"That's your job."

"Seems to me I'm getting a lot of help lately, so what does it matter?"

"I can put you in the electric chair, Dougie." Agent Wade snaps his fingers. "Like that."

"Not before I tell the world who you really are."

Agent Wade looks up sharply, and I enjoy this.

"Oh yeah, I know your little secret."

"What are you talking about?" Agent Wade seems confused.

"Really want me to spell it out for you?"

"Gonna have to."

"You killed James Mason. You got there before me, didn't you. You stopped off at KFC, drove into the underground car park, went up the emergency stairway, and stabbed him to death. What did you do with the chicken? Just eat it on the way there? Toss the bones out the window? I've never seen anyone eat as much fried chicken as you do. Plus your car smells like a lemon grove."

Agent Wade frowns deeply, looks pretty lost, but I know he knows how to act and don't buy it for a second. "Are you trying to tell me I'm the Kentucky Killer?"

I give him a slow and deliberate hand clap. "That FBI training you've been given-boy, it made you bright."

Agent Wade's lips curl up at the edges, and his perfect teeth are revealed as a grin illuminates his face. "Did I make that tea too strong or something?"

"C'mon, just admit it. There's only me and you on this boat. So c'mon. Tell me it's true."

Agent Wade picks up my teacup, sniffs it, and takes a sip. He places it back down and snorts out some laughter. "Dougie . . ."

"What?"

His voice hardens abruptly. "Go shower. We've wasted enough time already."

I don't move a muscle. Agent Wade is getting angrier by the second, looks like he might start beating me around the head. "You've got three seconds, Dougie."

"I'm not going."

Agent Wade's regulation FBI revolver is out of its holster before I can take a breath. The tip of the barrel is squeezed hard against my nose, and his finger eases back the trigger. "Shower for me."

KENTUCKY DEBUT.

A GENT WADE GENT WADE pulls away from Grillers, beeps his horn a couple of times, and then disappears onto the interstate. pulls away from Grillers, beeps his horn a couple of times, and then disappears onto the interstate.

I stand looking at the bar and grill and find that I can't move. I'm wearing a badly crushed velvet jacket and jeans. The jacket is the most expensive item of clothing I possess, and it's the first time I've been able to wear it without fear of the rain ruining it. Agent Wade said I had to wear it because I had to look my very best for KK. The moon is full tonight, and the dark blue sky is cloudless. A forecaster on Agent Wade's car radio claimed that this dry spell was going to last a week or more.

I can see Chuck's low-slung Pontiac Firebird sitting in the car park. Betty's silver Datsun-nearly two hundred thousand miles on the clock and still going strong-sits next to it, but apart from that the car park is empty. There was a time when it was full, and I reflect on that for a moment. Remembering that the sight of all those parked cars filled me with an unadulterated happiness as I jinked toward the main entrance to meet up with people I came to call my friends.

I sit down without saying anything and take in Chuck and Myrna, who sit close together-and then Betty, who sits opposite me. I note that she has put on a lot of makeup-heaped it on would be more appropriate-and she looks like one of those women who sell beauty products in department stores, bulging dark-rimmed eyes, bright red cheeks like a clown, and a fake mole. I can only presume she wants KK to notice her.

Chuck, who has donned his best snakeskin jacket, looks ill at ease tonight and is obviously glad that Myrna is holding his hand under the table. He can barely bring himself to look at Tony.

"Thought you said things were going to be okay, Tony?"

Tony, who hasn't done anything more than comb his hair for the big moment, fidgets in his seat. "Guess you're talking about James."

"And the small fact that KK killed him. The same KK who's s'posed to be coming here tonight. Nice work, Tony, really can't wait for him to show." Chuck's irony is fast turning into a simpering whine.

Tony muses for a moment and to be honest doesn't look that confident. "So what are you doing here, Chuck, all dressed up and looking your fancy best?"

"Same thing you are. Safety in numbers. He comes in, we take him down. Hard and fast."

The entrance door to Grillers suddenly swings open, and the Club turns as one-eyes trained on the door-waiting with bated breath. A boy, maybe twelve at most, looks in, casting his eyes around Grillers until he sees us. The boy stares at us a second as he finishes off a fried chicken wing and tosses the bone out into the car park.

The boy starts walking toward us. He has very dark hair and even darker eyes, and he possesses that air of confident indifference that the youth of today seem to believe makes them cool. He ambles over, dressed in jeans that are baggy and a nylon jacket with a beer slogan st.i.tched into it.

"That can't be him. Can't be." Tony is mesmerized by the kid.

"How young did he start? Musta been in the cradle." Chuck is equally bewildered.

"Could just be a mad dwarf like Dougie there." I don't bother to respond to Tony, my eyes fixed on the kid as he stops at our table and gives us a lingering, att.i.tude-based look.

"You the killuhs?"

No one says anything.

"You the killuhs?" The kid is already getting impatient with us, but I'm d.a.m.ned if anyone has the nerve to respond to him. My voice is trapped way in the back of my throat, that's for sure.

"Last time, gooks. You the killuhs?"

"Who wants to know?" Thank G.o.d, Tony has finally pulled himself together.

"Ansa question . . . you killuhs or not?"

"Sure-that's us. What do you want?" Tony glowers at the kid.

"Message for you."

"Who from?"

The kid isn't in the least scared of Tony. "Message is man ain't showin'. Message is man gon' kill killuhs."

I look up at Betty and see her staring back at me, questioning me: Is this really happening? Even her pale complexion looks drained.

"Who told you this, you little punk?" Tony grabs the kid by the scruff of the neck, pulling him toward him.

Still the kid remains unfazed. "Man tol' me."

"What man?"

"Didn't see. Planted a letter and dough in my pocket when I wasn't looking."

"Lemme see that letter!" I blurt this out, glad that Tony still has the kid well gripped.

The kid looks at me, big proud, tough face. "You pay first, killuh."

"How much?" Chuck has turned pale as he yanks out his billfold and starts peeling off notes. "Twenty, thirty?"

The kid s.n.a.t.c.hes $40 from Chuck and then hands over the letter. Tony lets the kid go, grabs the letter, and unfolds it. It is typed and unsigned.

Go to Grillers Give to killers Give to killers No need to show No need to show No need to go No need to go Seen them now Seen them now Know them now Know them now Watch them cry Watch them cry Watch them die. Watch them die.

Tony looks up at us and then glances to the kid. "You still here?"

"You real killuhs?"

"Wanna find out, punk?" Chuck stares hard at the little kid.

"You're nuthin'." The kid makes this street sign with his hands that presumably means "f.u.c.k you," turns on his heel, and swaggers off in a rolling-hipped, loose-limbed stroll. "Nuthin', nuthin', nuthin'."

"Jesus . . ." I have never seen Tony this unsettled. He takes in a great gulp of air, sucking it down into his huge lungs.

"Me and Myrna want at least a coupla guns each, Tony. Can you arrange that?"

"Yeah, sure. What about you, Betty?"

Betty sits there, looking silent and shaken. She nods. "Make it a forty-four."

"I'll see what I can do. Hoo boy."

I look at Tony, can't believe he's forgotten about me. "Uh, Tony . . ."

Tony shakes his head, wrapped in thought. "Why's KK doing this? What's he got against us?"

"Tony . . ."

Tony finally looks my way, deeply irritated. "What?!"

"You didn't ask me if I wanted a gun."

Tony shrugs halfheartedly. "Get your own."

I sit there stunned, unbelieving. I've given some of the best years of my life to this Club, and this is how I'm repaid? I sink back in my seat, notice Betty looking across at me, almost in pity. If it weren't for her, I'd leave the Club, the city, even the entire country. But someone has to protect her from Agent Wade. The others, they can go to h.e.l.l. But me and Betty, we're going to find our way to heaven.

h.o.m.o SAPIENS ALONE.

WHEN I GET HOME I find that my apartment looks like it's been burglarized. So much for my pristine living conditions. Agent Wade's clothes are strewn everywhere, there are dirty plates and cutlery scattered around, my sofa is now home to a soiled duvet, and my CD player is stuck. The line "Chicken leg, make them beg" plays over and over until I give the player a big kick and watch the tray shoot open, bringing the incessant noise to a close. I take out the CD, look for a possible scratch, and then place it back in its plastic case. I scan the living room and wonder where Agent Wade is. I find that my apartment looks like it's been burglarized. So much for my pristine living conditions. Agent Wade's clothes are strewn everywhere, there are dirty plates and cutlery scattered around, my sofa is now home to a soiled duvet, and my CD player is stuck. The line "Chicken leg, make them beg" plays over and over until I give the player a big kick and watch the tray shoot open, bringing the incessant noise to a close. I take out the CD, look for a possible scratch, and then place it back in its plastic case. I scan the living room and wonder where Agent Wade is.

The phone rings in my bedroom, and I walk through-only to pull up short when I see that the words Hi, Dougie Hi, Dougie have been painted in huge cornflower blue letters all over my bedroom wall. Christ! have been painted in huge cornflower blue letters all over my bedroom wall. Christ!

I almost forget the ringing phone as I stand there in a state of complete mental breakdown. A window is open, and the blinds rattle in the breeze. The phone keeps ringing, and I finally, weakly, reach for it.

"Yeah?"

"Douglas."

"Betty . . . hi . . ."

"You okay?"

"I dunno. . . ."

"That makes two of us."

"Hi, Dougie" must have been painted fifty times all around my wall; the words are everywhere I look. I let myself slump onto the bed, closing my eyes tight.

"I don't understand what's happening, Douglas. First Tony's killing the members, now KK is. And then I thought that you . . . uh . . . you were, uh . . ."

"I was what?"

"It doesn't matter." Betty takes a moment to compose herself. "The reason I called . . . Is that offer still on? About taking Burt's houseboat and sailing away together?"

My heart leaps. They are the sweetest words I've heard in a long time. "G.o.d, is it ever."

"Have to warn you, I'm not a great sailor."

"Don't worry. You've got that old sea dog Captain Dougie to look after you." a.s.suming I don't get violently seasick like I usually do when I'm on a boat.

"When shall we leave?"

"Anytime's good for me."

"Tomorrow? After lunch?"

"That's perfect. You know where the houseboat is?"

"Better give me directions."

"Okay. The boat's called the Teacher, Teacher, by the way." by the way."

"The Teacher Teacher?"

"We can paint over it."

As soon as I hang up, I start opening my drawers, ready to pack. Only there aren't any clothes in there. I yank open the wardrobe and find that it is empty as well. I can't believe this and go straight into the bathroom and s.n.a.t.c.h the lid off my laundry basket. It too is completely empty.