Blackburn Read online

  Jimmy came up against the dais at the front of the sanctuary and stepped onto it. It stood a foot off the floor and was covered with what felt like artificial turf. Jimmy glanced to his left and saw the shadow of the pulpit. He got down on all fours and crawled to hide behind it. Once there, he discovered that it was hollow. The hollow was covered with a cloth. Jimmy pushed through the cloth and crawled inside.

  His left hand came down with his full weight on something soft and furry. The thing squeaked. Jimmy pulled his hand back and drew his legs into the pulpit. He sat with his knees hugged to his chest and tried to keep his breaths shallow and quiet.

  The dais creaked as Johnston stepped onto it. His footsteps went toward the back wall, then stopped. Outside the pulpit, lights came on. They shone through the cloth. The cloth was white. It didn’t hang all the way to the floor. Jimmy looked down and saw that the furry thing was a squirrel in a nest of shredded paper. It wasn’t moving. He had crushed it. There was a bloody mess behind and beside it, and tiny pink babies. They looked dead too.

  Johnston’s footsteps resumed. They were loud thumps on the thin plywood. The platform groaned. The light dimmed, and the scuffed leather toes of Johnston’s boots appeared below the edge of the white cloth.

  “Come on out, boy,” Johnston’s voice said from above. “You’re under arrest for trespassing.”

  Jimmy didn’t want to leave the pulpit. He looked away from Johnston’s toes and stared at the dead mama squirrel and her babies instead. He smelled blood.

  “You know, Mr. Firecracker,” Johnston said above, “I don’t know for a fact that it’s you in there. Could be a professional church thief. Could be a convict. Nobody’d blame me if I acted in self-defense. I could put a bullet through the pulpit and nobody’d question it. Not a soul.”

  Jimmy stared at the dead mama squirrel. Something was happening inside his head and chest. It knotted in his gut. Today was his birthday, and he had wanted to buy a car. Then he had tried to help a hungry dog, and the town cop had killed the dog for no reason. Now the cop wanted to kill him too. Because he was hiding in a pulpit.

  “I could shoot you,” Johnston said above, “just like I shot that damn dog.”

  There it was. The dog was dead. Jimmy had tried to help it, and Dad had made him drop his pants and had switched him with the fishing rod. The dog had killed rats, and Dad had shot it. The blind man had said that Jesus would help, but Mom had left, and the dog was dead. The dog had killed a squirrel, and Johnston had shot it. The blind man had not heard the voice of Jesus, had made it all up, had lied to him. Jimmy had swum in the pond with the dog, and now it was dead. Dad had hit Mom in the mouth. Jasmine had screamed at monsters in the night. Jimmy had hit the dog with a hammer so it wouldn’t hurt. But Jasmine had seen. He had come into the church with the dog, and now it was dead. Jesus had not listened to him even though he was saved on Easter. Glass had broken in the living room. He had awakened in the morning with his sheets glued to his legs in lines of blood. Boss Stud had taunted his sister and stomped his kite. Johnston had kicked the dog down the steps. Jimmy had wrapped the dog in shop rags to bury it, and it was all his fault because he had made a deal with God. Jasmine came to him to say that she hated him. Dad pushed his face into the gravel, and Mom came back and served smoked pork chops. The dog swam out to where he and Ernie splashed and then the sound of the shotgun and the red splash on the concrete in front of the Nazarene church.

  There it was.

  The dog was dead.

  Jimmy waited a moment longer, to feel the tightness of the change inside, to know it was right. It meant never seeing Mom again. Or Jasmine. Never goofing off with Ernie. Never trying to snuggle with Mary Carol Hauser. Never graduating from high school.

  And then there was Dad.

  A moving shadow told him that Johnston was reaching for the white cloth.

  That was all, then. He could let Johnston pull away the cloth, or he could do it himself. Nothing he had ever done had made anyone behave any better, so the only choice left was how he would behave himself. But if Johnston pulled away the white cloth before he did, even that choice was taken away.

  Mom. Jasmine. Ernie. Mary Carol.

  Dad.

  None of them was worth as much as this.

  None of them was worth as much as the life of a dog.

  He took the dead mama squirrel in both hands. It was warm and limp. One of the babies slid onto his wrist. He was surprised that he wasn’t scared. He was trembling, but not from fear.

  That was important.

  Johnston’s fingertips brushed the white cloth.

  Jimmy’s life was over.

  Blackburn lunged through the cloth, thrusting the dead mama squirrel into the cop’s face. The light was brilliant. The squirrel’s eyes gleamed from each lens of the mirrorshades. Johnston gave a gargled scream. Blackburn shoved the squirrel into Johnston’s mouth.

  Johnston stumbled back. Blackburn went with him, trying to shove the squirrel down his throat. Johnston’s pistol came up. The muzzle grazed Blackburn’s cheek. It was hot. The engraving on the blue barrel was an inch from Blackburn’s eyes. He saw the word COLT. He saw the word PYTHON. He saw the numerals 3, 5, and 7. It was a revelation. It was a God speaking to him on the green-turfed dais of the Nazarene church. He let go of the dead mama squirrel and reached for the pistol’s blue perfection.

  Johnston coughed out the squirrel and pointed the pistol at Blackburn’s mouth. Blackburn grabbed it. He and Johnston fell together. The oil in Johnston’s hair had the sharp smell of Vick’s Vapo-Rub. A clump of black strands tickled Blackburn’s upper lip. He spat the clump away and saw droplets appear on Johnston’s sunglasses.

  “Little prick,” Johnston said. His breath was the essence of wet cigarettes. His teeth were yellow scabs.

  Blackburn tried to pull the pistol away, but Johnston wouldn’t let go. He was stronger than Blackburn. Johnston rose to his knees, pulling Blackburn with him. They knelt with their hands locked on the pistol between them. Blackburn tried to stare past his own reflections. He imagined the cop’s eyes as milky white.

  “You’re under arrest, you piece of shit,” Johnston said. He was breathing hard. He could hardly talk.

  Blackburn smiled at him. “Nobody likes you,” he said.

  Johnston stopped breathing. His mouth opened. Blackburn leaned forward and kissed him. Johnston’s grip weakened. Blackburn wrenched hard and fell.

  He lay on his back, looking up at the white lights in the ceiling above the pulpit. He raised his hands over his face. They were wrapped around the body of the Python.

  Johnston appeared above him, blocking the lights. He was standing. He was huge, but nothing more than a shadow. Nothing more than a ghost.

  “Give me the gun, son,” the cop said. A huge shadow hand reached down.

  Blackburn turned the Python and held it two-fisted the way the cops on TV did. His right index finger curled around the trigger. It was hot. It felt right. His finger was happy. The hammer was already cocked. He pointed the muzzle at the shadow’s head.

  “No,” he said.

  The shadow moved away. Blackburn sat up, keeping the pistol steady. The Python was heavy, but the weight gave him strength.

  The shadow brightened as Blackburn sat up, resolving into Officer Johnston. Johnston held his hands out before him. He backed away.

  “Stay where you are,” Blackburn said.

  Johnston stopped. “Now, son,” he said, “you’re making things awful bad for yourself.” His voice quavered.

  Blackburn was disgusted. Big tough man. Big tough man with a gun. Big tough man killing a hungry dog.

  Blackburn got to his feet. “Take off your shades,” he said. “Take off your shades and drop them.”

  Johnston took off his shades and dropped them. They clattered on the green turf beside the dead mama squirrel. Johnston blinked. His eyes were dirt brown. They watered. The left eye had a spidery red blotch in the white.

  “Get down on
your hands and knees,” Blackburn said.

  Johnston shook his head. “Son, you’re diggin’ yourself in deeper and deeper.”

  “Hands and knees,” Blackburn said.

  Johnston got down on his hands and knees. Blackburn kept the gun trained on him.

  “Bark like a dog,” Blackburn said.

  Johnston barked like a dog.

  “Now pick up the squirrel.”

  Johnston lifted his right hand and reached for the squirrel.

  “With your mouth.”

  Johnston lowered his hand. His lips pulled back from his teeth. Then he put his head down and picked up the dead mama squirrel with his mouth.

  “Trespasser,” Blackburn said, and pulled the trigger. The explosion rang from wall to wall in the empty church. The Python jumped. It almost hit Blackburn in the face.

  Johnston fell over with the squirrel in his mouth. He landed on his right side. His legs twitched. After a few seconds they stopped.

  Blackburn stood still for a while. His wrists tingled, then ached. His ears hummed. There was a stink of gunpowder, and then of gunpowder and shit. Blackburn lowered the Python and stepped forward to stand over Johnston. Johnston’s eyes were open. His teeth were clamped on the dead mama squirrel, compressing its body in the middle. His legs had drawn up, and his hands were in front of his chest, the wrists bent. Dark blood was spreading through his shirt. Some of it was seeping from a hole under the left pocket. Blackburn thought he saw the cop’s chest move a little, but only once.

  Officer Johnston was dead.

  Blackburn took a deep breath through his nose and let it out through his mouth. He started to feel a little scared, but squelched it. There was no point in being scared now. He hadn’t even known that he was going to pull the trigger until it was already done, but once done, he couldn’t take it back. He didn’t think he would want to anyway.

  He squatted and picked up Johnston’s mirrorshades. They were in good shape. He might as well keep them.

  Blackburn turned away from the body and stepped down from the dais. The humming noise in his ears faded as he walked up the aisle. When he reached the vestibule, he realized that he would have to hide the Python. He put on the mirrorshades and then pulled out his shirttail with his free hand. He loosened his belt and tucked the pistol into the back waistband of his jeans. The shirttail covered it. It was uncomfortable, but it would have to do for now.

  He left the church and closed the door behind him. He went down the steps past the dog. The dog still had its squirrel in its mouth too. It was grinning and looked happy. Blackburn felt better.

  Johnston’s Blazer was parked down the block. Its tinted windows were up. Anyone who noticed it would assume that Johnston was inside. As Blackburn stepped onto the sidewalk, a new Plymouth sedan appeared on the street and turned into the Dunbars’ driveway. Blackburn crossed into the Dunbars’ yard.

  A stooped man in coveralls emerged from the Plymouth and eyed Blackburn. He didn’t look happy. Blackburn supposed that the mirrored sunglasses and untucked shirt made him look delinquent.

  “Mr. Dunbar?” Blackburn said, coming close. “You still selling that car?” He nodded toward the black Falcon.

  Mr. Dunbar looked wary. “Uh-huh.”

  “How much?”

  “Five hundred.”

  “Give you four.”

  Mr. Dunbar shook his head.

  Blackburn reached into his pocket and pulled out the wad of bills. “Four hundred cash money.”

  Mr. Dunbar started to shake his head again. Blackburn shifted the cash to his left hand and reached behind him. His fingers touched the butt of the Python.

  “Well,” Mr. Dunbar said. His headshake became a nod. “Fair enough.”

  Blackburn was relieved, and pleased. He was proud of himself for holding firm. He gave Mr. Dunbar eight fifties.

  Mr. Dunbar removed two keys from a ring and handed them to Blackburn. “Hang on a sec and I’ll fetch the title,” he said. He stepped onto the porch.

  “Could we do the title tomorrow, sir?” Blackburn asked. “I sort of have a date, and I thought maybe I could use the car. I’m kind of late as it is.”

  Mr. Dunbar shrugged. “I’ll be home tomorrow about four-thirty again.” He peered down at Blackburn. “What’s your name?”

  Mr. Dunbar had seen Blackburn plenty of times, but the sunglasses probably made him hard to recognize. Mr. Dunbar might not have known his name anyway. And that was fine with Blackburn.

  “Sam,” Blackburn said. “Sam Colt.”

  “Glad to do business with you, Sam,” Mr. Dunbar said. He went into his house.

  The Falcon’s door creaked when Blackburn opened it, and the seat sank almost to the floor when he sat down. But the engine fired after only fifteen seconds of whining. Blackburn put the car into gear and drove through the shallow ditch onto the street.

  The muffler had a hole. It was loud. And there was only a quarter tank of gas. But the steering was smooth, the acceleration fine. It was a decent car. Too bad he would have to get rid of it soon. It wouldn’t be long before the Falcon was a wanted vehicle. He wondered if it would be hard to steal another car. He had never stolen anything bigger than a candy bar and wasn’t sure how to go about it. He would have to devise a plan during the next few hours, while he drove.

  Before hitting the highway, Blackburn cruised the side streets of Wantoda, past Ernie’s house, past Todd Boyle’s house, past the grade school. He wished that he could risk the time to drive out past his own home too. It would be nice to honk good-bye. But the faster and farther he could get away, the better. Mom and Jasmine wouldn’t have known it was him anyway. And Dad probably wasn’t home yet. He tended to keep working hours even when he was laid off. The taverns were open.

  Blackburn stopped for a moment at the west edge of town, where the Potwin road ran north toward Clay Hill and the water tower stood guard over the town and its people. He looked up and saw himself on the catwalk, eyes stinging in the wind, spitting at the road below. He saw the silver tank burst at its rusted seams, the water exploding, sweeping him from the catwalk, ripping away the catwalk itself. He saw the water rush down as a wall, crushing the homes of Wantoda, drowning the inhabitants in froth. He saw his body at the crest of the leading wave as it smashed schools and cars and ripped up trees like brittle weeds.

  Then he looked away and drove south, past the Methodist and Baptist churches. He turned east on K-132 and blasted past Nimper’s IGA and the Volunteer Fire Station at sixty miles per hour, heading for the Ozarks. The wind tore through his open window and whipped his hair back. He didn’t figure that there would be a speed trap today.

  Once he was clear of Wantoda, he realized that the Python was digging into his spine. He steered with his left hand and leaned forward so he could reach back and pull the gun from his waistband with his right. As he did so, he glimpsed himself in the rearview mirror. The vision was startling and ugly.

  It was the mirrored sunglasses. They made him look like a cop.

  Blackburn put the Python under the seat, then took off the sunglasses and examined his face in the mirror. That was better. The eyes were clear. They were eyes that wouldn’t hide anything, that wouldn’t lie. They were eyes that only fools would doubt.

  He threw the sunglasses out the window, and they disintegrated on the grille of a Peterbilt heading the other way. He smiled. He had heard the lenses break. The sound inspired him, and he sang “Happy Birthday” and “I Saw Her Standing There.” He hoped that Mary Carol wouldn’t be hurt at being stood up.

  Blackburn leaned to the right to look at his face again. Yes. His eyes were meant to be seen.

  He just wasn’t a mirrorshades kind of guy.

  VICTIM NUMBER EIGHT

  Blackburn came to a suburb of the City of Brotherly Love and found it full of garbage. The sanitation workers were on strike, and trash heaps lined the streets. The sidewalk in front of the house where Blackburn stayed was unwalkable. It was buried under cans, bottles, new
spapers, disposable diapers, and rotting food waste. The stench and the noise of flies were constant. Blackburn resisted the urge to bring out his Colt Python and shoot the occasional rat that showed itself.

  He was reading a sci-fi paperback and eating corn chips on a Tuesday evening when the doorbell rang. He had never heard it before. He stopped reading and listened. It rang again, playing the opening notes of “Greensleeves.” Blackburn put down the book and stood. His bare skin peeled from the fabric of the easy chair. The weather was sticky, and the house had no air-conditioning.

  Blackburn went to the door. There was no security peephole, so he hesitated, thinking of cops. But he opened the door. A man in a cream-colored suit stood on the stoop, holding a black case in his right hand. His skin was sallow, his teeth brownish. His hair was a little darker than his teeth.

  “Good evening, Mr. Talbot,” the man said. “I’m Randall Wayne. I’ve brought the information you requested regarding the Encyclopedia Europus. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to reach your neighborhood. The garbage situation has made traffic difficult.”

  “I understand,” Blackburn said.

  Randall Wayne stood there, smiling. He seemed to be waiting for something. Blackburn leaned against the doorjamb and waited with him.

  “May I come in?” Wayne asked at last.

  Blackburn considered. “No,” he said, and shut the door.

  The doorbell rang again before Blackburn could return to his chair. He reopened the door. Wayne was still there.

  “I’m sorry to bother you again, Mr. Talbot,” Wayne said, “but you asked for an in-home presentation. The free two-volume reference set is included, of course. I’ll only take a few minutes of your time.” He held up a printed postcard. Blackburn saw that Mr. or Mrs. Talbot had filled out the blanks on the card, which did indeed state that an in-home presentation was involved.

  He supposed that he should fulfill the Talbots’ obligation, although he doubted that they would have fulfilled it themselves. He had painted the house as they had ordered, complete with trim, and then they had refused to pay him. They wouldn’t even reimburse him for paint and materials. They just didn’t like the way it looked, they had said. They were the sort of people who would send in a postcard for a free two-volume reference set and then refuse the in-home presentation.