Too soon for that.

SO THE QUESTION Moonie was here to decide, after work, out in the backyard on a blanket with a little help from some friendly smoke and the Milky Way, was whether to kill Flowers now, and then go onto Jerry Johnstone or Roman Schmidt, or do Johnstone and Schmidt, and only do Flowers if it was absolutely necessary.

An attempt on Flowers would be huge. Hard to tell where he'd be at any given moment, which meant that the killing ground couldn't be scouted ahead of time. You couldn't simply follow him: if he didn't see it, somebody else would.

Couldn't invite him over and do it, somebody would know about the invitation. That was the trouble with a small town like Bluestem: there were eyes and ears everywhere. You couldn't hang out without people noticing, and worse, knowing who you were, and wondering why you were hanging out. Walk down the street, and you could see the drapes moving, the eyes pressing out of the houses, following behind you; the dogs watching from behind fences, witnessing your intrusion.

There was an old joke about a small town: a real small town meant that you didn't have to use the turn signals on your car, because anybody behind you already knew where you were going…

FLOWERS.

Flowers could be taken at the motel. Watch for the light in his room, wait for it to go out, throw some gravel against the sliding glass door, and when he looked out, hit him with a shotgun.

The problem then, would be getting away. Okay-run across the parking lot, behind the Dairy Queen, which would be closed at that time of night, up the alley behind the downtown businesses, out of sight in the dark.

Maybe…there was that one streetlight. Take it out ahead of time with a.22? That could be done. But if anybody saw you, even just a glimpse, there was a chance that they'd recognize the build, the stride, the way of running…People here knew everything about you.

Perhaps Flowers could be lured out somewhere: it'd have to be indirect. He'd have to think he was sneaking up on somebody, and then, when he stepped in the trap, boom. And then, and then…there'd be a cop frenzy. The BCA would flood the town with investigators.

Have to think about it.

JOHNSTONE and Roman were different.

If they weren't done, Moonie would never get any rest. Their deaths were a basic requirement of life. Johnstone wouldn't be any harder than it was with Judd: Johnstone was an old man, with an old man's neck. A rope would be enough to do it. A knife. A hammer. Wouldn't actually have to shoot out his eyes-a knife would take them out, though he enjoyed the resonance of the gun. Go over to Johnstone's place after dark, knock quietly on the side door. He'd open it. But would he turn on the porch light first? Maybe unscrew the bulb.

Johnstone lived near the Gleasons' house. Sneaking was easy with the Gleasons, but now, in the changed atmosphere, it might not be so easy. Anybody caught sneaking anywhere in Bluestem would be put under a microscope. And if Moonie were put under a microscope, there wouldn't be a single person in town who could provide an alibi, who would say, "Yup, we were out together looking at the fire," or whatever.

If you didn't have an alibi, they'd pick you apart.

Schmidt would be easier in some ways, harder in others. He lived outside of town, for one thing. Make sure the Schmidts were home, pull into the yard, past the yard light, park by the kitchen garden. Take Roman out, then the wife; she was old and slow.

But Roman carried a gun and he was tough, even at his age, and he had to be killed quickly, without suspecting what was coming.

Though it'd be nice to chat with him for a few minutes, when he knew he was dying, when he knew his wife was already dead, to see the hate in his fading eyes.

And then…

IF HE HIT SCHMIDT, then Johnstone, who was already a tough target, would get tougher. Everybody would be on edge. But Johnstone had to go; there were only two weeks left before the moon rolled around again.

THEN IT'D BE possible, bearable, after Johnstone and Schmidt, to lie low for a while, and do the business killings, one at a time…even let some time pass. Maybe come up with something complicated, so they'd seem like accidental deaths.

When all the necessary killings were done, would it be possible to stop? Maybe not: but if it were necessary to feed the hunger, purely for recreational reasons and psychological comfort, that could be done in other places, as time allowed. Minneapolis, Des Moines, Omaha. Kill and go…

HHU.

THE MARIJUANA wasn't helping the thought process, though it was a wonderful thing in its own right: mellowed out the experience, gave life to the stars.

Had to focus. Tactics. Strategy.

Blew a little smoke into the sky and watched the Big Dipper rolling by, watched the lightning bugs blinking out their passions, and Moonie thought, and thought, and finally plucked a flower out of the overgrown jumble of the backyard, and in the shaft of light that came out the bedroom window onto the lawn, plucked the petals one by one, letting God decide.

Johnstone, Flowers, Roman; Johnstone, Flowers, Roman…

The flower had quite a few petals, but offered only one conclusion.

ROMAN SCHMIDT was sound asleep when the car pulled into the driveway, and that popped his eyes open. He was far enough out of town that, late at night, several times a year, somebody would use his driveway to turn around, and go back toward town.

The car headlights would sweep through the house, cutting across the bedroom shades, and that would pop him awake. When he was sheriff, lights like that usually meant somebody bringing bad news, and he'd never gotten over that instantly awake reaction.

But now he was an old man, and sleep didn't come that easy anymore. He treasured what he could get, and it pissed him off when he was unnecessarily poked out of a decent sleep.

Unlike most of the cars that did it, this one didn't turn around. It kept coming, and quickly, and he could tell by the crunch of tires on gravel that it had pulled into the parking place back by the kitchen door. He reached out, touched his clock: 1:30 in the morning.

Who in the hell?

His wife groaned and he said, "I'll go see," but she didn't say anything and he suspected she'd never really awakened. He reached into the bottom drawer of his bedside table, groped around, found the.357, held it next to his leg, and walked through the dark out to the back door in his shorts and T-shirt.

Knock at the door. Bad news. Bad news always knocks quietly. He thought of his son in Minneapolis, his daughters in Albert Lea and Santa Fe. God help him, he'd die of a heart attack if he looked out the window and saw a deputy standing there, looking grim. He'd die of a fuckin' heart attack…

Another knock. He snapped on the porch light, took in the familiar face, felt the fluttering of his heart, opened the door and asked, the anxiety riding right to the surface, "What happened?"

"This," said Moonie. The gun came up. Schmidt said, "No," and Moonie shot him in the heart.

GLORIA SCHMIDT screamed, "Rome! Rome!" and groped for the bedside light, and found it just in time to see the muzzle of the gun and the face behind it.

"Not you," she said.

Moonie shot her once in the forehead, and she flopped back on the bed, stone dead.

SCHMIDT WAS FLAT on his back, dead, but he'd still have eyes in the spirit world. Moonie closed the kitchen door to muffle the sound as much as possible, leaned sideways and fired two more shots, through Schmidt's half-open eyes, then opened the kitchen door again, and listened.

Crickets and frogs.

Nothing more. There was time to do this right.