Jasmine went to the Hornet, then faced her brother again. "Tomorrow's your birthday, isn't it?"

"Yes."

Jasmine tried to smile. It didn't suit her. "Well," she said. "Happy birthday, then."

"Thanks." He turned toward the ditch. "Say hi to Mom for me." He heard the Hornet start as he climbed into the field. By the time he reached the fallen tower, Jasmine was gone.

He laid Dog beside the rusted tank, then retrieved his duffel and the shovel. As he dug the grave, he told Dog about the lessons he had learned from the things he had read and done here. A car on the Potwin road slowed, and its occupants stared at him as it went by.

When Blackburn lowered Dog into the grave, he saw an earthworm writhing in a corner. This reminded him of another story, and he told Dog about the one time that he and Dad had gone fishing together. He wondered if Dad ever went fishing anymore. He doubted it.

He patted Dog through the sheet and filled in the grave. He threw the shovel among the pieces of the water tower's legs, then slung his duffel over his shoulder and walked toward the heart of town.

His family had vanished into the past. For the first time in his life, Blackburn was alone. The perfection of the universe, embodied in the quiet Sunday evening of Wantoda, lay before him. He felt weightless, as if he were falling. Or flying.

Cars were pulling into the parking lot at the Methodist church, and ghosts were emerging from them. Blackburn's lips pulsed with warmth. He took out the Python and cocked it.

It was good to be home.

VICTIM NUMBER SEVENTEEN

The bookstore was crowded. So many people were in line ahead of Blackburn that he couldn't see the author. He was surprised. He had thought he would be one of only a few people in St. Louis who would appreciate Artimus Arthur's The Guy Who Killed People.

He gazed at the book in his hands. He had bought it here the week before, and now had brought it back to be autographed. The dust jacket was black, with the title embossed in letters of bleeding crimson. At the bottom, in small white type, were the words A NOVEL BY ARTIMUS ARTHUR. Blackburn liked that. It indicated that Arthur, as famous as he was, still considered the book more important than his name. There wasn't even a photograph of him on the back of the jacket, although there was a small one on the flap. The back of the jacket was an unbroken expanse of black. It was a statement in itself, worthy to shroud the words inside.

Blackburn had never before read anything so full of truth. The Guy Who Killed People told the story of a man who was sick of the world, and who set out to make it right. In the process, he had to do away with liars, fiends, bad drivers, politicians, vice cops, dope dealers, and civil servants. Blackburn was fascinated and impressed, although he found some of the death scenes unrealistic. For one thing, The Guy Who Killed People was able to obtain barrels of caustic chemicals with more ease than Blackburn was able to obtain.357 Magnum cartridges. But that didn't really matter; the book was fiction, and its death scenes were metaphors. The Guy Who Killed People was Everyman, and the child-abusers, state legislators, and morons that he wasted weren't meant to represent real child-abusers, state legislators, and morons, but their dark spirits.

The photograph on the back flap was of a bearded man whose facial lines seemed to cut to the bone. His eyes were deep-set, as if they had seen so much of life that they wanted to retreat. Blackburn was anxious to meet the man. If his real-world face was like the face in the photograph, and if his real-time thoughts were as piercing as those in his novel, Artimus Arthur might well be the wisest man on the planet. And wisdom was not his only power. While reading The Guy Who Killed People, Blackburn had felt that Artimus Arthur was there with him, probing his mind and exposing his soul on the pages of the book. It was as if Arthur had written the novel about Blackburn himself.

He was convinced that no one-not his family, not Dolores, not even Ernie-had ever understood him as Artimus Arthur did. No one he had ever met had even grasped concepts as simple as freedom and justice. So how could they have understood him? Artimus Arthur, on the other hand, had mastered those concepts and more. Otherwise he could never have written The Guy Who Killed People.

As he waited to have his book signed, Blackburn imagined Arthur looking up from the autograph table and recognizing in an instant that Blackburn was a man like the protagonist of his novel, a man of independence and conviction. The two of them would go off to a coffee shop and discuss the book, emphasizing the questions of morality and responsibility that it raised. Finally, when the coffee shop was about to close, Arthur would look at Blackburn and say, "There are laws deeper and more rigid than those shaped by the inconstant fools who place themselves above us, and a man who knows and keeps those laws is beyond the judgment of such fools. That man must never seek absolution, for where no absolution is needed, none can be given." Then Artimus Arthur would leave the coffee shop and Blackburn would watch him walk into the night, a woolen scarf wrapped around his neck, snowflakes falling behind him. The snowflakes would sparkle in the white cones cast by the streetlamps.

The line was moving now, and Blackburn stepped forward. His book's dust jacket gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Blackburn looked up, blinking, and saw Artimus Arthur.

The writer's skin was paler than the photograph had suggested, the beard less dense. His eyes were not deep-set, but encircled by dark flesh. He was wearing a gray suit that was too big, and his shirt had an orange stain on the collar. He slumped in his chair. Even so, no one could fail to recognize him. Reality was never as pristine as a photograph. Blackburn didn't like things pristine anyway.

Arthur was signing a book for a shaggy man who was speaking in a loud voice. "-and I'm planning to discuss what I call the 'poetics of postmodern psychopathy' as imagized in both this novel and your Purple Silence, Pink Death in the Contemporary Literature course I'm teaching this semester, and I was wondering-"

The shaggy man yammered on even after Arthur had finished signing his copy of The Guy Who Killed People. He wanted Arthur to come to his class and describe his "thematic impulses" for his students. Arthur gave him a blank look, saying nothing. Then a bookstore employee hustled the man away, and the next person in line stepped up. This person was an attractive young woman.

Artimus Arthur sat up straighter and smiled. He took the woman's copy of his novel and then kissed her knuckles. The woman laughed. Arthur wrote a long inscription in the book and then asked, "Would you care to come around?" He patted the folding chair on his left. "It gets dull sitting here by oneself." His voice was higher-pitched than Blackburn had imagined, and he slurred some of his words.

The woman accepted the invitation. Artimus Arthur scooted his chair closer to hers and leaned over to whisper in her ear. She flinched, but laughed again. Arthur signed three more books in quick succession, and then it was the turn of another attractive woman. He chatted with her and wrote another long inscription.

"Would you care to come around too?" he asked. "I'm sure we could find a third chair." Another employee brought a chair and set it up on Arthur's right. The new woman went around the table and sat down. Arthur's hands disappeared.

Blackburn dropped his book. When he squatted to pick it up, he could see under the autograph table. Arthur was squeezing the women's knees. Blackburn stood and saw that the women were flustered, but didn't want to make a scene. Arthur brought his hands up and signed the next book.