Blackburn

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.

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 knob, 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 knob again, knocked, and then put his ear to the door. He thought he heard muffled sounds from within, but he couldn't be sure because of the noise from the reception.

"Hello?" he called. "Everything all right in there?" There was no answer, so he assumed that the door had been locked by accident. He gripped the knob, 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 a spang. 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!" There were people inside the toilet stall. He zipped up and washed his hands, then squatted to look under the stall door. Someone wearing dark-blue pants and black shoes was sitting on the toilet. Someone with bare legs and feet was sitting on that person's lap. A pair of yellow high heels and a crumpled wad of pantyhose lay on the floor.

Blackburn stood. This was none of his business.

There was a squeal, and then the stall door flew open. A man and a woman tumbled onto the floor at Blackburn's feet.

The man looked up. "Lost our balance," he said.

Blackburn recognized him. He was the groom. His tuxedo pants were down around his knees. His ruffled white shirt was twisted.

The woman underneath the groom was not the bride. She was wearing a yellow dress that was bunched around her waist. The woman looked up at Blackburn in terror and struggled to pull up the top part of her dress.

Blackburn wanted to leave, but he couldn't. The woman's head was in front of the rest-room door, so he couldn't open it without braining her. He leaned back against the sink to wait.

The groom untangled himself and stood. Blackburn averted his eyes while the groom pulled up his underwear and pants. The woman was still adjusting her dress while lying on the floor. When she finished, the groom lifted her to her feet and handed her the high heels and pantyhose. She opened the door a crack to peek into the hallway, then hurried out. The door swung shut after her. Blackburn stepped forward and put his hand on the knob.

"Hang on a second," the groom said.

Blackburn paused. "Why?"

"I want to explain." The groom took his tuxedo jacket from a hook inside the stall and put it on. One lapel had an orange stain and a smear of white frosting. The groom produced a flat pint bottle of Wild Turkey from an inner pocket, took a drink, and offered the bottle to Blackburn. Blackburn shook his head and started to open the door. The groom pushed it shut.

Blackburn took his hand from the knob. "Last guy who did that," he said, "can't tie his shoes now."

The groom stepped between Blackburn and the door. "Look, I can understand you being pissed off as a first reaction," he said. "You're Eleanor's cousin, right?"

Blackburn said nothing. He put his hands in his pockets as a precaution. He didn't want to hurt the groom. There were a lot of people between the rest room and the parking lot, and he wasn't armed.

"Okay, you don't have to say anything," the groom said. "And I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't say anything to Eleanor either. It wouldn't make sense. Once you stop being pissed, you'll see what I mean."

"I don't follow," Blackburn said.

The groom tapped his wedding ring against the whiskey bottle. "You married?"

"I was," Blackburn said. He assumed that Dolores had arranged a divorce by now. If she hadn't, it was all the same to him. They were divorced as far as he was concerned.

"Was," the groom repeated. "Man, then you've got to know what I'm talking about." He took another drink. "What's your name?"

"Carl."

The groom extended his right hand. "I'm Steve. But I guess you knew that."

Blackburn kept his hands in his pockets.

The groom lowered his hand. "Well, shit, Carl. Remember getting married? You stand up there with this girl, in front of a church full of relatives, and the preacher makes you swear to 'forsake all others.' And that ain't natural, but there's all those relatives, so what are you gonna do? You're trapped. And then an hour later-"

"You're banging somebody in the bathroom," Blackburn said.

The groom grinned. "Not on purpose. But there in church, I was thinking, Man, is that it? I mean, look, I'm not ashamed to say that I love Eleanor. I don't want to be married to anyone else. You know?"

"If you say so."

"It's the truth. But women, you know, their brains are screwed. They think that being in love and getting laid are the same goddamn thing. And it ain't so. Am I right?"

Blackburn considered. "I don't know that women think they're the same."

The groom took another swig of Wild Turkey and shook his head. "Well, when you marry one of them, that's what she thinks. At least, that's what Eleanor thinks."

"How do you know?" Blackburn asked. "You only just now married her."

The groom shrugged. "We talked about it when we got engaged. I mean, she talked about it. She's got this little girl's idea about one man, one woman, happily ever after, all that fairy-tale bullshit. It's a weird attitude for her to take too, because before we got together, she wasn't exactly-" He hesitated. "Well, shit, the truth's the truth. She wasn't exactly, you know, a virgin when we started dating."

"So?"

"Exactly my point," the groom said. "Everybody screws around. It's like eating or breathing. It doesn't mean anything. Getting laid is just getting laid, and that doesn't change because you have some piece of paper. It doesn't mean you don't love your wife. It's not like you're going to leave her or anything. Right?"

"Guess not," Blackburn said. He glanced at the stall. "But it does seem like you're getting a head start."

The groom snickered. "Oh, yeah, well. That was Cindy. We went steady when I was fourteen, and we never did much back then, so we were sort of wondering how it would've been. You know. Last chance to find out. Doesn't mean anything."

"If you say so."

The groom drained his pint and shoved the bottle into the wastecan. "The thing is, see, I told Eleanor I'd be faithful. And I will be, in the true sense of the word. I'll take good care of her, and I'll never hurt her. So I'm asking you not to tell her about this. It'd just upset her. It shouldn't, but it would. That's the way she is."

"She won't hear it from me," Blackburn said.

The groom reached out and squeezed Blackburn's shoulder. "Thanks, man," he said. Then he opened the door and went out.

Blackburn shut the door, then went into the stall and shut that door too. He wiped the toilet seat with a strip of tissue and sat down to think. The groom's philosophy almost fit what had happened between him and Dolores, except the genders were reversed. Maybe that meant that men and women were, in fact, alike. Maybe the normal condition for both sexes was a constant desire to copulate with as many different partners as often as possible, which would mean that people like him and Eleanor were mutants. Maybe it was perverse to fixate on one person and to want that person to return the perversion. Maybe he had been unreasonable to expect Dolores to refrain from fucking hairy strangers in the middle of the day, and Eleanor was being unreasonable to expect Steve to refrain from fucking Cindy at their wedding reception.

Maybe. He couldn't decide. The issue was complex, and he had too little information. He needed additional input before he could make up his mind.

He left the restroom and went to the end of the hall as "The Tennessee Waltz" began playing in the main room. He watched the bride and groom take their spotlight dance. The bride's dress swirled, and the groom's hair was mussed just enough to make him look charming. They gazed into each other's eyes and grinned. As the song ended, they kissed, and their friends and relatives applauded.

The next song was also a waltz, and other couples joined in the dancing. Blackburn entered the room and walked around the dancers to the cake table. He ate a third piece of cake while he watched the dancers turn and twirl. The frosting was already starting to get crusty, but Blackburn didn't mind. He ate yet another piece after that, and drank two more cups of punch. By the time he finished, a dollar dance was in progress. For a dollar, anyone could dance with the bride. The collected money would go toward honeymoon expenses.

Blackburn took his remaining cash from his pocket and counted it. Four dollars and sixty cents. Spending a dollar here would make reaching Kansas City a real stretch. On the other hand, he wanted to talk to the bride, and this was his best chance. He put three dollars and sixty cents back into his pocket and got into the dollar-dance line.

The dollar dances were short, lasting a minute or less apiece, so Blackburn's turn came soon. As he approached the bride, he knew that all eyes in the room were on him, and that most of their owners were wondering who the hell he was. As he took the bride's warm hand in his, he saw the groom give him a nod. The groom had confidence in Blackburn's discretion.

"Hello, Eleanor," Blackburn said. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," she said. Her face was frozen in a smile, but Blackburn could see that behind it, she was pretty. She was shorter than she had appeared from a distance, and small-boned. She seemed so light that Blackburn had the impression that a strong hug would crush her. Her dark-blond hair was permed into ringlets. Blackburn leaned in close to speak to her, and the ringlets brushed his cheek.

"So now you're Steve's wife," Blackburn said.

She rolled her eyes. "It hardly seems real yet."

"Till death do you part," he said. "I suppose you've thought a lot about that."

"Pardon?"

"The till-death-do-you-part business."

"Well," the bride said, "that's what marriage is all about."

"I was married too," Blackburn said. "But it didn't last till death. Not hers or mine, anyway. She became involved with someone else. Of course, that sort of thing couldn't happen to you and Steve."

The bride stiffened and looked away. Blackburn could see that she wanted him to leave now, but he couldn't. Not yet.

"It does happen, though," he said. "Sometimes it's the woman, sometimes the man. I guess they have their reasons."

The bride looked back at him. Her smile had vanished. "I can't imagine what. There's a Commandment against it."

"I know," Blackburn said. "But what if something happens anyway? What if someone has a good, loving spouse, and he or she goes astray just the same?"

The bride's cheeks flushed. She was angry. Blackburn was ruining her dollar dance.

"Then he or she should be shot," she said. She pulled her hand from Blackburn's. "Thank you for the dance."

Blackburn went outside and began to sweat again, so he rubbed his hands on his jeans to keep them dry. He went to the Valiant and took the Colt Python from under the front seat. The grip and trigger were hot. He returned to the building. It was too late to do anything for himself, but he could still do something for Eleanor.

Once inside again, he took a breath of air-conditioned air and cocked the Python. Then he yelled "Steve!" loud enough to be heard over the music.

Heads turned. People saw the pistol. There were shouts. Some of the men started toward him. The music stopped.

The groom was standing on the far side of the room. It was a longer shot than Blackburn had ever tried. But the middle of the room had been emptied for the dollar dance, and the man dancing with the bride pushed her to the floor and lay down on top of her. The people near the groom moved away from him. Blackburn had a clear line of fire.

He used a two-handed grip and aimed for the head, squeezing the trigger as the groom started to run. The groom dropped and screamed. The men heading for Blackburn stopped and turned to look. The groom lay on his back, doubled up, rocking. Blackburn sprinted across to him, jumping over the bride and her dollar-dance partner.

The groom held his crotch with both hands. Blood was soaking his tuxedo pants.

"Damn," Blackburn said, and cocked the Python again.

"Where's my dick?" the groom asked.

"I'm sorry," Blackburn said. "Bad shot." Then he fired into the groom's right eye.

He turned and saw that the exit was clogged with people squealing and squirming like baby pigs. Other people were standing and staring like concrete prairie dogs.

"Welcome home," Blackburn told himself.

At that moment the burly man who had clapped Blackburn on the back charged toward him. Blackburn pointed the Python at him. "Stop," he said, and the man stopped. "Lie down," he said, and the man lay down. So did everyone else, except for a few who still struggled to get outside. Blackburn let them go.

The bride crawled out from under her dance partner and stood. She looked at the groom, then ran at Blackburn. He lowered the gun and waited for her. When she reached him, she scratched his face. Then she hit him in the chest with her fists.

"Why?" she asked. She asked it over and over again.

Blackburn looked around until he saw the woman in the yellow dress. She was lying under the cake table. He went to her, and the bride came along, hitting him and asking her question.

"Cindy," Blackburn said, nudging the woman under the table with his foot. "Come out and tell Eleanor why I shot Steve."

The woman didn't move, so Blackburn cocked the Python. Then she came out and stood. The bride stopped hitting Blackburn and faced the woman.

"Why?" the bride asked.

The woman in the yellow dress began crying.

Blackburn thought that was a copout, but he supposed that she would have to confess sooner or later. He left her there with the bride and headed for the door, which was clear now. Halfway there, a boy on the floor clutched his ankle and held up a cloth bag.

"Is this what you want?" the boy asked.

"No," Blackburn said.

"Is this what you want?" the boy asked again. He asked it three more times, so Blackburn took the bag to shut him up. The boy released his ankle, and Blackburn went outside.

In the parking lot, a man behind a pickup truck took a shot at Blackburn with a rifle. The bullet went through the cloth bag and sprayed bits of masonry from the wall of the Lions Club building. Blackburn ran for the Valiant, firing two shots into the pickup truck.

He threw the bag and the pistol into the Valiant, jumped in, and started the engine as the rifleman came out from behind the pickup. Blackburn grabbed the Python with his left hand and fired out the window. The rifleman ducked back behind the truck. Blackburn backed the Valiant from its parking space, put it in Drive, and stomped the accelerator. He saw the rifleman again in the rearview mirror, so he reached outside and fired the Python's last shot backward. The recoil hurt his wrist, but the bullet shattered the pickup's side window, and the rifleman dove behind another car.

Blackburn sped north out of Goodland, away from I-70, watching for sheriff's deputies and the Kansas Highway Patrol. He steered with his knees while he reloaded the Python. He was operating on an intense sugar buzz. He turned east when he reached U.S. Highway 36 and switched cars in the town of Atwood. It was only then that he looked into the cloth bag that the boy had given him.

It contained the money from the dollar dance. Some of the men had paid tens and twenties to dance with the bride. There was even one fifty.

Blackburn couldn't go to Kansas City or anywhere else along I-70 for a while, so instead he headed into Nebraska via a tortuous route of county and country roads. As he drove, he considered finding out Eleanor's last name so he could mail the money to her. After all, he wasn't a thief. He did steal the occasional automobile, but that was a necessity. He hadn't meant to steal from Eleanor. He had only meant to see her receive justice. He wouldn't want her to think otherwise.

After consideration, however, Blackburn decided to keep the money himself. Eleanor, he had realized, wouldn't want it. There wasn't going to be a honeymoon anyway.