"You, uh . . . you like to laugh, then?"

"Who doesn't?" She says this wearily, and I step in quickly, ready to lift her spirits.

"Listen, did you ever hear the one about the guy who gets. .h.i.t by a golf ball? I mean, this guy that hits this golf ball? You heard this? You'll love it-"

"To be honest, I don't think I'm in the mood right now, Douglas."

I give Betty a rea.s.suring grin. "Everyone loves this joke. So this guy hits this golf ball and misses the course completely. The ball sails off onto a nearby highway and bounces through the windshield of a bus. The bus goes out of control, skids across a junction, and causes a major pileup. The golfer-the guy who originally hit the golf ball-eventually finds his ball nestling into the by now dead bus driver's ear, and he turns to his caddie and says, 'My G.o.d . . . what do I do now? I mean-my G.o.d!'" I grin from ear to ear, proving beyond any doubt that I can make Betty laugh as much as Burt ever did.

Betty doesn't seem to be listening, though. She has drifted off, staring into the aisles, letting her thoughts mingle with the words in the books, letting them become integrated and jumbled until they are meaningless. I know I have to shake her out of her terrible inner torment. I nudge her a couple of times, trying hard to take her mind off her half-brother.

"So the caddie-you'll die, Betty, believe me, you're going to die-the caddie carefully surveys the situation and then looks at the golfer. 'You'll need your eight-iron for this shot.'"

I laugh, slap my thigh, and then notice that Betty still seems distant and pained, looking beyond me. She really must be down, because everyone I tell that joke to normally creases up.

"We'll have to kill him, Douglas. . . ." The words seem to come out of Betty's mouth without her lips moving, a low, guttural murmur.

I pause a moment. "Tony?"

"Yeah."

"Jesus, Betty, that's a tall order. Can't we just run away somewhere?"

"We could . . ." I like the way she says "we." "But that'd be unfair to the others."

"Let's invite them along."

Betty glances back at the incriminating photo and gives a faint shudder. "I can't believe this is happening."

I seize my chance and reach out for Betty. My arm slips around her waist. She doesn't resist-in fact, she leans into me, and we stay like that for a good ten minutes until a fair-haired man appears and asks us to direct him to the canine reference section. It is only when he sees the photographs of Burt's decapitation that he realizes he is asking the wrong people.

Originally, I had intended to jog home from the library because I felt like I needed a good long run to clear my head. But when I get outside, I feel as weak as a kitten, can barely stand up. I feel like someone trapped in the eye of a hurricane; the world is spinning around me, and the air is getting sucked from my lungs. I hail a cab and quickly wind the windows down, not caring that the rain is getting in. I don't know how long I sat with Betty, my arm around her waist, just staring out into nothingness, but it is now very dark out.

As we move through the night traffic, the driver talks constantly, speaking rapidly, punching his words out.

"f.u.c.kin' Kentucky Killer. f.u.c.kin' killed another one today. Some Puerto Rican-Mexican sleaze bag. f.u.c.kin' goin' for the three hundred, you ask me."

I look up and study the grease that sits on top of the driver's hair. It is so thick, it glistens in the glow of the streetlamps we pa.s.s under. I have this mad impulse to force him to drive through a car wash keeping the windows down, and if I had a gun with me, I probably would.

"f.u.c.kin' has to come to our f.u.c.kin' town, don't he? That's my favorite f.u.c.kin' restaurant as well. . . ."

Lemon-scented hand wipes.

The words keep appearing in front of me, even written in the grease of the driver's hair.

Lemon-scented hand wipes.

"f.u.c.kin' murdering sc.u.m. Why'd he have to pick KFC? Why not BK or McDonald's? Why's it have to be my f.u.c.kin' favorite restaurant in the whole entire world?"

Lemon-scented hand wipes.

"The whole entire universe, in fact. f.u.c.kin' killjoy. I'm gonna take a gun with me next time I eat out."

The world has become a dark and fearful place. I look out at the empty buildings we drive past, see people wandering through the night; most are the dregs of humanity, the offspring of a lost society. I see two teenage prost.i.tutes leaning in the car of a cigar smoker. His hand plays with the blond girl's long hair, twisting it in his fingers, pulling it to his eyelids, and running the golden strands over them. The other girl is a redhead with what can only be called a Vietnam stare, and I have this hopeless thought that maybe she isn't what I think she is.

"I've been with those two. . . ." The taxi driver beeps his horn and waves a cigarette-stained hand at the girls. Neither bothers to look up. "I've been with them both. They do a discount if you take them both together. Two for the price of one and a half."

The driver lets out a low chuckle to himself, and I crane my neck back to try to look at the girls before they fade into the night.

"It's the supermarkets, they're hittin' everybody."

The grease-haired driver doesn't realize that I suddenly want to cry, that I know without question that James Mason was right when he said he thought Armageddon was coming. In truth, it's here already; you just have to look at the faces on those girls to know that.

IT LIVES.

A DRIPPING WET DRIPPING WET Agent Wade sits staring at the television screen, only this time there isn't anything on. The screen is as blank as his expression. He doesn't acknowledge me as I walk in. I'm not sure what to say to him and cross the room in the hope that I can get to my bedroom before either of us has to say a word to each other. My hand is on the door handle when his voice stops me. Agent Wade sits staring at the television screen, only this time there isn't anything on. The screen is as blank as his expression. He doesn't acknowledge me as I walk in. I'm not sure what to say to him and cross the room in the hope that I can get to my bedroom before either of us has to say a word to each other. My hand is on the door handle when his voice stops me.

"Doesn't it ever stop raining in this city?"

"Never."

I don't want to look at Agent Wade, fearing that if I do, I'll see him for who he truly is.

"Washes away our sins, I guess."

I nod mutely.

"And all evidence that we were ever here."

I force myself to turn and look at Agent Wade and can see that he is actually staring at his reflection in the television screen, that his eyes search out and trace every line of his handsome face.

"You hungry?" I can't think of a single thing to say apart from that.

"I ate out."

"Anywhere nice?"

"Best restaurant in town."

I nod, again mutely.

Agent Wade surprises me by quickly turning and looking at me. He wipes away drops of rain that have run into the light wrinkles under his eyes. "You're sure going to be a hero, Dougie."

I shrug. "Who'll ever know?"

"The victims that will never be because of you."

Agent Wade reaches for a bottle of gin that I hadn't seen and raises it to his lips. The bottle is half-empty, and now I understand why he's suddenly started spouting this dreadful but poetic garbage.

"Want to put some music on?"

"I was going to sit in my room for a bit. Maybe read."

Agent Wade glances to the rain-lashed window. "Ever wonder how many killers are out there? Everyone has a mother, ergo everyone has a need to kill."

"That go for you, too?" The question's out before I can stop myself.

Agent Wade just smiles at this, says nothing.

As I stand there studying him, I start to appreciate fully that I am the only man standing between a peaceful world and years of KFC-oriented murders. I will be the man who killed the man who killed the many.

I walk over to the window as I hear the distant chimes of a church clock striking midnight. I look outside and see a prost.i.tute, or a girl who's trying to look like one, getting frog-marched into the back of a cop car by a burly Popeye-armed cop. The cop's partner, a female cop whom I would love to have dinner with one night if I weren't seeing Betty, is kicking in the car headlights of the girl's bemused-looking pimp. I open the window and call out to them.

"Excellent work, Officers. Excellent work."

The cops look over at me, and I give them a big grin and a wave. They say nothing as they climb into their car and drive off, windshield wipers on fast speed.

I turn and look back at Agent Wade, peering down at him, and know that I'm not afraid. That cometh the hour, cometh Demon Dougie.

JAMES MASON.

A SLIGHTLY SMALLER MEETING.

THE WORLD HAS BECOME a rain-eroded Roman amphitheater. There are Christians and there are lions and in between there is me. That's the only way I can think to describe what is happening. I'm four kills away from Doomsday. I note that there is only one member of the nerdy quiz team left, and both the manager and headwaiter of the bar and grill have been replaced by new personnel who seem keen on tearing down the wooden veneer of the bar and grill and replacing it with shiny black-and-white ceramic tiles. When the workmen eventually finish, it will be like eating in an elegant washroom. a rain-eroded Roman amphitheater. There are Christians and there are lions and in between there is me. That's the only way I can think to describe what is happening. I'm four kills away from Doomsday. I note that there is only one member of the nerdy quiz team left, and both the manager and headwaiter of the bar and grill have been replaced by new personnel who seem keen on tearing down the wooden veneer of the bar and grill and replacing it with shiny black-and-white ceramic tiles. When the workmen eventually finish, it will be like eating in an elegant washroom.

I should be happy that this is nearly over. All I've got to do is kill James Mason, Tony Curtis, Chuck Norris, and then . . . I can't bring myself to think about it. I glance at Betty.

G.o.d, no.

Smoke rises steadily from five cigarettes, rising high enough to stain the new tiles. James dunks teabags into a cup of hot water and seems concerned that he can't make the tea strong enough. "It's weak, Mother-it's weak. Just look at it. It's like water, I tell you."

Betty looks very pale and very drawn. She keeps glancing dolefully at Tony as he gnaws at an extra-large piece of sweet corn. I want to take her in my arms and hold her tight, whisper to her that everything is okay, that somehow or other her man is going to come through for her. She won't look my way, though, and I try to get her attention by kicking at her under the table. But she has kept her eyes fixed firmly on anything but me. I resort to kicking her just for the h.e.l.l of it until Chuck leans over and eyeb.a.l.l.s me.

"Kick me again, you ugly little midget, and I'll bite your f.u.c.king toes off."

I fall silent, strategically withdrawing my foot, though still having the presence of mind to vow secretly to kick Chuck to death one day. Soon.

Tony bangs the table to get everyone's attention. He seems pleased with himself. "Just want you all to know that from now on things are getting back to normal."

I smile inwardly, start to look forward to one of the few Club nights I have left. I hope someone has a good story to tell.

"Normal? So where's Burt and Cher?" Betty tries to look bravely at Tony, like she is demanding an answer.

My breath catches in my fast-drying throat. I got so wrapped up in things that it only now dawns on me that Cher was killed after Burt, so he couldn't possibly be the Club rat I made him out to be. I try to swallow, but my Adam's apple won't budge.

Tony considers for a moment, eyes everyone deliberately.

"Neither of them will be coming."

There is a lingering silence as no one dares speak. We all wait for Tony to reveal more. He looks at us with a heavy heart.

"I was called to a burglary, and it turned out to be Cher's place. b.a.s.t.a.r.ds had ransacked the place. We found Cher with her neck broken."

The lingering silence becomes oppressive as the Club takes in the news of the tragedy. Tony looks really cut up.

Chuck isn't buying it, though. "A burglary?"

"That's right." Tony nods.

"And you believe that?"

"Seen enough in my time to know."

"Some cop you are," Chuck sneers, and then immediately regrets it when he sees Tony's eyes burn with a sudden and intense rage.

"It was a burglary. Got that?"

Chuck is hesitant, so much less of a man than I originally thought. He nervously scratches what looks like a spreading rash on the side of his neck. "So what about Burt?"

"Burt turned out to be a bad f.u.c.ker. And believe me when I say we're all better off without him."

I glance at Betty, and I can tell that she isn't buying Tony's story.

"Did you do something to him, Tony?"

"Let's just say I had the Club's interests at heart."

"You killed him?" Chuck is again hesitant.

Tony shrugs. "Someone had to do something."

"That's it! I'm outta here. I'm quitting the Club before I'm next."

Tony calmly takes a thin slice of ham from Chuck's plate, rolls it into a tube shape, and then pops it into his mouth like it was a cigar. "No one's gonna be next. I've seen to that."

"Sure you have." Chuck has lost all his old sparkle, and I am deeply disappointed to see him fold so easily. "Nice knowing you all, but I'm hightailing it. . . ."

Chuck rises as Tony sucks the ham tube into his mouth and swallows it without chewing. He then grabs Chuck's wrist, stopping him dead in his tracks. "You can't leave, Chuck."

"Try and stop me." Chuck is trying to sound tough, but it's not very convincing when we all now know he's a pantywaist.

"We need you, Chucky-boy. Who else is gonna provide the funny stuff?"