"Come on," Blackburn said. He slung his duffel over his shoulder and pulled the naked man toward the door.

"I gotta," the naked man gasped, "get my clothes."

"You won't need them."

"People will see me." The naked man was hairy and had a gut. His legs were skinny below the knees. He didn't look good in the nude.

"No, they won't," Blackburn said. "You're riding in the trunk."

When Blackburn opened the trunk on the Golden Gate Bridge, the naked man was screaming "You're going to kill me! You're going to kill me!"

"Am not," Blackburn said. He pulled the naked man from the trunk. The Rambler was parked next to the guard rail.

The naked man hopped from one foot to the other, his stomach jiggling. The bridge had gathered solar energy and was hot.

"So you're not going to kill me?" the naked man asked.

"No," Blackburn said. "You'll have to blame that on the fall."

The naked man stopped hopping. "Huh?"

"Maybe drowning. But it's a long way down."

The naked man tried to run into traffic. The cars honked. Blackburn caught him and dragged him back to the guard rail. When the naked man came up against the rail, he fought. But he was naked, his crotch was bruised, his cuts were bleeding, and the bridge was hot. Cars kept honking. Some of the drivers pointed. Blackburn waved to them.

He didn't watch the naked man all the way down to the Bay. Instead he pulled off the black cowboy boots and tossed them over the rail too. The naked man had paid for them; they were his.

He put on his sneakers in the Rambler and then had a narrow escape from the police cars that wailed onto the bridge from San Francisco. He sped into Marin County and blasted north on Highway 101. He had a hard drive ahead of him. He would have to switch cars as soon as he had a few moments out of sight. The Python was on the seat beside him, just in case.

"Good-bye, Dolores!" Blackburn called out the window as he headed toward Oregon.

He decided to give up on love.

VICTIM NUMBER TEN

I-70 through eastern Colorado was as bleak as a bald tire. Blackburn was still over a hundred miles from the state line when billboards for the first Kansas tourist attraction began appearing, SEE THE WORLD'S LARGEST PRAIRIE DOG! they said. PET THE BABY PIGS!

"Welcome home," Blackburn told himself. But in fact he wouldn't go anywhere near Wantoda. It was far off in the southeastern part of the state, and he would be sticking to I-70 all the way to Kansas City.

He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief that was already wet. He was driving an old Valiant that he had stolen in Longmont, and it didn't have an air conditioner. The wind blasting through the open windows scorched rather than cooled. Blackburn was out of soda pop and food, and the little cash remaining in his jeans pocket would have to go for gas. He couldn't even afford to see the world's largest prairie dog or to pet the baby pigs. But that was okay. As a child, he had heard from his friend Ernie that the prairie dog was a ripoff. It was a statue made of concrete. The baby pigs were probably real, but he doubted that petting them was much of a thrill.

His mouth was dry, and his stomach was a knot against his backbone. Money or no money, he would have to refuel his body as well as the car. Seventeen miles into Kansas, he came to the town of Goodland and decided that its name was an omen. It would give him nourishment. He left the interstate, filled the Valiant's tank, and then cruised up and down the dusty streets. He was looking for a community barbecue or church picnic to crash. It was a summer Saturday, so he figured the odds were good.

He didn't find a barbecue or picnic, but as he drove past a Lions Club hall, he saw that its parking lot was packed with cars and pickup trucks. The people going inside were dressed as if for Sunday services, and they carried packages wrapped in silver and white. These were the signs of a wedding reception, so Blackburn went around the block and pulled into the lot. He wouldn't find an actual meal here, but he could at least score a piece of cake and something to drink. He was sure of success when he saw that the license plates in the lot were divided between Kansas and Illinois. It was unlikely that all of the Illinois folks knew all of the Goodland contingent, and vice versa. The groom's family would think Blackburn was related to the bride, and the bride's family would think he was related to the groom. He buttoned the top button of his short-sleeved cotton work shirt, put on a wrinkled black necktie from his duffel bag, and went inside. He looked like trash, but that would give the families something to talk about later. It would be his present.

The reception line was still in progress when Blackburn came into the main room, so he hung back to wait for the cake to be served. The air-conditioning system was cranking full blast, and the cold air felt wonderful. Blackburn's sweat began to dry. He was already glad he had stopped.

When the reception line dwindled, the bridesmaids hustled the bride and groom over to the cake table, and the newlyweds did the traditional things with cake and punch that Blackburn had never been able to figure out. What was the point of linking your arms in order to spill punch down each other's front? What was the point of mashing cake up each other's nose? Maybe, he thought, those acts were supposed to be symbolic of what the couple had to look forward to in their married life.

He got in line for cake, nodding to the middle-aged woman in front of him when she gave him a raised-eyebrow look. She turned away quickly. Blackburn hadn't shaved in three days, and the long drive in the sun hadn't done his body odor much good. But he was wearing a tie, so no one would have the guts to kick him out. He accepted a glass plate with a sliver of cake, then stopped at the nut and mint bowls and loaded up. He picked up a cup of orange punch at the end of the table, then finished his refreshments in two minutes and got in line again. He noticed that the middle-aged woman was whispering to another woman and pointing at him. His gift was in effect already.

His second piece of cake was bigger than the first, so by the time he finished it and another cup of punch, the edges had worn off his hunger and thirst enough for him to realize that he had to go to the bathroom. He spotted a hallway leading off one corner of the room, so he left his plate and cup on a chair and headed in that direction. On the way, a burly man with a red face clapped him on the back and asked how he was doing. Blackburn answered that he was doing just fine and that it had been a heck of a wedding. The burly man agreed. His breath was pungent with beer, and he looked happy even though his shirt collar was too tight for his neck.

"Don't go nowhere," the burly man said. "Larry's settin' up the music box for dancin'. Too many purty girls to leave now."

"Just going to the necessary room," Blackburn said.

The burly man laughed. "Necessary room!" he bellowed. He was still laughing as Blackburn left him and slipped into the hallway.

The hallway was dim, so Blackburn let his fingertips trail along the paneled wall while his eyes adjusted. A door marked LADIES opened as he touched it, and a bridesmaid stepped out. His fingers brushed her bare shoulder and across the crisp fabric over her breasts. She gasped.

He drew back. "Pardon me," he said. It really had been an accident, and he hoped she realized it. He could imagine the ruckus if she accused him of copping a feel.

"S'all right," the girl mumbled, and hurried past. Blackburn didn't think she would tell anyone. She probably assumed that he was a friend of the groom, and she wouldn't want to embarrass her friend the bride.