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, newspapers, 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 door-jamb 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.

Blackburn was cut from more honest cloth. "Come on in, then, Mr. Wayne," he said.

The salesman came inside, and Blackburn closed the door and returned to his chair. Wayne stood in the center of the room, looking around and smiling.

"Nice home you have here," he said. "Nice new coat of paint outside."

"Thank you," Blackburn said.

Wayne licked his lips. "I wonder if I might trouble you for a glass of water."

Blackburn frowned. An obligatory presentation was one thing; a glass of water pushed the boundaries. He stood up. The chair fabric stuck to his skin again. "Be right back," he said, and went into the kitchen. While he was running water into a glass, the floor thumped under his feet. He shut off the water, and the floor thumped three more times. He stamped his foot, and the thumping stopped. He returned to the living room with the water.

Wayne took the glass. "What was that noise?" he asked.

"Rats," Blackburn said.

Wayne nodded. "It's the garbage." He drank the water, then eyed the glass. "Good cool water," he said. "Ice would have been redundant."