On Wednesday, September 10, Blackburn left the apartment in the morning as if he were going to his first shift at the Taco Tommy. Dolores was still in bed, curled like a kitten. She had switched to a new shampoo and smelled of apples and cinnamon. Blackburn licked her neck before he left. She squirmed.

Blackburn got into his Rambler and headed for a mall in Oakland. He had seventy-six dollars that he had saved by skipping lunches and shaving the household budget. He hoped to spend forty or fifty on a gift, and the rest on a surprise lunch at a nice restaurant. He would have liked to make it dinner, but he had to work that evening. Money was still scarce-too scarce, really, to spend any on a two-month anniversary. But it would be worth it. He wanted to prove his love with more than words and s.e.x. He hadn't given Dolores anything since her wedding ring, and that hadn't been much. Someday he would buy her a better one.

He didn't have the money for that today, or for a leather jacket either, but he could still get her something nice. Maybe a sweater. Dolores had only moved from L.A. to San Francisco in April, and she didn't have much cold-weather clothing. The breeze off the Bay was already chilly. Something to keep her warm would be a fine symbol of his love.

He arrived at the mall right after it opened, and he found the sweater fifteen minutes later at the J.C.

Penney store. The sweater was thick and gray, with a knitted belt and wooden b.u.t.tons. The color would bring out Dolores's eyes and set off her hair. It cost thirty dollars. He bought it and had it gift-wrapped, then found a flower shop and spent another fifteen dollars on a dozen red sweetheart roses in a gla.s.s vase. The vase had vines and b.u.t.terflies cut into it. The engraving looked a little like the tooling on his boots. Dolores would appreciate that. And he still had money left for the restaurant. He was pleased with his success.

He carried the package and flowers to the Rambler, listening to his footsteps on the asphalt. The boots were almost broken in. In another few days, they would feel fine indeed. They already looked and sounded good. Their pointed toes caught the sunlight, and their thick heels made solidchunk noises.

As he walked, Blackburn experienced a rush of exhilaration that started in his belly and swelled into his chest and head. The air became crisp, and the outlines of cars and lampposts sharpened. Colors brightened. The sensation was so strong that it made him dizzy. When he reached the Rambler, he set his things on the hood and leaned against the fender. He hadn't felt anything like this since he was ten yearsold and almost fell from the Wantoda water tower. He had tried to recapture the feeling then, and had failed.

In the years since, he had learned that joy never came when he looked for it. When it came at all, in whatever strength, it took him by surprise. While he was falling, or listening to his boots. Or looking for a copy ofThe Kids Are Alright. Or eating fried shrimp. It would never be in the same place twice.

After a few minutes, the sensation ebbed enough for him to feel safe driving. But some of the joy remained, and he would take it home to Dolores. That would be the best present of all.

He drove back across the Bay Bridge, to ruin.

In some ways, it was a cla.s.sic scenario: Husband comes home unexpectedly. He brings a gift. He finds wife in bed with another man.

In other ways, it wasn't. Blackburn was unfamiliar with cla.s.sic scenarios.

He entered the apartment with the package and flowers hugged to his chest, taking care that the front door didn't squeak. It was only ten-thirty, and Dolores might still be asleep. He didn't want to wake her with noise, but with kisses. Once inside, he heard Led Zeppelin playing on the clock radio back in the bedroom. "Gotta wholotta love." Bwaaaah. "Gotta wholotta love." Bwaaaah. "Ah-a-aaah, Ah!"

Blackburn closed the front door and walked through the living room and kitchen to the bedroom door. It was closed. He had left it open, so Dolores must be up. Led Zeppelin was getting louder. Blackburn hesitated, wondering if Dolores might be dancing to the music. He could picture her spinning naked atop the bed. He was afraid that he might embarra.s.s her if he just walked in.

Led Zeppelin faded into Bachman-Turner Overdrive's "You Ain't Seen Nothin' Yet," and Blackburn heard a final "Ah-a-aaah, Ah!" It was louder than the radio. It was the voice of a man.

Blackburn's heart twisted. The only word in his head wasrape.

Then he was in the bedroom. The gla.s.s vase lay in shards on the hardwood floor at the foot of the bed.

The roses and water were spread out in the shape of a fan. The J.C. Penney package was crushed in the crook of his left arm. Its blue wrapping paper was ripped. The white bow dangled.

On the bed, a naked man with a hairy back was on top of Dolores. His face was in her crotch. Hers was in his.

Dolores looked up from between the man's b.u.t.tocks. "Uh-oh," she said.

The wordrape left Blackburn's head. Then he wanted it back. Then he felt evil for wanting it back. Then that went away too. Everything that he had become in the past four months went away with it. He heard the hiss.

He dropped the package and went to the clock radio to turn it off. Bachman-Turner Overdrive stopped in midstutter. Blackburn was standing at the head of the bed now, looking down at Dolores. Her hair was tangled and damp. Her lips were puffy. The naked man had rolled away and was crouching on the floor on the other side of the bed. Blackburn gave him a glance, then looked back at Dolores.

"h.e.l.lo," he said. He blinked. His eyes were stinging. That wouldn't do. He made them stop. "I broughtflowers."

"Thank you," Dolores whispered.

He looked at the rest of her body. The bikini patches glared. She looked ridiculous in her naked non-nudity.

Blackburn returned to the foot of the bed and squatted to pick up the roses. The naked man's feet appeared among them, and then Blackburn saw that the naked man's clothes were there too. The naked man stooped to collect them, his body bending so that his c.o.c.k vanished under his belly. Blackburn looked up at the naked man's eyes and tried to see into his brain.

"Look," the naked man said. He was wringing out his briefs. "I never took nothing I never paid for."

Blackburn finished gathering the flowers and stood up. Dolores was sitting against the headboard now.

She had pulled the sheet up to her throat.

"Money's so tight, Ed," she said. "It doesn't mean anything. I was just trying to make things easier."

"So tight," Blackburn said. He turned back to the naked man. "See my boots, naked man?"

The naked man had dropped his wet briefs and was starting to pull on his pants. "What about them?" he asked.

"I think you bought them for me," Blackburn said.

The naked man had one hand on the waistband of his pants. He straightened a little, and the pants came up partway. He smiled.

"Hope you like them," he said.

Blackburn nodded. Then he took a step and kicked. The pointed toe of his right cowboy boot caught the naked man under the b.a.l.l.s and drove upward. The naked man's back arched, and his mouth opened.

Blackburn stepped away. The naked man crumpled. He hit the floor and lay curled in the water and broken gla.s.s. He made a gurgling noise.

Blackburn returned to the head of the bed. He held the roses in a clump in his left hand. "I brought you some flowers," he said again.

Dolores said nothing. Part of the sheet was crammed into her mouth.

"They're sweetheart roses," Blackburn said. "There aren't many thorns. Here." He selected a rose and held it out to her. The tight petals brushed her cheek.

Dolores's right hand came up from the sheet. She took the stem between her thumb and fingers.

"Would you like to smell it?" Blackburn asked.

Dolores nodded.

"Put it up your nose," Blackburn said. By the time he gave Dolores the last rose, the bedroom smelled like the flower shop. The naked man was throwing up. Dolores was convulsed in a fit of sneezing.

Blackburn went to the closet and took down all of Dolores's clothes. He threw them on top of the naked man, who was trying to crawl out of the room. The clothes slowed him down. Blackburn shut the door to stop him. Then he turned toward Dolores again.

Dolores was on her knees on the bed. Her eyes were wet. "Eddie, I love you," she said. "I really-" A sneeze cut off her last word.

Blackburn wanted to kill her. The Python would be the best way. It was in the Rambler, wrapped in rags under the back seat. It would be an effort to go out and remove the seat, retrieve the pistol, and bring it back. But he could be fast. His life before Dolores had taught him to be fast. He wouldn't even have to tie her up first. He could put one behind her ear before she could get away.

Her sweet, perfect-for-tonguing ear.

He wanted to kill her.

He wanted to make love to her.

He wanted to kill her.

Dolores had betrayed him. She had treated him as one human being should never treat another. She had violated his rules in the most severe way possible. It was as simple as simple could be.

One behind her ear.

Blackburn started for the door. The pile of clothes with the naked man under it was in his way. He stopped. Then he turned back and crawled onto the bed. He crawled up until his nose was a millimeter from Dolores's nose. Her eyes converged. She turned away. He gave her one kiss behind her ear.

Then he dragged her to the closet and bound her ankles to the clothes rod with the belt from the leather jacket, which he didn't think was borrowed after all. Her head just touched the floor. She began yelling for help, so he opened the box from J.C. Penney and took out the sweater. He used its belt to gag her, then wrapped the sweater around her head. He put his hands against the sweater and felt her breath. She would be all right. He straightened, stepped back, and closed the closet door. He would not be using the Python today.

No matter what she had done, no matter what his rules, Dolores was his wife. And a good husband did not put a bullet into his wife's brain. He had already done too much as it was. He was already too much like his father.

Blackburn stuffed a few things into his duffel bag, then kicked the pile of clothes off the naked man and helped him to his feet. The naked man was bleeding where the gla.s.s had cut him. He had trouble standing upright. His hands clutched his c.o.c.k and b.a.l.l.s. His eyes were wide and white.

"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 milesfrom 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 Sat.u.r.day, 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 b.u.t.toned the top b.u.t.ton 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 gla.s.s 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 ofpunch, 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s. 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 a.s.sumed that he was a friend of the groom, and she wouldn't want to embarra.s.s her friend the bride.

Blackburn raised his hand to his lips and blew on his fingertips. The bridesmaid's skin had been smooth.

Not as smooth as Dolores's had been, but smooth enough. He wondered if she was over the age of consent, then decided that it didn't matter. He didn't have time to seduce a bridesmaid in western Kansas. He had to take a whiz, eat another piece of cake, and get on down the road.

The hallway ended in a door marked GENTLEMEN. Blackburn tried the k.n.o.b, but it didn't turn. He leaned against the wall to wait, and before long the pressure in his bladder became painful. He tried the k.n.o.b again, knocked, and then put his ear to the door. He thought he heard m.u.f.fled sounds from within, but he couldn't be sure because of the noise from the reception.

"h.e.l.lo?" he called. "Everything all right in there?" There was no answer, so he a.s.sumed that the door had been locked by accident. He gripped the k.n.o.b, put his shoulder to the door, and shoved. It didn't budge, so he took a few steps back and rammed it. The door popped open with aspang. The latch plate flew inside, ricocheted off the closed toilet stall, and landed in the urinal. Blackburn stepped into the rest room and shut the door behind him. It didn't latch, but it stayed closed.

He went to the urinal, unzipped, and urinated. As he finished, he heard a giggle, followed by a "Shh!"