. . . 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.

                                  ***

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                                Part One

                                Part Two