two hundred is what it's worth to me. And since it's currently in my possession -- "

     Blackburn put his hands on the counter, palms down, and braced himself to vault over. "Don't finish that sentence," he said.

     Uncle Bill seemed taken aback. "Now, son, I'm just trying to point out -- "

     "Don't finish that sentence either," Blackburn said. "Instead, let me point out something myself. Last night I trusted you to look after my Colt, and you trusted me to look after your niece. Correct?"

     Uncle Bill scowled. "You threatenin' Amy?"

     "No. I'm saying that you and I each agreed to look after something that was valuable to the other. So if you cheat me on my Colt, it's like you're devaluing Amy. And that would make you a piss-poor uncle."

     "I'm not sure I -- "

     "But I am," Blackburn said. "I'm very sure."

     He watched Uncle Bill's eyes. If they darted to the back wall or to the space under the counter, Blackburn would know Uncle Bill was about to reach for a weapon. And then Blackburn would have to go over the counter, slam Uncle Bill against the wall, and kill him with one of the guns hanging there. He doubted that any of them were loaded . . . but they didn't have to be.

     Uncle Bill took a breath, sighed, and shook his head. "Well, shit," he said. "Let's get your Colt up here, take a look, and see if we can reach an agreement."

     Blackburn let his hands relax on the counter. "That sounds fine," he said.

     Uncle Bill was looking at him with a wary expression. "It's in the safe, and the safe is under the counter here. You want to come around and watch me open it?"

     "That's okay. You go ahead."

     Uncle Bill squatted down so that only the top of his head was visible, and Blackburn heard him turning the dial of a combination lock. Then there was a click, a clunk, and a squeak as a small metal door opened. And then Uncle Bill stood up and placed two objects on the counter. One was Blackburn's Colt Python, and the other was a closed straight razor with a carved ivory handle.

     "Thought you might want to see this," Uncle Bill said. He sounded almost reverent.

     "Why?" Blackburn asked.

     Uncle Bill looked at him, again, as if he had farted in church. "Because it's an amazing piece of work, boy. Look at all those tiny carved lines. It's like it's a language so old that the people who spoke it shouldn't have had a tool fine enough to carve it. And the blade -- " He picked up the razor and flicked his wrist. The blade opened with a whick and gleamed in the fluorescent light. "Look at the edge on that. Look how bright and straight it is. You could split a hair on that."

     "It's impressive," Blackburn said.

     Uncle Bill closed the razor and set it back on the counter. "You don't sound impressed," he said. "Don't you think it's amazing that something could be this old and in this condition? Don't it seem like some kind of miracle?"

     "I don't know," Blackburn said. "I don't have much experience with miracles."

     Uncle Bill sighed again. "You ought to go to church. A man goes to God's house once in a while, he comes to realize there's marvelous things in this world."

     Blackburn didn't care for that. "I've been to God's house plenty," he said. "The son of a bitch just never seemed to be home."

     Instead of being offended, Uncle Bill laughed. "Yeah, well, he was probably out performing some miracles. Now, how about this Colt?"

     "Okay. How about it?"

     Uncle Bill pointed. "It's got a scratch here on the barrel, another here on the cylinder, and a little piece out of the grip."

     Blackburn squinted. "That's maybe an eighth of an inch square."

     "True," Uncle Bill said. "But it affects the value. Folks want a .357 Python as much for its aesthetic appeal as for its other qualities."

     "Last night, you said you wanted it for yourself."

     "I'm pretty sure I said I might want it for myself."

     Blackburn could respect Uncle Bill's desire to get a good deal, but he wished they could skip the haggling. He wanted to get his Thunderbird and get gone.

     "Either way," Blackburn said, "I need four-twenty-five, or I can't do it."

     Uncle Bill's eyes gleamed. He took a cigar from his shirt pocket and bit off the end. "Three-twenty-five."

     "Four-twenty-five firm," Blackburn said. "See, I need three-fifty just to make the two thousand I need to buy my Ford Thunderbird from Hawkeye Bob's Pre-Owned Vehicles. And if I don't have at least another seventy-five after that, I can't pay off my motel bill and buy gas."

     Uncle Bill produced a chrome Zippo and lit the cigar, blowing a puff of smoke toward the ceiling. "I know Hawkeye Bob," he said. "If he's marked a car at two thousand, that means he'll take sixteen hundred. Tax included. So you already have what you need, plus fifty bucks. I give you three-twenty-five, then you got money for your motel, gas, and some pussy besides."

     "I don't pay for that," Blackburn said. He tried not to think of Amy. But he did.

     "Fine, you can buy a savings bond," Uncle Bill said. "Tell you what, take three-fifty -- and if you can't get that Thunderbird for nineteen hundred or less, I'll make up the difference so you walk away with a hundred bucks in your pocket. Deal?"

     Blackburn considered. Uncle Bill might be lying, but if he was, Blackburn could always come back and kill him.

     "Deal," Blackburn said.

     Uncle Bill squatted down again and came up with a stack of bills in one hand and a short plastic cylinder, bristling with the exposed tips of six bullets, in the other. He slapped the bills onto the counter beside the razor. "There you go. Three-fifty."

     Blackburn picked up the stack and flipped through it. "You already had this counted out and set aside," he said.

     "That's because I know what things are worth," Uncle Bill said. "The trick is getting the customer to reach the same conclusion."

     "That could be a dangerous process," Blackburn said, tucking the cash into his jean jacket.

     "Less so now." Uncle Bill held the plastic cylinder in his left hand and picked up the Python with his right. "This is one of them speedloaders I was tellin' you about last night. Watch this."

     Uncle Bill snapped open the Python's cylinder, slapped the speedloader to the empty chambers, and twisted a small knob on the end of the speedloader. Then he dropped the empty speedloader on the counter, snapped the Python's cylinder back in place, and picked up the ivory-handled razor with his free hand. The blade flicked open, and Uncle Bill stood there grinning around his cigar with a weapon in each hand.

     "Anybody dicks with me," he said, "I'm ready."

     Blackburn patted the wad of cash in his jacket. "Me too." He turned and headed for the door, glancing into the guitar cubbyhole as he passed. Amy and her friends might be there again tonight, fooling with that red guitar. But he would be in another city, in another life.

     "You take care," Uncle Bill called after him. "Pleasure doin' business with you."

     Blackburn paused at the door and looked back at Uncle Bill. He was still grinning around his cigar and clutching his weapons. He looked silly.

     "You take care too," Blackburn said. "And if Lieutenant Thurston comes around to hassle you about the razor again, you might want to ask him exactly what that guy's suicide note said about it."

     Uncle Bill lowered the razor and stared at it. "Why should I do that?"

     "Because," Blackburn said, "I think that miracle in your hand might've been used to cut off your niece Annie's head."

     Uncle Bill's eyes went dark, and the end of his cigar glowed bright red. He jerked the barrel of the Python toward Blackburn. "You've got your money. So go buy your fuckin' Thunderbird."

     Blackburn thought that was good advice. He went outside, let the cowbell clank behind him, and was amazed to discover that the Falcon was still dieseling at the curb. He got inside and was even more amazed to discover that it fired up to running speed when he turned the key. He pulled away from the curb, and all he could see when he glanced at the rearview mirror was a cloud of smoke that looked as if it had been produced by an immense cigar.

                                          #

     Hawkeye Bob turned out to be both a haggler and a stickler for paperwork, and Blackburn wanted to kill him several times during the course of the transaction. But since his goal was to get out of town clean, he refrained. Fortunately, he still had the Missouri driver's license and Social Security card that he had purchased in Kansas City, so Hawkeye Bob's paperwork for the Thunderbird was filled out in the name of Arthur B. Cameron. Blackburn had been telling people in the Quad Cities that his name was Jimmy Doyle, but since he wasn't sticking around, he didn't think it would be a problem.

     When the purchase ordeal was over, Blackburn shook Hawkeye Bob's hand, got into his eighteen-hundred-dollar Thunderbird -- man, it smelled good -- and drove halfway around the block to where he'd parked the Falcon. There hadn't been any point in trying to trade it in. For one thing, it was stolen. For another, it was worth maybe fifty bucks. So now he just left the Falcon's key on the front seat in case anyone wanted the thing, and then he got back into the Thunderbird and drove up 61 to the Motor Court.

     By the time he gave Dog a walk in the field and had a peanut butter sandwich, he was sleepy. Besides, it was almost 4:00 PM. So he was paying for another day in the motel whether he left now or later. And he did want to pay, because the old manager-lady had left him alone. Plus, after his first three days here, she had allowed him to drop off twenty dollars in cash each morning as payment for the night before. He had appreciated it. So he didn't want to skip out on her. But since check-out time was noon, he might as well get some of today's money's worth.

     He lay down on the bed for a nap, and Dog snuggled up beside him again. The TV was still on, but the volume was at a low murmur and the flickering picture was almost like a cozy fire. Blackburn was tired, but pleased with the way his day had gone. He'd gotten decent money for the Python and a decent price on the Thunderbird, and when he left here he would still have over a hundred and fifty dollars in his pocket, plus the jewelry from his last Rock Island raid. It was a good nest egg for Chicago.

     "We'll have fun, Dog," he promised, and then dozed off, dreaming of volcanoes and black-haired girls.

     He didn't know how long he had slept when he was awakened by a gust of cold air. He opened his eyes and saw that the room was lit only by the fuzzy, spastic glow from the TV. But even in that dim light he could see the outline of someone standing between the closed door and the curtained window. Someone had gotten inside Room 12.

     Blackburn reached under his pillow for the Python. But the Python wasn't there. Blackburn had sold it. It was gone. He had nothing, and he knew it, but he kept on feeling around under the pillow in case he had only dreamed that he'd sold his gun. He hit the button on his wristwatch, and its tiny blue glow told him it was 3:15 AM. He had slept eleven hours. He felt as if he'd been drugged.

     "What'd you do with Amy?" the dark figure asked.

     Dog growled, and Blackburn shielded her from the dark figure. He had sold the Python, and now he had only his body to protect her. He was an idiot. If anything happened to her now, it would be his fault.

     "Tell me what you did with Amy," the dark figure demanded.

     Blackburn was starting to think more clearly now, and he thought he recognized the voice. "Jason?" he said.

     The figure stepped into the light of the TV. It was Jason. He looked just as he had the last time Blackburn had seen him. He was holding a rusty butcher knife.

     Blackburn held Dog against his side with his left arm, and he pushed himself up to a sitting position with his right. Now his back was against the wobbly headboard, and his left foot was on the floor. If he had to, he could toss Dog toward the bathroom and charge Jason in almost the same move. But he didn't like his chances of getting the kid down without being cut.

     "You know who I am," Jason said. "I'm Amy's friend, and I'm asking you for the last time. Where is she?"

     "Damned if I know," Blackburn said.

     Jason raised the knife. "I cut your throat, you'll be damned, all right. Tell me where she is. And Gerald, too."

     Blackburn tightened his grip on the squirming Dog. "I don't know where they are," he said. "But they're not here. Have a look. It's a pretty small room."

     "It's a pretty crappy room," Jason said. "You should have chained the door."

     So that was how he'd gotten in. He'd slipped the knife between the door and the jamb and popped the latch. Blackburn was annoyed with himself. He had often used the same technique.

     "She in the bathroom?" Jason asked. He raised the knife higher and yelled, "Amy? You in the can?"

     Blackburn took a chance. He stood up, cradling Dog, and stepped over to the open bathroom door. Then he reached in and flipped the light switch. The bathroom's fluorescent tube stuttered on, and its cold light made Jason look like a knife-wielding ghost.

     "Have a look," Blackburn said again, stepping away from the door.

     Jason edged closer, keeping the tip of the knife pointed at Blackburn, and glanced inside the bathroom. "She's not here," he said. "Neither is Gerald."

     "Told you," Blackburn said. "Maybe you should try Amy's house."

     Jason glared at him, and the knife quivered. "That's the first place I looked. I was almost asleep, and I heard our back door. So I got up to see what the deal was, and I saw Gerald was gone from his bed. Then I heard a car drive away. But my dad was asleep in his room, and when I went outside, his car was still in the driveway."

     "What's any of that got to do with Amy?" Blackburn asked. "Or me?"

     "I guess you didn't listen to my dad yesterday. When Gerald has one of his episodes, he tends to wander over to Amy's house. So I figured that's what he did tonight. But when I went over, he wasn't there. And neither was Amy. I pounded on the door and the windows, but nobody answered."

     "What about Nadine?"

     "She drove off this afternoon like always. But she's no use anyway." Jason lowered the knife. He looked miserable. "Neither's my dad. So I took his car myself and came to find you."

     "I can believe your dad's useless," Blackburn said. "But I don't get why you've been waving that knife at me."

     Jason looked at the floor. "Amy told me she came here with you yesterday, but you made her go home. So I thought maybe today you had second thoughts."

     "And that I brought Gerald along for the ride?"

     Jason shrugged. "I dunno."

     Stupid kid. He looked ridiculous, standing there all morose with a butcher knife dangling from one hand. Blackburn almost thought he should kill him just to put him out of his misery. After all, he knew what it was like to obsess over a woman, and for that obsession to be doomed from the start.

     "Look," Blackburn said, petting the wriggling Dog. "Gerald and Amy probably went off with somebody they know. Or maybe Amy found Gerald in her driveway again, and she called her mom or somebody to take him to the hospital. And they didn't tell you or your dad because, I don't know, they weren't thinking straight. Any of that sound possible?"

     Jason's head snapped up, and now his eyes were blazing. He raised the knife in his clenched fist.

     "It was Uncle Bill," he said. "That old pervert . . ."

     Jason slashed the knife through the air, turned away from Blackburn, and stamped to the door. He flung it open, and it smacked against the wall as he ran out to the parking lot. The whole room shook.

     Blackburn thought of going after Jason, grabbing him from behind, and strangling him. But then this town and its people would have taken even more of his energy and time. He was wide awake now, so maybe his best move would be to get out of here.

     Which would mean never knowing whether Amy was all right. That bothered Blackburn a little. But not enough to change his plans. There were depressed, half-crazy kids everywhere, and none of them were his responsibility. He had just happened to meet a few of the ones in Davenport, Iowa. And he wished he hadn't.

     He heard a car door open outside. It didn't sound solid enough to be the Thunderbird, so at least Jason wasn't trying to steal his new car. The kid was leaving the same way he had come, in his dad's Rambler. And good riddance. Blackburn relaxed and started to go into the bathroom. The cold air had made him realize he had to take a piss.

     But when he relaxed, Dog leaped from his arms, bounded across the bed, and charged out the door.

     Blackburn stood nonplussed for a second, then heard the Rambler's engine start. His next thought was that Jason might run over Dog, so he called her name and ran after her. He reached the doorway just in time to see Dog leap into the Rambler's open driver's-side door. The Rambler was already moving in reverse, the door swinging on its hinges and the rear tires throwing gravel. Blackburn saw Dog bounce up over Jason's shoulder and into the back seat as the Rambler stopped, clunked into Drive, and lunged forward. It roared out to the highway, its door slamming shut, as Blackburn ran after it barefoot. By the time he reached the highway, the Rambler's taillights were disappearing toward the south.

     Now Blackburn was beyond annoyed. He turned around and walked back across the gravel parking lot, the small cuts on his feet just now starting to bleed, to Room 12. He didn't dawdle, but he didn't run either. He knew where Jason was going. If the kid had any brains at all, he would keep Dog safe until Blackburn arrived and took her away. But if Dog wasn't still healthy and happy by the time Blackburn got there, he would look inside Jason's skull to see whether there had ever been any brains there to start with.

     He went into Room 12, took a quick piss, rinsed off his feet, and then put on shoes and gathered up his and Dog's belongings. There wasn't much to gather other than his duffel bag and Dog's food. Then he switched off the TV and left the room key and some cash on its warm plastic cabinet. Once he found Dog and got her back, they were getting out of the Quad Cities without further delay.

     He went outside, closed the door to Room 12 behind him, and got into the Thunderbird. The Thunderbird fired up with the barest turn of the key, and Blackburn took it as a good omen. He would be like the eagle at the river. He would swoop, take what was his, and be gone. He would probably catch up to the Rambler before it even reached Uncle Bill's. And then he would see how Jason wanted to do this.

     He steered the idling Thunderbird out to the asphalt, then punched the gas and let it scream down Highway 61.

                                         #

     Blackburn saw the Rambler stop behind Uncle Bill's Cadillac when he was still half a block away. The Rambler's door opened, and Dog jumped out and disappeared into the narrow alley at the side of the building. The white patches in her fur gleamed in the mingled glow of the streetlights and the full, reddish moon. Then Jason got out, without his knife, and charged into the pawn shop. Blackburn heard the cowbell clang as he pulled the Thunderbird to the curb behind the Rambler.

     The shop was dark. The sign wasn't lit, and the only things visible in the windows were reflections from the street. Yet the door had been unlocked, and Jason had gone in. Maybe Uncle Bill, Gerald, and Amy were in there too . . .

 . . . He went outside, closed the door to Room 12 behind him, and got into the Thunderbird. The Thunderbird fired up with the barest turn of the key, and Blackburn took it as a good omen. He would be like the eagle at the river. He would swoop, take what was his, and be gone. He would probably catch up to the Rambler before it even reached Uncle Bill's. And then he would see how Jason wanted to do this.

     He steered the idling Thunderbird out to the asphalt, then punched the gas and let it scream down Highway 61.

                                        #

     Blackburn saw the Rambler stop behind Uncle Bill's Cadillac when he was still half a block away. The Rambler's door opened, and Dog jumped out and disappeared into the narrow alley at the side of the building. The white patches in her fur gleamed in the mingled glow of the streetlights and the full, reddish moon. Then Jason got out, without his knife, and charged into the pawn shop. Blackburn heard the cowbell clang as he pulled the Thunderbird to the curb behind the Rambler.

     The shop was dark. The sign wasn't lit, and the only things visible in the windows were reflections from the street. Yet the door had been unlocked, and Jason had gone in. Maybe Uncle Bill, Gerald, and Amy were in there too.

     Or maybe not. Blackburn didn't care. Dog had gone down the alley, and Dog was the only other living thing he was interested in right now.

     He shut off the Thunderbird, got out, and jogged into the alley whistling and calling. Then the moon went behind a cloud, the light dropped to almost nothing, and Blackburn collided with a Dumpster. But he staggered, recovered, and heard Dog give a sharp bark. So he kept going, feeling his way around the Dumpster and then along the brick wall until he reached the back corner of the building.

     When he came around the corner into the wider back alley, he was able to see again. A dim bulb was burning over a steel door on the pawn shop's back wall. Dog was scratching and growling at the base of the door. She glanced up at Blackburn as he came toward her, but then she turned her attention back to the door. There was something on the other side that she wanted a lot.

     Blackburn hated to deny Dog anything, but he decided to make an exception this time. He scooped her up and held her tight as she struggled to get down again.

     "Not this time," he told her. "We're hitting the road. Together."

     Then, as he turned away from the door, he heard Amy shriek on the other side. The cry was muffled, but he was sure it was her. They had talked enough the night before that he knew her voice.

     Blackburn stopped and listened. Dog squirmed in his arms, but when he put a hand over her head and said "Shhh," she calmed a little. She was quiet enough then that he could hear the sobs that followed the shriek. The sobs were Amy's, too.

     He wanted to keep going, but he knew he couldn't. Leslie Bonner's death was still an ache in his chest and groin -- and her death had been her own choice, and her own fault. But if Amy were to be hurt or killed because of what Jason was doing in Uncle Bill's Pawn Shop right now, it wouldn't be her choice or her fault. So if he was still aching from the death of a woman who had been asking for it, how could he enjoy Chicago if he let something happen to a girl who hadn't?

     He couldn't. But he was pissed off at the situation, and somebody -- not Amy, but somebody - was going to have to be punished for it.

     Tucking Dog under his left arm, he turned back to the steel door and tried the handle. It was locked. But as he gave the handle a second tug just to be sure, he heard Amy cry out again. So he turned around and ran into the side alley. From this direction he was able to see the outline of the Dumpster, and he dodged around it and made it to the sidewalk, where he cut left and made a quick stop at the Thunderbird. He yanked open the car door and tossed Dog inside. Dog yipped and bounced, then jumped up with her nose against the window when Blackburn slammed the door.

     "Stay," Blackburn said. "Just this once. Stay."

     Then he went to the pawn shop door. He didn't know just what was going on in the darkened shop, but he didn't figure there was any point in trying to be sneaky. Anyone inside could see him through the windows. So he might as well just walk on in. At least he knew where the hammers, wrenches, and saws were shelved. He'd been in that aisle a few times already.

     The moon came out from behind its cloud, and Blackburn shoved open the door.

                                        #

     The cowbell clanked. Blackburn stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind him. The cowbell clanked again. Blackburn stood stock-still, sniffed the air, and listened. He smelled mold and cigar smoke, just as he had the first time he'd come in here. But the sounds were different now.

     Amy was sobbing somewhere toward the back wall. Behind the counter. Crouching, maybe. And Gerald was near her, mumbling as if speaking in tongues.

     There was another sound, too. It was like the deep, raspy breathing of a cornered animal. But Blackburn couldn't tell where it was coming from. One moment it seemed to emanate from one corner of the shop, and then from another. Then from the ceiling, and then from somewhere outside. Blackburn's ears were playing tricks on him.

     But his eyes were beginning to adjust. Streetlight and moonlight were seeping in through the dirty windows. And just as he was about to decide that he could see well enough to dash to the counter, the weak light dimmed even further. He looked over his shoulder and was able to see the Thunderbird through the glass door, but he could tell that even the light outside had weakened. He took a step back to get a look at the sky and saw that another, heavier cloud had covered the moon. It wouldn't be there long. But Blackburn didn't think he had any time to wait.

     Gerald called out from the other end of the store. "God," he said. "God, are you there?"

     Blackburn headed toward the sound of Gerald's voice, holding his hands out so his fingertips brushed the ends of the shelves on both sides of the aisle. He knew the shelves stopped a dozen feet or so before the counter, but if he could get himself walking straight, he might still reach the counter without colliding with anything. Then he could climb over, maybe find a light switch, and get Amy and Gerald out of here. He didn't know where Jason or Uncle Bill were, but unless they got in his way, it didn't matter. He would take Amy and Gerald home, and then be gone.

     But after his fingertips brushed the last shelves, he saw a tiny orange glow down on the floor to his right, and he stopped. He sniffed the air again and realized that the smell of cigar smoke wasn't just the old, stale smell from the walls. That was a fresh, burning cigar on the floor, and it was right at the mouth of the guitar cubbyhole.

     Blackburn took a step toward the cubbyhole, bent down, and managed to pick up the smoldering cigar without burning his fingers. He slipped the wet end between his lips and took a drag that made the orange glow burn bright. He took another step, and the glow revealed Jason on the floor, his knees on either side of Uncle Bill's chest. Jason was holding the guitar he and the other kids had admired yesterday, the red '72 Stratocaster. He was pressing its neck, string-side down, against the throat of Uncle Bill.

     Uncle Bill's eyes were open. So was his mouth. But Blackburn couldn't tell whether he was breathing. If he was, the raspy sound might be coming from him.

     "This is none of your business," Jason said.

     Blackburn let out a puff of smoke. "Well, maybe," he said. "It sort of depends. All I know for sure right now is that Amy and Gerald are scared shitless behind the counter. And it looks like you're responsible."

     Even in the glow from the cigar, Blackburn could see Jason's eyes flash. "Amy's scared because this sick old bastard tried to strip her naked!"

     Blackburn took another drag on the cigar, then dropped it. It hit the floor with a spray of sparks, then rolled to a stop beside Uncle Bill's ear.

     "Okay, then," Blackburn said. "Go on with what you're doing. I'll check on the kids." He turned toward the counter.

     Then he heard Amy, still sobbing, trying to speak over Gerald's babbling. Her voice was distant, as if she were calling up from inside a well. But Blackburn was able to make out the words.

     "That's not what happened," Amy said. "He was just trying to see if I was hurt. Because God was outside, and he had a hat just like Fred Astaire -- "

     Now Gerald's babbling grew louder and overwhelmed Amy's voice altogether. "God is so angry," he said. "God wants his razor, he wants it now, but he's waiting until the moon stops playing hide-and-seek in the clouds. And then he'll come take it, and all of us, all of us, all our heads will be hanging from his belt and shining like silver watch fobs in the moonlight . . ."

     More lunatic God stuff. Blackburn was tired of it. He was tired of all the nonsense these people had put him through. He was going to put a stop to it.

     "Gerald," he said, "shut up."

     And Gerald, in a trance or not, did as he was told.

     "Good," Blackburn said. "Now then. Jason, stop choking Uncle Bill. Amy says he didn't do anything to her."

     "But I saw him -- "

     Blackburn aimed a sharp look at the guitar cubbyhole. He could barely make out Jason's outline, but he hoped Jason could see his face.

     "Now," Blackburn said.

     Jason stood up, and the guitar dropped with a clunk and a twang. Then Jason stepped out to where Blackburn could make out his sullen face in the pale, filtered light from the street.

     "I was just trying to protect her," Jason muttered.

     Uncle Bill, coughing, sat up and flicked his Zippo. His face looked ruddy in the light of the flame. "You stupid little shit," he growled, coughing at every other word. "I was the one protecting her. Her and your retard of a brother, not that he -- "

     "Both of you shut up too," Blackburn said. "The only one I want to hear from is Amy."

     Jason's sullen expression became a sneer. "Who put you in charge?"

     Blackburn punched Jason in the throat and kicked him in the knee. Jason hit the floor and made a gagging sound.

     "Just stay there a while," Blackburn said.

     Then he turned toward the counter as Amy came out from behind it into the light of the Zippo, leading Gerald by the hand. Gerald was staring up at the ceiling as if he could see straight through to the sky. But at least he wasn't babbling now.

     Blackburn looked at Amy's creamy, beautiful face as it flickered with the Zippo's flame. "Tell me what happened," he said. "Then I'll kill whoever's responsible, and I'll be out of your hair."

     Amy blinked. "We already told you. It's God. I saw him again tonight. I looked out my bedroom window, and he was standing in the driveway. Not the peace and love one. It was the one who murdered Annie. The one in the Fred Astaire hat. And the only reason he didn't just come into the house and murder me too was because Gerald was sitting in the driveway praying to him."

     Blackburn thought highly of Amy, but this sounded like crap. "You were seeing things. The man who killed your sister shot himself here last night."

     "Gerald says God can be in anyone," Amy said. "And if he's in someone who dies, he just goes into someone else. A little bit of God's blood is always there on his razor, so it gets into anyone the blade cuts."

     Blackburn looked at Uncle Bill again. "That would be you. You handled the razor."

     "No!" Amy said. Her voice was angry. "Uncle Bill's great. I called him tonight when I couldn't get hold of my mom, and he came right over. His headlights made God disappear long enough for me and Gerald to get in the car." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "But when we got here, God was waiting. He reached out from the alley and grabbed me. But Uncle Bill yanked me away and took me inside. He was pulling up the arms of my sweatshirt to see if I was cut when Jason came in. But I didn't know it was Jason, so I grabbed Gerald and went behind the counter. Then Jason cussed at Uncle Bill and tried to hurt him. And I screamed at him to stop, but he wouldn't. Then you came in."

     "Well, I didn't see God or anyone else outside," Blackburn said. "But even so, Uncle Bill should have locked the door once he got you in."

     "I did," Uncle Bill growled. "I turned the bolt. But then Jason pushed it right open."

     Gerald pulled away from Amy and tried to walk toward the door. "The moon is almost done with the clouds," he said. "God is coming now. We have to pray."

     Blackburn blocked his path. "I'm guessing Gerald here turned the bolt back the other way when you weren't looking. Seeing as how he seems to have conflicted feelings about God." He turned toward the door, stepping over Jason. "And somebody ought to try locking it again, just in case."

     Behind him, Gerald made a noise that was half gurgle, half chuckle. "It's time," he said. "God is here."

     Blackburn paused, thinking of putting Gerald down on the floor beside his brother. But then he saw that the light outside was brighter again. There were no more clouds over the moon.

     And then he heard the same sound he had heard here the night before: a shotgun blast. And then another. A streetlight went out with each blast. And then there was the clatter of Uncle Bill dropping his Zippo, which also went out. And after that, the only light in the store was from the moon. Light that looked as if it were shining through a red candy wrapper.

                                         #

     A tall, dark shape appeared at the window, and it glided across to the door. It was holding a shotgun.

     "Amy," Blackburn said. "Get back behind the counter again."

     "What about Gerald?" Amy sounded scared, but not panicked. Cool, all things considered. Blackburn sure wished she was older.

     "Take Gerald with you if you want," Blackburn said. "But you're the one this guy really wants to hurt."

     "How do you know?"

     "Because he's either a maniac or an asshole. Maniacs and assholes always want to hurt the girl."

     Then he heard Amy grab Gerald, heard Gerald resist, and heard Amy succeed in dragging him back behind the counter. He heard Jason start to crawl. He heard Uncle Bill cough and struggle to get to his feet in the guitar cubbyhole. He didn't think Jason and Uncle Bill would make it anywhere before God came in. But that was okay with Blackburn. They might distract the guy.

     The shotgun roared again, and the door shattered. Frigid air rushed in, and shards of glass peppered the shelves. Blackburn felt a shard scratch his neck as it flew past. The cowbell clanged and clattered up the aisle and came to rest against the toe of Blackburn's right shoe.

     Uncle Bill shouted, and Jason made a panicked noise. Behind the counter, Amy gave a yelp, and Gerald began singing a tuneless song of worship that involved God, knives, razors, the blood of redemption, and various nonsense syllables.

     Blackburn was aware of all of that, but it was background noise. He was studying the backlit shape in the doorway. He couldn't make out any facial features or even what kind of clothes the guy was wearing, but damned if he didn't seem to be wearing one of those Fred-Astaire-style top hats.

     God threw down the shotgun, and it slid up the aisle and came to rest against the toe of Blackburn's left shoe. Blackburn glanced down and could just make it out in the pinkish moonlight. He had a good memory for guns. This was the one that the guy in the Chevy van had used on himself.

     But there was no point in picking it up. No maniac or asshole would toss away a gun that was still loaded. So instead Blackburn looked back up at God, who was now brandishing Jason's butcher knife. He had made a stop at the Rambler. The knife blade was twisting back and forth, and Blackburn could see the image of the full moon appear and disappear, appear and disappear, over and over again.

     It made him glad. It made him glad because it reminded him of everything Amy had told him. It reminded him that Amy had told him to watch more TV, and that he had. And it reminded him that where maniacs and assholes were concerned -- in other words, where people in general were concerned -- the real truth of a thing didn't matter. What mattered, to them, was what they thought was the truth.

     He pressed the button on his watch and took a quick look at the glowing numerals. It was 4:19 AM. He would have to kill a minute, or maybe two. It was hard to say, since his watch wasn't dead accurate.

     He smiled at God. "Can I help you?" he asked.

     God spoke in a deep, ragged voice that echoed from the shelves and walls.

     "I want my razor," he said. "I want my blade."

     Blackburn nodded as if to say, okay, I see, that makes sense. But what he said was, "I'm sorry, we're closed. Could you come back later?"

     The ragged voice answered. "Only in moonlight."

     "That could be a problem," Blackburn said. He looked around at the dark shelves, trying to decide where to lunge and what sort of weapon to grab. Or maybe he would just pick up the shotgun after all and use it as a club.

     But before Blackburn could make up his mind, God dropped the knife. It hit the floor and lay there shining. Blackburn was surprised. Maybe this guy wasn't a maniac, but just an asshole. Who backed off when challenged.

     Then God glided into the side aisle where Blackburn had looked at tools the day before. He reappeared holding a chain saw.

     Blackburn groaned. "Uncle Bill," he said, keeping his eyes on the tall figure, "you don't leave fuel in the chain saws on the shelves, do you?"

     Uncle Bill coughed some more. "A little," he said. "Customers want to know they work."

     Blackburn glanced at his watch again. It still read 4:19.

     "That's just great," Blackburn said.

     God yanked the saw's starter cord, and it kicked to life, spewing out a black cloud and roaring up to a shriek before settling back down to a steady rattle. The rising exhaust curled around the stovepipe of God's hat.

     "I want my razor," the ragged voice said again. It blended with the rattle of the chain saw, but there was no question about the words.

     "Uncle Bill," Blackburn shouted. "If that antique razor's still in your safe, I suggest you get it."

     He heard Uncle Bill finally heave himself to his feet. "That razor's mine," Uncle Bill said in a phlegmy voice. "I traded for it fair and square."

     The chain saw roared and shrieked again, spewing more smoke, and God came toward Blackburn with it.

     "Open the safe, old man!" Blackburn yelled. He bent down, grabbed the shotgun, and racked the pump as he stood up again. But as he'd expected, nothing happened when he pulled the trigger.

     "Forget it!" Uncle Bill bellowed. Blackburn could just hear him over the chain saw. "What's mine is mine!"

     Then Amy screamed something from behind the counter, but Blackburn couldn't make it out and didn't have time to ask her to repeat it. God was three feet away and swinging the chain saw. So Blackburn flipped the shotgun, held it by the barrel, and swung it up to block the saw as it cut down toward him. The chain hit the gunstock, shrieking as it bit the polished wood, and then both the saw and the shotgun twisted away to Blackburn's left. The gun barrel slipped from his grasp, and he regained his balance just as the saw swung back toward him again.

     He tried to drop to the floor, knowing he wouldn't make it, knowing the saw would catch him in the forehead, when he was pulled backward and tripped. The whirring end of the chain saw brushed his eyelashes before he hit the floor.

     Then he saw Jason above him, swinging the red Stratocaster. The guitar hit God in the face, and he staggered back a few steps.

     The chain saw's scream sank to a rattle again, and now Blackburn could hear what Amy was shouting.

     "I know the safe combination!" she cried. "I've seen Uncle Bill do it hundreds of times! But I can't see the numbers!"

     Blackburn rolled toward the guitar cubbyhole as Jason and God raised their weapons to take another swipe at each other. He felt around on the floor until he found Uncle Bill's Zippo.

     Uncle Bill grabbed his ankle. "You don't have any right!"

     Blackburn kicked back with his other foot, made contact, and scrambled free as the chain saw began to shriek again. He didn't look back to see what happened next, but lunged to the counter and dove over the top.

     He heard the saw hit the guitar as he landed on someone behind the counter. Then he tossed the Zippo into his left hand, flicked the wheel, and saw Gerald's dazed face in the light of the flame. Blackburn had knocked the wind out of him. But Amy was okay. Blackburn got to his knees, shoved Gerald out of the way, and held the Zippo up to the door of a small steel safe under the counter. He gestured to Amy, and she crawled to the safe and began spinning its dial.

     Out in the shop, the chain saw made a different sound. It was biting into something besides the guitar. Blackburn heard a shriek that wasn't mechanical, and a droplet of something flew over the counter and hit his cheek. Amy looked up with eyes that were bigger than ever. But Blackburn nodded at the safe, and she went back to work.

     The chain saw's shriek subsided to a rattle again, and the ragged voice said, "I want my razor."

     "Just a goddamn minute," Blackburn said. He looked at his watch one more time. It read 4:20. The goddamn minute ought to be up any second now.

     The safe clicked, and Amy back away. Blackburn yanked open the door and held the Zippo closer.

     There was a stack of cash bound with a rubber band. There was Blackburn's Colt Python. There were two speedloaders. And there was the carved razor, its blade tucked away into its carved ivory handle.

     "Thanks," Blackburn said to Amy. Then he reached into the safe, grabbed the razor, and tossed it over the counter. "Here you go," he called. "Catch."

     He heard the chain saw hit the floor and fall silent. He heard Jason making agonized sobbing sounds. He heard the razor open with a sharp whick.

     And then he heard God, in his low raspy voice, say "Ahhhhh . . ."

     That sort of smug self-satisfaction really bugged Blackburn. So he reached into the safe, brought out his Colt Python, and stood. He set the lit Zippo on the counter, and its light shone just far enough to reveal Jason on the floor in a dark, shiny pool with the chain saw lying just beyond him. Jason's eyes were open, and he was breathing in short gasps. But he wouldn't be doing that for much longer, because God was leaning down toward him with the open razor in his upraised hand. Ochre moonlight gleamed from the blade.

     Over in the guitar cubbyhole, Uncle Bill was saying something about how that razor belonged to him . . .

     Blackburn didn't care whose it was. All he cared about was that it, and everyone around it, had put a bad crimp in his plans. But he was going to uncrimp them right now. He thumb-cocked the Python and braced his right wrist with his left hand.

     "Yo, God," he said. His breath went into the cold air as Zippo-lit steam.

     God paused. The razor twitched toward Blackburn.

     "Bless us," Blackburn said. "Every one."

     Then he squeezed the trigger, and squeezed it again and again and again. Four claps of thunder and four flashes of lightning exploded in the pawn shop, and the black shape of God staggered back from Jason, staggered back almost to the shattered shop door, before standing up straight and raising his razor high. He stood there teetering for an instant.

     And then he gave that low, raspy laugh and came forward again.

     "Holy shit," Blackburn said, and then fired the last two rounds in the Python's cylinder.

     God jerked twice, but kept coming.

     Blackburn flipped out the Python's cylinder and shook out the spent cartridges with his right hand. He extended his left hand behind him.

     "Amy," he said. She would know what he wanted. He knew she would.

     She slapped a speedloader into his palm, and he brought it up to the Python as the last empty cartridge pinged off the counter. He had only seen this done once, but that was enough. He and the Python were tight. He slapped the speedloader against the cylinder, twisted the little knob, and felt all six fresh cartridges slip into their chambers. Then he dropped the speedloader, snapped the cylinder back in place, and began firing again.

     He aimed at God's chest and then at his head. The first shot stopped him, and the next five made him jerk and twitch. But then God did as he had after the first six. He gave a ragged chuckle and kept coming.

     Blackburn reached back with his left hand again, and Amy gave him the second speedloader as he shook out another six spent cartridges. He gave her a quick glance and a smile, hoping she could see his face in the light from the Zippo. He wasn't sure now that he was going to be able to keep her safe from God. So at least, maybe, the last thing she would see would be the face of someone who thought she was all right.

     Then he turned back to face God again, reloaded the Python, and dropped the second speedloader. But the speedloader bounced against the Zippo, and the Zippo fell to the floor and slid past Jason. It was still burning when it came to a stop against the chain saw.

     "Uh-oh," Blackburn said.

     Sure enough, there was enough spilled fuel to catch fire. The flames weren't high at first, but they were bright enough to illuminate the legs of God, who was standing just beyond them. God was wearing a cheap brown suit.

     "What?" God said. His voice was still raspy, but it didn't sound so dangerous now. The razor wobbled in his grasp. "What happened?"

     Blackburn looked past God, out through the shattered door. In an unseen instant, the street had become utterly dark. There was no moonlight, ochre or otherwise. It was as if a black sheet had fallen over Davenport.

     "What do you mean, what happened?" Blackburn asked. "Doesn't God read the newspaper? Doesn't God watch TV? Because if you did, you might learn something. You might learn that a volcano in Mexico erupted in March, and that its ash is high up in the atmosphere. And you might also learn that this ash will make any lunar eclipse the darkest in centuries."

     He aimed the Python. "Most importantly," he said, "you might learn that an eclipse of the moon is happening right now, today, December 30, the Year of Our Lord -- I guess that would be the peace and love one -- 1982. And that it's supposed to reach totality at 4:20 AM. Which must be right about now. My watch is a little off."

     The flames from the saw licked higher, and now Blackburn could see God's face. It was the face of Lieutenant Thurston, the plainclothes cop who had been hassling Uncle Bill the day before. But he wasn't wearing a top hat. His greasy hair was standing straight up.

     "The moon?" Thurston asked. He waved the razor weakly.

     "Eaten by a bigger God," Blackburn said.

     Then he fired one shot, hitting the cop in the throat. Thurston's head snapped back, and then he staggered forward with a gurgling sound. He stumbled over the burning chain saw, and then over Jason. Then he fell.

     But as he fell, he flung the razor. It spun through the air in the firelight, end over end, steel and ivory, steel and ivory, straight at Blackburn. Blackburn jumped back, tripped over Gerald, and slammed against the wall of guns. Rifles and shotguns fell as the razor spun toward him and he raised his right arm to protect his face. In that moment, he saw that the blade might slice into his wrist instead. But he had no more time to move.

     The razor struck with a sharp click, then ricocheted, like a miracle, down into the open safe. Blackburn pushed away from the wall, stepped over Gerald, and kicked the safe closed.

     Then the cop stood up again. His cheap brown pants were on fire, and the flames were licking toward his coat. Polyester, Blackburn thought. An evil fiber.

     Thurston tried to scream, but all that came out was a flapping, bubbling sound. He spun away and stumbled over Jason again, and his pants cuff caught on the chain of the burning saw. Then he lurched up the aisle and out through the jagged hole where the door had been, slapping at the fire while trying to kick away the saw.

     Blackburn was glad that Thurston was burning and dying, but he had to admire the guy's tenacity. And so he did, until the cop lurched across the sidewalk to the Thunderbird and opened the driver's-side door.

     "Dog!" Blackburn yelled. He vaulted over the counter, jumped over Jason, and ran outside while trying to get a bead on the back of Thurston's head. But he couldn't get a clear shot, and by the time he reached the sidewalk, the burning man was crawling into the car.

     Dog had backed up against the passenger door and was barking her head off. Blackburn ran around to that side, tried the door, found it locked, and bashed out the window with the butt of the Python. Then he reached for Dog with his free hand, but she was already jumping out. So Blackburn snagged his duffel instead and yanked it out just as Thurston collapsed across the seats.

     For a moment, Blackburn thought he might be able to go around to the driver's side, pull out the body, and salvage his Thunderbird. But the chain saw was on the floor under the steering wheel, and the carpeting and seats caught fire just as Blackburn reached the sidewalk again.

     He stood there and watched the flames while Dog pressed against his leg and continued to bark. Everything he had gone through to get the Thunderbird had come to this. Even if he put out the fire and replaced the seats, the car would have a permanent stink to it. Blackburn wanted to kill the responsible party, but of course the son of a bitch was already dead.

                                         #

     Blackburn looked down at Dog. At least she was okay.

     Then he looked at his hand to see whether he'd been cut. He hadn't felt a sting from the razor and still didn't, but razor wounds didn't always hurt right away.

     There wasn't a mark on him. But in the firelight he could just make out a thin new line on the steel frame of the Python that hadn't been there before. He had held up the .357 like a priest holding up a crucifix, and it had saved him.

     He tucked the Colt into his duffel, then reached down and petted Dog. "It's okay, pup. We can go now."

     So they started down the sidewalk. But then Blackburn heard Amy calling him from inside the shop.

     "Mr. Doyle!" she cried. "I don't know what to do!"

     Blackburn stopped. If only it had been any of the others.

     He turned around and went back to the dark shop. Dog trotted along beside him until he went inside, but then she gave a whimper and sat down where the door had been. Blackburn started to feel his way toward the counter again.

     "Can't somebody turn on a light?" he asked. The fire in the Thunderbird was still burning, but not brightly enough to help him. And the moon was eclipsed.

     The overhead fluorescents flickered, flashed, and came on. Blackburn's eyes took a moment to adjust, and then he saw Gerald in the corner behind the counter, his hand on a light switch.

     "Couldn't have done that sooner?" Blackburn said.

     But no one answered that. Instead, Amy called to him again. She was kneeling beside Jason.

     "He's bleeding," she said. She was starting to cry. "He's bleeding a lot. I don't know what to do."

     Terrific. Yet another girl who Blackburn couldn't sleep with was making him do something he didn't want to do. And she was making him do it for a rat-faced little jerk who probably would get to sleep with her. If he survived. The kid had a bad chainsaw gash on his left thigh. But Blackburn had seen mortal wounds, and this didn't look like one to him. It was bleeding, but it wasn't spurting.

     Blackburn set down his duffel, then picked up Jason's butcher knife from where Thurston had dropped it. He knelt beside Amy and cut Jason's jeans away from the wound, which made Jason yell and thrash. This got blood all over Blackburn's own clothes, so Blackburn was tempted to just stick the knife in the kid's gut and forget it. But instead, he called Uncle Bill over to hold the boy steady.

     When Blackburn had finished cutting away enough of Jason's jeans, he reached for the kid's belt and found that he wasn't wearing one. Neither was Amy. And Uncle Bill was wearing suspenders.

     "Gerald," Blackburn called. "You wearing a belt?"

     "A belt? No, Satan, I don't think I . . . no, I'm not." Gerald sounded dazed, but not quite in a trance.

     "Well, make yourself useful anyway," Blackburn said. "Is there a phone back there?"

     "Uh-huh," Gerald said. "I called my dad while you and God were fighting. He said he'd call Amy's mom and the police and come right over. But I don't think he can, because Jason took his car."

     Blackburn wanted to knock Jason and Gerald's heads together to see which one broke open first. But he didn't want Amy to be unhappy with him. So he took off his own leather belt and wrapped it around Jason's thigh above the wound.

     "Well, Gerald," Blackburn said, looping the belt through its buckle, "you might also want to call a fucking ambulance."

     Amy gave him a reproachful look as Gerald picked up the phone, but Blackburn shook it off. He didn't want her to be unhappy, but it was only fair if she became a little annoyed. They needed some equity in their relationship.

     Blackburn cinched the belt tight, and Jason yelped and bucked so hard that the top of his head caught Uncle Bill in the jaw. It sounded like wood blocks smacking together. Uncle Bill looked dazed, but he pushed Jason down again and held him as Blackburn used the knife to put a new clasp hole in the belt.

     "I don't promise anything," Blackburn said to Amy as he buckled the belt in place. "But it ought to slow it down."

     Amy gave him the big, dark eyes, and then she smiled. The smile was a weird look for her, and Blackburn wasn't sure he liked it.

     "Thank you," Amy said as she stroked Jason's forehead. "For the Devil, you're a pretty decent guy."

     Blackburn was beginning to think this girl wasn't his type after all. She sure didn't know him very well.

     He stood up and nudged Jason with his shoe. "You're welcome," he said. Then he glanced at Uncle Bill. "Too bad about your shop. But I'll bet you're insured."

     Uncle Bill nodded. "That I am."

     "Glad to hear it," Blackburn said. "But I've suffered some damages too, and I'm not insured. So I'm taking back my Colt Python."

     Uncle Bill gave him a tobacco-stained grin. "As long as I've still got that fancy razor, I'm good. It's back in my safe, ain't it?"

     Gerald spoke up before Blackburn could answer. "It doesn't matter where it is," Gerald said. "There'll be a new God, and he'll come for it anyway."

     Blackburn thought about that for a second, then heard a distant siren and knew he had to get moving.

     "Well, if God does come for it," he said, "he ought to earn it with a miracle. Like, say, walking on water."

     Then he slung his duffel over his shoulder and went behind the counter. The safe wasn't bolted down, so he dragged it out far enough to get a good grip, then squatted and picked it up. It was a small safe, but Blackburn felt his vasectomy scar threaten to pop as he lifted the thing. He guessed it was somewhere between a hundred and twenty and a hundred and fifty pounds. But he had already started, so he was committed. Gritting his teeth, he gave Gerald a curt nod and then shuffled out in front of the counter again.

     Uncle Bill took his hands from Jason's shoulders and stood. "You best put down what's mine," he said.

     "I can do that," Blackburn said, straining to speak while holding the safe. "But if I do, I'll take what's mine from my duffel bag and stick it in your mouth. And it'll try to get out through your skull."

     Uncle Bill looked around the store, then fished a cigar from his pocket and crouched to pick up his blackened Zippo. "Yup," he said. "Insurance should cover it."

     Blackburn stepped around him and over Amy and Jason. Then his foot nudged the red Strat that Jason had swung against the chain saw. He looked down and saw that it had a ragged gash in its body that was about the same size and shape as the one in Jason's thigh. But the strings and neck were undamaged.

     He jerked his head at Uncle Bill, who was lighting his cigar. "Hey," he said. "Give the kid a discount on this thing."

     Uncle Bill looked at the guitar, then at Jason. "Jesus H. Christ. He can have it."

     Jason was trembling from either cold or pain, but he managed to look up and give Blackburn a sneer. "D-don't do me any f-favors, p-prick."

     Blackburn headed for the door. "You're welcome," he said again.

     Amy came after him. She stepped in front of him and almost made him drop the safe.

     "Aren't you going to the hospital with us?" she asked.

     These damn people. "I just shot a cop," Blackburn said. "So I'm going elsewhere."

     "But it was self-defense," Amy said. "He was trying to kill us all."

     Blackburn's shoulders were starting to hurt. "He was a cop," he said. "They get to do that."

     Amy bit her lower lip. "You're acting like you don't like me. But I know you do."

     "I absolutely do," Blackburn said. "But I'm carrying a goddamn safe."

     Amy stepped aside. "Annie would've liked you, too," she said.

     Blackburn wasn't sure why, but that was good to know. "Thanks," he said. "Now go make sure your boyfriend doesn't bleed to death."

     "He's not my boyfriend," she said.

     "Tell him that," Blackburn said.

     Then he went on to the doorway, clicked his tongue at Dog, and stepped out to the sidewalk. Dog came with him, and they went past the smoldering Thunderbird just as Nadine's yellow Chevy Nova stopped behind it.

     Blackburn paused, surprised to see Don Leymer emerge from the Nova with Nadine. "I thought you two didn't get along," he said.

     Nadine didn't acknowledge him. She took one look at the pawn shop's shattered door and ran inside. Blackburn was glad about that, because if she had pulled her .22 on him again, he would have had to hit her with the safe.

     But Leymer hesitated on the sidewalk, staring first at the Thunderbird and then at Blackburn.

     "Gerald called and said God had a chain saw," Leymer said. "So when I saw my car was gone, I thought I better get hold of Nadine so we could come down together. Called her at the waffle house before I even called the police. Tell you the truth, I wasn't sure I should call the police at all, because I knew you were here. See, Gerald said he was wrong about you at first. Turned out you weren't God after all. Instead, you were killing God. And I thought that sounded like a good idea." He tipped his head toward the Thunderbird. "That him?"

     "So I'm told," Blackburn said. "But instead of chatting with me, you might want to check on your boys. Besides, this safe's breaking my back."

     Leymer nodded. "I was gonna ask about that," he said. "But I guess it's none of my business." He took a step toward the shop, then looked at Blackburn again. "You must think Nadine and I are both shitty parents. You must think we've got some pretty fucked-up kids."

     Blackburn thought about it. "I've seen worse."

     Inside the shop, Jason yelled in pain, and Leymer ran on in. Maybe Leymer and Nadine were shitty parents, Blackburn thought. But that didn't make them any different from most. And Blackburn was glad to see that they had come here together. After all, they were neighbors, and it was about time they cooperated on looking after their rotten kids. So maybe from now on, none of those kids would fall prey to decapitation. It was something to hope for.

     Blackburn and Dog continued up the sidewalk, the safe tugging at Blackburn's shoulders and his duffel thumping against his back. When they reached the corner, they turned north and walked past 4th Street. Blackburn could hear sirens coming from the east, and he knew they would take 4th until they could cut down to Uncle Bill's. So he and Dog went all the way to 6th before turning west. At the corner of 6th, they passed Lieutenant Thurston's Crown Victoria parked at the curb. Blackburn wished he could take it. But if he did, he might as well shoot himself and save the cops the trouble.

     By the time he and Dog reached the cross street near Hawkeye Bob's Used Cars, Blackburn's arms were numb. But for once, he had some luck. The puke-green Ford Falcon was still where he had abandoned it, and its key was still in plain view on the front seat.

     Blackburn was both glad and chagrined. Glad that he still had wheels despite the loss of the Thunderbird . . . and chagrined that the wheels were so crappy that nobody else had wanted to take them. Not even with half a tank of gas included.

     He wrestled the safe into the back seat. Then, since no one was around, he stripped off his Jason-bloody clothes and changed into unlaundered replacements from his duffel. He left the bloodstained stuff in the gutter, then got into the front seat with Dog. He sat and shivered for a bit, breathing cold fog onto the windshield. He could hear more sirens now, and he counted them as they stopped at Uncle Bill's. After five, there was a moment of quiet. And then one of the sirens began to wail again.

     Before a second siren could start back up, Blackburn cranked the Falcon's ignition and kicked the gas pedal until it coughed, blew smoke, and began running on five of its six cylinders. But it went into Drive with no trouble, popping back to Low just once as Blackburn headed up the dark streets to I-80. Freezing air rushed in from the vents and from the fallen rear window, but at least it cleared the fogged windshield. And as he reached the interstate, Blackburn could just see the faint edge of the blood-red moon as it began to emerge from earth's shadow.

     Blackburn headed east on I-80 to Le Claire, then turned north on U.S. 67, following the west bank of the Mississippi. The sun was rising in front of him as he started across the toll bridge to U.S. 30.

     There were only a few cars on the bridge, so Blackburn was able to pull over and stop long enough to lug the safe out of the back seat. It was a shame that he couldn't retrieve the rubber-banded stack of cash that was inside, but he wouldn't have opened the safe again even if he'd known the combination. He heaved it up and over the rail, then watched as it fell, hit the black water, and disappeared.

     Then he got back into the Falcon, finished crossing the river, and began a zigzagging route to Chicago. He would stick to secondary roads as much as possible. Just in case. Someone in the Quad Cities might betray him. Or the bridge attendants might report him for tossing the safe.

     Also, he would try to ditch the Falcon and get something else -- something less crummy -- before hitting Chicago. Although whatever he got, he knew it wouldn't be as nice as the Thunderbird. That had been a once-in-a-lifetime deal.

     Blackburn did have one new thing he had really wanted, though, and it amazed him. He hadn't even known he had wanted it.

     He had faith. He even had a savior. In fact, he had been blessed with a savior ever since his seventeenth birthday. He just hadn't realized it until falling from grace for a day. But now he knew better. Now he had been born again.

     He petted Dog, who was curled up beside him, and then reached across her to his duffel. Its zipper was open far enough for him to slip his hand inside and touch the perfect steel of the Colt Python.

     "I'll never forsake you again," he said. And he drove on toward the red light over Lake Michigan.