Blackburn

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.

Blackburn's nylon coat had become too warm, so he unzipped it partway. Then he opened the back cover of The Guy Who Killed People and read the "About the Author" note under Arthur's photograph. The note said that he lived in Long Island, New York, with his wife of thirty-four years, Irma. Blackburn looked up at the real Arthur again and tried to guess what Irma must be like.

Arthur leaned to his right and whispered into the ear of Attractive Woman Number Two. She stood, thanked him for signing her book, and left. He smiled, leaned to his left, and whispered into the ear of Attractive Woman Number One. She scooted her chair a few inches away but didn't leave. Arthur signed another book, and another. Now only four people remained between Blackburn and the autograph table, but Blackburn had decided that he didn't want his copy of The Guy Who Killed People signed just yet. He got out of line and went into the science fiction aisle, where he could observe Arthur's behavior.

The novelist wasn't himself. No one whose written words contained such wisdom could be the sort of fool that he appeared to be now. His slurred speech suggested that he had been drinking, and that in turn suggested that it was his intoxication that was making him come on to women who weren't his wife of thirty-four years, women who were in fact young enough to be his children. It was repulsive and pitiful, but it wasn't the real Arthur doing it.

Another young woman approached the table, and Arthur told her that he would only sign her book if she gave him a kiss. She looked around as if searching for an escape route, but then leaned down and gave Arthur his kiss. He invited her to join him behind the table, but she declined and fled. Attractive Woman Number One, still seated to Arthur's left, had a trapped look in her eyes. Arthur whispered in her ear again. From Blackburn's vantage point, he could see Arthur's hand come down to rest on her thigh.

Blackburn was sickened. He went up the aisle to the wall and followed the wall to the front door. He went out to the February chill and stuck his book into his coat on the right-hand side. The left side was already bulky; his Colt Python was tucked there in a pouch he had sewn in. He zipped up the coat and jammed his hands into its pockets. The sun had set, and the downtown streets held no warmth. He started for the bus stop two blocks down.

On the way to the bus stop he came across a coffee shop, so he went inside and ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and french fries. As he ate, he reread the first two chapters of The Guy Who Killed People and began to feel better. Artimus Arthur deserved a second chance to be himself, and Blackburn deserved a chance to meet him. The fact that Arthur understood human folly didn't mean he was immune to it. He was bound to backslide now and then.

Blackburn returned to the bookstore and waited outside, stamping his feet to keep warm. He had decided that he would not meet Artimus Arthur under the artificial conditions of the autograph session. Not only was Arthur less able to be himself under such conditions, but Blackburn would not be able to reveal his own true self either. There were too many other people around, too many leather yuppies and nouveau beatniks who, Blackburn had realized, were only buying Arthur's book because it was the hip thing to do, because they were intellectual blanks who craved not wisdom but a brush with celebrity. Most of them wouldn't even read the novel and wouldn't appreciate its truth if they did. Blackburn did not want Arthur to see him as one of them. So he would approach him when the autograph session was over, when the winter air had cleared the writer's head and neither he nor Blackburn would have to behave as anything other than what they were.

But more than a dozen of Arthur's admirers remained when the store closed at seven o'clock, and they all came outside with him, clustering around him like viruses attacking a healthy cell. The cluster moved down the street, and Blackburn followed. He was frustrated and cold.

The entourage swept Arthur into the coffee shop where Blackburn had eaten dinner. Blackburn watched through the window while they shoved tables together. Arthur stood apart, gripping the arm of Attractive Woman Number One. He swayed, looking as if he might fall if he released her. The woman was giving him a fixed smile and nodding at whatever he was saying.

As Arthur and his admirers sat down, Blackburn entered the shop and walked past them, taking a booth in the back. He unzipped his coat, and his copy of The Guy Who Killed People fell onto the table. He stared at the book to keep from staring at its author. Now was still not the time for them to meet, and he didn't want to draw Arthur's attention.

"Weren't you in a while ago?" a voice asked.

Blackburn looked up. A hairnetted waitress was standing beside the booth.

"Yeah," he said. "Decided I wanted some dessert. Banana cream pie."

The waitress scribbled on her pad. "That a good book?" she asked, nodding at The Guy Who Killed People.

"It's okay."

The waitress waved a thumb at Artimus Arthur's group. "One of those people writes books. At least, that's what they told me. If you're interested."

"Thanks."

The waitress left. Blackburn opened the novel and reread Chapters Three and Four, and half of Five. Then he glanced up and saw that his pie was on the table and that Arthur and his entourage were leaving. He closed the book and wolfed down three bites of pie, then dropped money on the table and went out.

Outside, the entourage was disintegrating. Some of the people were walking toward the bus stop, and others were getting into cars parked along the street. Artimus Arthur was still hanging on to the arm of the attractive woman and was speaking to two young men.

"I appreciate the offer, gentlemen," he said, "but Stephanie has offered to see me safely to my hotel, and I have full confidence in her abilities. Thank you for coming. I enjoyed our conversation." He didn't sound drunk anymore.

The two young men turned and left Arthur with the woman. They passed by Blackburn.

"Think she'll fuck him?" one of them whispered.

Blackburn didn't hear the reply. He followed Artimus Arthur and Stephanie. There weren't many people on the sidewalks tonight, but there were enough that Blackburn didn't think he'd be noticed.

Arthur and the woman walked five blocks east to 4th Street and then down three blocks to the Clarion Hotel. Blackburn had dropped back until he was almost fifty yards behind them, and he ran to catch up when he saw them enter the hotel. If they were going to get on an elevator, he wanted to be sure he was on it with them.

They were still in the lobby, standing between a row of pay phones and the elevators, when Blackburn came inside. Arthur was leaning toward Stephanie and murmuring something, and Stephanie was leaning away, smiling and shaking her head. Blackburn went to the pay phone closest to them and pretended to make a call.

Stephanie kissed Arthur on the cheek, then walked past Blackburn and out of the hotel. "If you change your mind," Arthur shouted, "I'm in Room Twenty-one Fourteen!" But Stephanie was already outside. Blackburn was glad to see her go.

Arthur stepped into an elevator with three other people, so Blackburn didn't try to get there before the doors closed. He wanted to meet Arthur alone, and now that he knew the writer's room number, he could be sure that he did. He went to the elevators after Arthur's car had gone and pushed the UP button.

The door to Room 2114 opened on the fourth knock, and Artimus Arthur stood there grinning. Then he saw Blackburn, and the grin disappeared. He leaned out and looked up and down the empty hallway. "Oh," he said. "I was expecting someone else."

Blackburn smelled liquor. He didn't like it. "Hello, Mr. Arthur," he said. "I can't tell you my name, but I've read your novel, The Guy Who Killed People, and I wondered if you would sign the title page for me." He unzipped his coat and pulled out the book. "I'd also like to talk a while, if you have time."

Arthur stepped back. "You have the wrong room," he said, and started to close the door.

Blackburn put a hand on the door to hold it open. "I really think you'll want to talk to me," he said.

Arthur glared at him. "I'm doing a signing tomorrow at a Waldenbooks in St. Charles. Talk to me then." He tried to shove the door shut, but it didn't move.

Blackburn shook his head. "I was at your signing today," he said. "It was awful. None of those people knew your work, or what it means. And you… were drunk. Probably so you wouldn't have to think about those people."

"If you don't leave right now," Arthur said, "I'll yell for help. There are a lot of people on this floor, and they'll call hotel security. Or the police."

Blackburn held out The Guy Who Killed People. "This book is about me," he said.

Arthur's eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"

"The man in the book," Blackburn said. "The guy who kills people, but only when they deserve it. I'm him."

Arthur's hands slid from the door, and he took another step back. "You don't say."

"If you'll give me a few minutes, you'll believe me," Blackburn said. He entered the room and closed the door. "You're the first person I've told about this. You can imagine why."

Arthur's grin was creeping back. "Oh, yes," he said. He went to the nightstand and picked up an open fifth of Jack Daniel's. He grasped the bottle by the neck and took a drink. Then he looked at Blackburn. "So you've sprung to life from the pages of my book, is that it? Must have been an easy birth. No water breaking, no straining. No blood."

"That's not what I mean, sir," Blackburn said. "I'm not a lunatic."

"I wasn't suggesting you were." Arthur went around the bed to the window, taking the bottle with him. He opened the drapes. The Gateway Arch was visible on the far side of I-70. "To believe you've been given life by words isn't lunacy. But to try to parachute down to land on top of that thing-" He pointed at the Arch. "Now, that's lunacy."

Blackburn didn't know what Arthur was talking about. "What I meant to say, sir," he continued, "was that I share the values and behavior of your nameless protagonist. I am a real-world analog of The Guy Who Killed People."

"Oh," Arthur said. "Well, in that case, you are a lunatic. Go parachute onto the Arch." He took a swig from the bottle.

"Please listen," Blackburn said. "Once I saw a man beating his wife, so I shot him. Another time I saw a man run over a dog on purpose. So I shot him. Another time I caught two mechanics cheating an old lady, so-"

"Let me guess," Arthur said. "You shot them."

"No. I would have, but I didn't have my gun with me. I crushed one of them under a hydraulic lift and blew up the other one with an air compressor."

"That was very resourceful." Arthur took a long drink. The bottle was almost empty. "Now get out of here before I call hotel security."

"You still don't believe me."

Arthur laughed, and it became a cough. He bent over and hacked, then spat and straightened up. His face had turned red. "You want to know the truth?" he asked.

Blackburn stepped toward the writer, holding The Guy Who Killed People before him like a holy icon. "Yes," he said. "I found truth in this book, so I know you're a man who understands what truth is."

"You bet," Arthur said. He drained the bottle and coughed again.

Droplets hit Blackburn's face. He breathed bourbon, and his lungs burned. He was glad the bottle was empty. Maybe things would go better now.

Arthur pushed Blackburn aside and returned to the nightstand. He set down the bottle and put his hand on the telephone. "The truth is that I don't care whether you ever killed anybody, or whether you're using my book as an excuse to hallucinate. Either way, you're nothing to me but a pain in the ass. I've met you a thousand times, and I only put up with you for the first hundred. So you can walk out of this room, or I can call someone to drag you out."

Blackburn was beginning to despair, but he had to keep trying. "I'm not like those others," he said, coming around the bed. "They want your fame to rub off on them. I don't. I only want to let you know that your vision isn't in vain."

Arthur looked puzzled. "What vision is that?"

"The vision in this book," Blackburn said, holding out The Guy Who Killed People again. "The vision of a man who understands the meaning of independence and justice, and who isn't afraid to act on that understanding."

Arthur picked up the empty bottle and tried to take another drink. Then he brought it up to his right eye and peered through the glass at Blackburn. "You are not only a lunatic," he said, "but a lunatic who can't read his way out of a wet paper bag."

"I don't know what you mean," Blackburn said.

"Of course not." Arthur lowered the bottle and shook it at Blackburn. "That's because you're a lunatic. Just like the man in my book. He's worse than a serial killer, worse than evil. He's stupid, which is the worst lunacy of all. The reader isn't supposed to sympathize with him. The reader's supposed to loathe him. I sure as hell did."

It was as if Blackburn had been slugged. "But the people he killed all deserved it," he said. The words hurt his throat. "They were horrible."

"We're all horrible!" Arthur yelled, waving the bottle. "I'm horrible, you're horrible, the President of the United States is horrible! Mother stinking Teresa is horrible! A newborn baby will be horrible as soon as it gets a chance! Trying to fight that isn't noble. It's futile. Why do you think I killed him off at the end, anyway?"

"To… make him a martyr?"

Arthur came close to Blackburn and bellowed in his ear. "BECAUSE HE WAS A PAIN IN THE ASS, THAT'S WHY!"

Blackburn flinched away. He was angry now. "I see," he said. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Arthur."

"Drop dead," Arthur said. "But get out first."

Blackburn went to the door, but then turned back toward the writer. "You know what I think?" he asked.

Arthur stood beside the bed, his shoulders slumped. The Jack Daniel's bottle dangled from his hand. "Not only do I not know," he said, "but I don't give a shit either."

"I think," Blackburn said, "that you've lied to me. I think you know you've written the truth, and you're afraid of it. I think you're so afraid of it that you have to get drunk to be brave. And then you lie to fight off your own truth."

Arthur's eyes opened wide. He raised the whiskey bottle over his head. "I said get-" He lunged forward. "-the FUCK OUT!"

Blackburn dodged, and the bottle clipped his shoulder. He came up against the wall and dropped The Guy Who Killed People. Arthur swung again, and the bottle bounced off Blackburn's skull. Blackburn saw a white burst like a flashbulb. He dropped to his hands and knees and scrambled. He didn't know which way he was going until he ran into the bed. He turned around and saw Arthur coming at him.

"You're not like the man in my book," Arthur said. His voice was thick with contempt. "But I am."

Blackburn got onto the bed. "I thought you said that you loathed him."

Arthur grinned. "Sure. Any man who doesn't despise himself hasn't looked close enough." He charged toward the bed and swung the bottle.

Blackburn lurched away, and the bottle missed him. He fell off the bed on the far side, landing on his rump.

Arthur bounced on the bed on his knees and glared down at Blackburn. "I've always wanted to kill people," he said. He hefted the bottle. "I've just never had the guts. So I write about it instead. But maybe I can at least hurt you."

Blackburn stood and reached into his coat. He opened the Velcro flap over the Python's pouch, then pulled out the pistol. He didn't point it, but he cocked it.

"I can't let you hit me again," he said. "No matter who you are or what you mean to me. Nobody hurts me."

Arthur lowered the bottle. His face sagged. "All right, then," he said. "Take your blue-metal dick and leave me alone."

Blackburn looked at the Python. "This isn't a dick," he said. "It's justice. That's in your book. It's what The Guy says about the rifle he uses to kill the school board."

"I know what's in my book," Arthur said. He came off the bed and stood facing Blackburn. "You don't have to tell me what's in my own goddamn book."

Blackburn stared into the black depths of Arthur's eyes. "I think I do. I think you've fogged your brain so much that you can't remember your own wisdom."

Arthur sneered. "Screw you," he said. He gripped the neck of the Jack Daniel's bottle with both hands and swung it at Blackburn's face.

Blackburn raised his arm to block it, and the Python fired. The bottle exploded.

Blackburn stumbled backward and slammed against the window so hard that it cracked. He turned toward the glass and saw two reflections of his face, one on either side of a snaking silver line. Then he noticed that each face had a fragment of whiskey bottle stuck in its cheek. He reached up to brush the fragment away. It stuck to his fingers for a moment before falling.

"My hands," Arthur said.

Blackburn turned toward him. Arthur was lying on his back on the bed, holding his hands above his face. The fingers were curled into claws. Blood welled out everywhere. It was soaking Arthur's sleeves.

"My hands," Arthur said again.

Blackburn replaced the Python in its pouch and went around the foot of the bed toward the door. The meeting hadn't gone at all the way he had hoped.

"You'll be all right, sir," he said, picking up his copy of The Guy Who Killed People from the floor. "If you died, I'd have to count you as one of my victims, and I don't want to." He stared down at the black dust jacket. "You didn't even sign my book."

"Open it."

Blackburn looked up. "What?"

"Open it and bring it here."

Blackburn opened the book to the title page and took it to the bed.

"Under my hands," Arthur said.

Blackburn held the book under Arthur's hands, and a few drops of blood spattered on the paper. Blackburn closed the book and stepped back.

"You are a great man," he said.

Arthur made a noise in his throat. "I've pissed my pants," he said.

Blackburn left the room. Despite the gunshot, the hall was still empty. He went down to the lobby and called for an ambulance from one of the pay phones, then got out of there. He wondered if Arthur had any children, and if so, whether they felt as much kinship for the man as he did.

He was bruised and sore the next morning, and the cut on his face throbbed. But he forgot all of that when he turned on the radio. According to the newscaster, novelist Artimus Arthur had died the night before when he leaped through the glass of his hotel room window and fell to the street. A paramedic had told him that his wounded hands might be crippled for life. Blackburn wept.