Blackburn turned off the radio. He gave Roy-Boy a violent sidearm wave, trying to tell him to go away.

But Roy-Boy stayed put, still pointing. Someone would drive by and notice him before long. Blackburn changed his wave to a "come here" gesture, then unzipped his coat and reached inside. He opened the Velcro flap over the Python's pouch. Roy-Boy jogged across the street, his ponytail bouncing. He had put his hands into his sweatshirt pouch, so Blackburn had to take his own hand out of his coat to let him into the car. The smell of deodorant soap was even stronger than before. Blackburn wondered what Roy-Boy was trying to cover up.

"Evening, Musician," Roy-Boy said. "Happy Friday the thirteenth."

"I was here first," Blackburn said.

Roy-Boy shook his head. "I've been watching that building since last Sat.u.r.day. It's mine." He grinned.

His teeth looked as if they were still stained with chocolate creme from the week before. "Unless you want to share. Two of the apartments on the top floor are rented by college students who've taken off for winter break. I've heard their stereos, and they sound expensive. They probably have VCRs and Sony Trinitrons too. We could clean 'em both in fifteen minutes, hit my fence in the morning, and be done."

"I don't use fences," Blackburn said. "They're crooks. And I already told you I'm not interested in teamwork. If you've been planning on this place for a week, you can have it. I'll leave."

Roy-Boy gave his gruntlike chuckle. "But don't you see, Musician? That won't work now. If you take off with nothing, I'll be afraid that you'll call the cops on me. So in self-defense, I'll make a call of my own after I've done the job. I'll describe you and your car, and when the cops ask the neighbors, some of them'll remember seeing you hanging around. And we've got the same situation in reverse if you stay and I go. One or both of us gets screwed. You know where that leaves us?"

Blackburn was keeping his eyes on Roy-Boy's, but his right hand was creeping back into his coat. He didn't want to shoot Roy-Boy while they were inside the Duster, but he would if he had to.

"Where?" he asked.

"MAD," Roy-Boy said. "As in mutual a.s.sured destruction." His right hand came out of the sweatshirt pouch with the .22. He pointed it at Blackburn's face.

Blackburn froze with his hand on the Python's b.u.t.t.

"This is how I see it," Roy-Boy said. "I have the advantage, but I'd have to waste you instantly, with one shot, or suffer retaliation. In other words, although you might be mortally wounded, you could still do me with your superior weapon. So our only choices are to work together or be destroyed. You feel like being destroyed?"

"No," Blackburn said. He saw Roy-Boy's point. "I'll work with you this one time, but I can't promise anything else. I still want to leave town."

Roy-Boy nodded. "Fair enough. We've achieved diplomatic relations. Now comes the disarmament phase. Take out your pistol, slow. You can point it at me if you want, but I'll be watching your hand. If the fingers start to flex, I'll shoot. MAD, get it?"

Blackburn pulled out the Python and held it so that it pointed down at his own crotch.

"Careful or you'll wind up like me," Roy-Boy said. "A one-ball wonder. Of course, mine's the size of an orange."

"Mine aren't. I'd just as soon keep them both." "Then put your gun on the seat between us. I'll do the same. Our hands should touch, so we'll each know if the other doesn't let go of his weapon. This is known as the verification phase." Roy-Boy turned his pistol so that it pointed downward. "Begin now."

They moved as slow as sloths. The pistols clicked together on the vinyl seat. The men's hands touched.

Blackburn waited until he felt Roy-Boy's hand begin to rise, and then he lifted his own hand as well.

"So far so good," Roy-Boy said. "Where's your tote bag?"

"Under the seat."

Roy-Boy clucked his tongue. "I can't have you reaching under there. We'll have to find a grocery sack or something in the apartment. That acceptable to you?"

"I suppose so."

"In that case," Roy-Boy said, "we can get out of the car. Doors open at the same time."

"We can't leave the guns on the seat," Blackburn said. "Someone'll see them."

"No, they won't. Once we're outside, take off your coat and throw it back inside to cover them. That'll also a.s.sure me that you aren't packing another piece."

"What's to a.s.sure me thatyou aren't?"

"Good point. Okay, as you take off your coat, I'll take off my sweatshirt. The pants too, if you want. I'm just wearing shorts and a T-shirt underneath."

Blackburn took his keys from the ignition. "All right," he said. "Lock your door on the way out." He and Roy-Boy opened the doors and got out. Blackburn took off his coat while watching Roy-Boy pull off his sweatshirt on the other side of the car. It was like a weird dance. Cars going by on the street illuminated the performance with their headlights. Roy-Boy's face went from light to dark to light again, and then disappeared as the sweatshirt came up over his head. But even while Roy-Boy's head was inside the sweatshirt, the eyes were visible through the neck opening. They didn't blink.

Blackburn tossed his coat into the car, covering the pistols. Roy-Boy tossed his sweatshirt in on top of the coat. Then they closed the doors. The Duster shuddered.

"What's in your shirt pocket?" Roy-Boy asked.

"Penlight."

"Okay. It's a tool of the trade, so keep it. Now put your keys away, and we can meet at the rear b.u.mper. It'll be our Geneva."

Blackburn put his keys into a jeans pocket, and he and Roy-Boy walked behind the car. Blackburn was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, but he was cold. He crossed his arms for warmth. Roy-Boy's gray T-shirt was cut off at the midriff, but he seemed comfortable. His bare arms swung at his sides. When the two men met at the b.u.mper, Roy-Boy held out his right hand. Blackburn kept his arms crossed. "Pants," he said.

Roy-Boy shucked off his sweatpants and turned around to show Blackburn that he was unarmed. His legs were pale and hairless. They looked shaved.

"That's enough," Blackburn said, suppressing revulsion.

Roy-Boy pulled his sweatpants back on, then held out his hand again. "Ratify our treaty," he said, "and I won't ask you to take off your pants too. I'll believe that your moral code won't allow you to hide a second weapon from me. That ruler in your back pocket I'll let go, since it's a tool of the trade too."

They shook hands. Roy-Boy's was dry and cold. He held on too long. Blackburn pulled free.

Roy-Boy looked across the street at the apartment building. "Top floor, second unit," he said. It was one of the apartments that had stayed dark. "Two bedrooms. Its collegiate occupants have gone home to Daddy for Jesus' birthday and left all their s.h.i.t behind."

"Jewelry first," Blackburn said. "Then I'll help you carry one big thing, and that's all. Once I'm out, I'm not going back in. And my car's not for hire to haul freight. You have a vehicle?"

"Yeah. That black Toyota in the lot. Yesterday its former owner rode away in a car with snow skis on top. So it's mine now."

Blackburn couldn't object. He had stolen cars himself, and didn't think he was in any position to cast a stone.

Blackburn and Roy-Boy crossed the street and climbed the stairs that zigzagged up the face of the building. It was almost midnight, but TVs and stereos were turned up loud in some of the lighted apartments. Blackburn was glad. Two burglars would make more noise than one, but the ambient sound might cover it. And every apartment's drapes were closed, so none of the residents would see them.

They reached the top balcony and apartment 302. "You're the front-door specialist," Roy-Boy whispered.

Blackburn tried the k.n.o.b. The door had a half inch of play. As at his last burglary, the deadbolt hadn't been set. People who didn't set their deadbolts were asking to be robbed. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the metal ruler. In a few seconds the door popped open, and Blackburn and Roy-Boy went inside.

Blackburn took the penlight from his shirt pocket and turned it on. The pale circle of light revealed that the apartment was well furnished. A thick carpet m.u.f.fled the men's footsteps.

"Ooh, lookee here," Roy-Boy said. "A Sony Trinitron. Tell you what-I have great night vision, so I don't need the light. I'll unhook the TV cable and look around in here, and you see what you can find in the other rooms."

Blackburn couldn't think of a reason against the plan, so he went into the blue-tiled kitchen and took a black plastic trash bag from a roll under the sink. Then he stepped into the hall. Here the penlight revealed four doors, two on each side. The first door on the right was open, and he saw more blue tile.The bathroom. He opened the door across from it and found a linen closet stacked with towels. It smelled like a department store, so he leaned inside and breathed deep. It wasn't a smell he was crazy about, but it cleared his head of Roy-Boy's deodorant-soap stink.

He continued down the hall and opened the next door on the right. This was a small bedroom, as clean as a church. There was a bra.s.s cross on the wall and stuffed animals on the dresser. The window was open, and Blackburn's neck tingled from the cold. White curtains puffed out over the narrow bed. The bed had a white coverlet with a design of pink and blue flowers.

A jewelry box on the dresser contained only a small silver cross on a chain. It was worth maybe thirty dollars at a p.a.w.n shop, but Blackburn left it. He himself had given up on Jesus while still a child, having seen more evidence of sin than of salvation, but he didn't want to mess with someone else's devotion. He found nothing else of value in the room, so he started back into the hall. Then he paused in the doorway.

The window was open. Even the screen was open. But no one was home.

He looked at the closed door across the hall and turned off his penlight. Then he stepped across, dropping the trash bag, and turned the doork.n.o.b. He moved to one side as the door swung inward, and caught a whiff of rust and vanilla. He stood against the wall and listened for a few seconds, but heard only Roy-Boy rummaging in the living room and the dull thumping of a stereo in another apartment.

Then he looked around the doorjamb. Except for the gray square of a curtained window, the room was black. He turned the penlight back on and saw the soles of two bare feet suspended between wooden bars. The toes pointed down. He shifted the penlight and saw that the wooden bars were at the foot of a bed.

A nude woman lay on the bed face-down, spread-eagled, her wrists and ankles tied to the bedposts with electrical cords. She was bleeding from cuts on her back, b.u.t.tocks, and thighs. Strands of her brunette hair were stuck to her neck and shoulders. Her legs moved a little, pulling at their cords with no strength.

Blackburn sucked in a breath, then entered the room and closed the door. He dropped his penlight, found the wall switch, and turned on the ceiling light. He began to tremble. What he had smelled was blood and s.e.m.e.n, and sugared pastry. There was a white cardboard box on the floor, and half-eaten donuts on the floor and the bed.

He stepped closer and saw a long shard of gla.s.s on the bed between the woman's knees. One end of the shard was wrapped in white cloth tape. The gla.s.s and the tape were smeared with blood.

On the woman's back, in thin red lines, were the words HI MUSICIAN.

Blackburn went to the head of the bed on the left side and knelt on the floor. The woman's wrists were tied so that her arms angled upward. Her face was in her pillow. Even this close, he couldn't hear her breathing. But he saw her back moving. There were teeth marks on her shoulders.

He lifted her head and turned her face toward him. The face was Heather's. Her eyes opened, and they widened as she recognized him. Her mouth was covered with duct tape. He pulled the tape away and then saw that a donut had been stuffed into her mouth. She tried to cough it out, but couldn't.

Blackburn lowered her head to the pillow and dug out the donut with his fingers. The smell was thick and sweet. His trembling became violent. He tried to untie the cord around Heather's left wrist, but hisfingers were clumsy and numb. He was worthless, useless, a sissy, a p.u.s.s.y. Little Jimmy, dropping his pants and grabbing the rim of the wheel well. He could hear the fibergla.s.s rod cutting the air. Its hiss became a scream, and it bit into his flesh. His skin caught fire.

Then his hands spasmed, and his fingers sank in. It wasn't the rim of a wheel well. It was the edge of a mattress.

He wasn't little Jimmy anymore. He had learned better. He had no father, no mother, no sister, no friends. His only trust was in himself. He could see not only what was, but what should be. He was Blackburn.

And Blackburn always knew what to do, and how to do it.

He tried the cord again. Heather's left wrist came free, and her arm fell to the bed. Her fingernails scratched his face on the way down. The pain was sharp and pure. His trembling stopped.

"Nasty," a voice said. "But maybe she didn't mean it."

Blackburn looked up. The bedroom door was open, and Roy-Boy was standing in the doorway. He was holding a small silver pistol. He gave his chuckle, his piglike grunt.

"Look what somebody left behind the TV," he said. "A twenty-five-caliber semiautomatic. Who woulda thought?"

Blackburn stood. "This is what comes of committing a sin of omission," he said.

Roy-Boy's expression became quizzical. "Omission of what?"

"Your death," Blackburn said. "I could see its place in the pattern of my world, but I left it out because I didn't understand why it needed to be there. Now I see that the reason was obvious. Maybe even to you. Do you know why I should have killed you?"

"Beats me," Roy-Boy said. "But now you can make up for it with a surrogate. I was grooming her for myself, but when I saw you watching the place, I decided to save her for you. See, you need to become aware of the superiority ofmy world, and to do that you've got to live in it a while. In your world you've got your stud att.i.tude, and she's got her bouncy little a.s.s... but when you try to pull that s.h.i.t on me, it's a different story. I'm Thomas Jefferson, and you're slaves."

Blackburn took a step toward him. "So command me."

"Stop," Roy-Boy said. He pointed the pistol at Blackburn's face. "And pick up my ice sc.r.a.per."

Blackburn stopped. He was at the foot of the bed, four feet from Roy-Boy. He reached down between Heather's knees and picked up the gla.s.s shard.

"Now cut her," Roy-Boy said. "Anywhere you like. But cut deep, or I'll shoot you."

"You'll shoot me anyway."

"No, I won't. I promise. I'm a moral guy too." Blackburn gripped the taped end of the shard with both hands. The sharp end was pointed up.

"Why should I have killed you?" Blackburn asked again.

"Maybe because I threaten your masculinity," Roy-Boy said. "So stick the gla.s.s between her b.u.t.t cheeks. That should make you feel like a stud again."

Blackburn placed the point of the shard under his own chin and began to push upward. It hurt, but like Heather's fingernails on his face, the pain was pure, cleansing. He thought again of Dad's fibergla.s.s rod.

No matter how much he had hated it, it had contributed to his creation. This new pain reminded him of that truth.

Roy-Boy grimaced. "Notyou, Musician," he said. He took a step toward Blackburn and pointed the silver pistol at Heather."Her. Just turn around and-"

Blackburn thrust his fists out and down, cutting his chin, and slashed Roy-Boy's right wrist.

Roy-Boy shrieked. He swung his pistol toward Blackburn again.

But Blackburn was already lunging. He sank his teeth into Roy-Boy's slashed wrist. With his left hand he grabbed the silver pistol and tried to yank it away. With his right hand he used the shard to rip and stab.

Roy-Boy stumbled backward. He was screaming things that might have been words, but Blackburn didn't listen to them. The only voice he listened to now was his own, the voice that told him what needed to be done.

They fell to the floor in the hall. Blackburn kept his teeth clamped and his left hand on the pistol, but concentrated on driving the shard into Roy-Boy's eyes, throat, belly, and groin. The odor of soap was overwhelmed by stronger smells. Before long the pistol came free.

Blackburn rolled off Roy-Boy and squatted beside him. He threw the shard into the living room. Then he looked down at what remained of Roy-Boy's face.

"You'd like to believe you're evil," Blackburn said. "But you're only stupid. Anyone who's done it seriously knows there's only one good way to kill: a bullet to the head. Of course, with the smaller calibers, it might take more than one." He placed the muzzle of the silver pistol against Roy-Boy's forehead. "Do you know the answer to my question yet?"

One of Roy-Boy's hands flopped aimlessly.

"It's simple," Blackburn said.

He c.o.c.ked the pistol.

"Because I felt like it."

He squeezed the trigger until the gun was empty.

Blackburn dropped the pistol on Roy-Boy's chest and stood. He was dizzy for a moment and steadied himself against the wall, leaving a handprint. He was a mess. There had been a lot of blood some of theother times, but never this much. He wanted to brush his teeth and take a shower. He wanted to scrub and burn incense until Roy-Boy's stink was gone.

On the floor, the carca.s.s twitched. Its ponytail had come loose, and the hair was spread out like a fan on the trash bag Blackburn had dropped. The plastic was keeping most of the hair off the wet carpet.

Blackburn thought of taking the scalp, then rejected the idea. He didn't want a trophy. He wasn't proud of the way things had gone with Roy-Boy.