Blackburn

FOUR

No one was home at the house beside the Nazarene church. Jimmy knocked again to be sure, then sat on the porch step to wait. It was his seventeenth birthday. He had time. Wantoda was green and quiet, and the air smelled of new grass. The 4 SALE sign in the window of the black Ford Falcon had an exclamation point. Mr. Dunbar would be home soon, and Jimmy would get a good deal. The six-hundred-dollar wad of cash in his jeans pocket was most of the money he had earned working after school at the turnpike Stuckey's. He would spend no more than four hundred on the Falcon. It had been sitting in the Dunbars' yard for weeks. Jimmy had the afternoon off from Stuckey's because Ernie was sick with asthma and couldn't give him a ride. Jimmy had wanted to take the time off anyway, it being his birthday. The car would be his present to himself. It was a safe bet that it would be the only present he got. Dad had been laid off from the machine shop again, so Mom didn't have money to spend on things like birthdays. And Jasmine wouldn't even speak to him without shrieking, much less give him a present. Mom might manage to throw a cake together, but that would be it.

It was enough. He didn't want anything else. He was seventeen. He wanted to be responsible for himself, to be in control. He wanted to buy a car. He wanted to buy a car and drive all over Tuttle County before dark. He wanted to stay away from home until his family wondered where he was.

Besides, he needed the car. He had a date for the Junior-Senior Prom on Saturday. Mary Carol Hauser had said yes just this morning. Jimmy knew that she had put off her answer in hope of a better offer, but he didn't mind. He liked Mary Carol. She was smart and foul-mouthed, with green eyes and swollen lips. It was imperative that he buy the Falcon this afternoon so he would have a chance to clean it before Saturday.

Jimmy heard a car approaching. He stood, hoping it was Mr. Dunbar. Then the blue Blazer emerged from the shadows of the trees that overhung the street, and Jimmy sat back down. The Blazer was Officer Johnston's new cop car. It was a four-wheel-drive enclosed truck with a siren, red-white-and-blue roof lights, knobby tires, a public-address system, a searchlight, a shotgun, and black windows all the way around. Just why the town had bought it was a mystery. In eleven years, Johnston had never done any police work beyond setting speed traps and harassing parked teenagers. He sure didn't need a brand-new truck for that.

The Blazer slowed. The driver's-side window slid down, and Officer Johnston leaned out. He was wearing mirrored sunglasses. His veined nose seemed to throb. A burning cigarette hung from his lower lip.

"Who's that on the porch?" Johnston demanded. The Blazer came to a stop at the mouth of the Dunbars' driveway.

Jimmy stood. "Jimmy Blackburn, sir."

Johnston frowned. "Oh, yeah. Mr. Firecracker." Three years ago he had hauled Jimmy, Ernie, and two other boys to City Hall for throwing firecrackers into trash cans. "What you doin' on the Dunbars' porch?"

Jimmy nodded at the Falcon. "I'm going to buy that car, sir, but nobody's home yet."

"Uh-huh." Johnston took the cigarette from his mouth and spat. "I get any complaints from Mr. Dunbar, I'll know who to look up."

"Don't worry, sir."

"I ain't the one needs advice, Mr. Firecracker," Johnston said. "You watch yourself." The tinted window slid up, and the Blazer moved on.

"Asshole," Jimmy muttered. He was careful not to let his lips move. Johnston was known to keep an eye on people in his rearview mirror and come back if they cussed him.

When the Blazer was gone, Jimmy gazed at the Falcon and imagined himself in the front seat with Mary Carol snuggled up beside him. He doubted that she was much of a snuggler, but he could imagine it. He could imagine almost anything.

A squirrel appeared on the Falcon's roof. It seemed to have materialized from the air. Its tail fluffed, and it deposited a brown pellet on the black paint.

"Hey!" Jimmy yelled. "Not on the car!"

The squirred chittered and deposited another turd.

Jimmy stepped off the porch and started across the yard, but stopped when a blob of gray fur shot past him. It rushed to the Falcon and leaped up, slamming against the left rear door. It fell to the ground and leaped up again, barking. It was the filthiest dog Jimmy had ever seen. It leaped at the squirrel over and over again. The squirrel dashed about the roof looking for an escape.

Jimmy watched, considering. He felt a little sorry for the squirrel, but sorrier for the dog. Even though its fur was thick and shaggy, its ribs showed. It couldn't belong to the Dunbars; it had to be a stray that had stopped to rest in the cool dirt under their porch. It was so hungry that it was crazed. Jimmy went into the yard and looked for a rock to throw. Maybe he could knock the squirrel to the ground, and the dog would have time to be on it.

He found a half-buried chunk of brick. He kicked it loose and picked it up, but as he cocked his arm to throw, the squirrel jumped to the Falcon's hood and from there to the ground. It started for a cedar, but the dog cut it off. The squirrel zigzagged and fled toward the Nazarene church. The dog charged after it.

Jimmy threw the chunk of brick, hoping to at least slow the squirrel down. He missed and hit the dog. The dog flinched but didn't slow. Jimmy was angry at himself then, and impressed with the dog's determination. He swore that the dog would dine on squirrel meat before evening.

The squirrel crossed into the churchyard and ran up the church's concrete steps toward the white double doors. Then it disappeared. The dog leaped up the steps and ran headlong into the left double door. There was a loud bang and a rattle. The dog fell back, then leaped up again. It clawed at the door and barked.

Jimmy crossed into the churchyard and climbed the steps. He saw that the left door's bottom right corner was chipped and ground down, making a small hole. The squirrel had escaped into the church.

The dog moved aside as Jimmy reached the top step, but continued to bark. Jimmy knocked on the right double door. He didn't know if the Nazarenes would be home on a Wednesday afternoon, but it was worth a try. He knocked hard so he would be heard over the dog, and the door swung inward. The dog stopped barking and ran inside.

Jimmy pushed the door open wider. "Hello?" he called. "You have a squirrel loose in the church!"

No one answered, so Jimmy entered and went through the vestibule into the sanctuary. There were no windows, and the place was dark and cool. It reeked of Pine-Sol. Even with a shaft of afternoon light stabbing through the open doorway, Jimmy couldn't see anything clearly. He heard the dog's toenails clicking somewhere ahead, but that was all.

He looked back into the vestibule for light switches and saw none, so he ran his hands over the paneled sanctuary walls on either side of the vestibule. There were no light switches here either. Maybe they were up front near the pulpit. He stepped away from the vestibule and walked straight ahead, up what he guessed was the center aisle. He was beginning to see long shadows that must be pews.

The dog's toenail clicks stopped, so Jimmy stood still and listened. There was a growl and then a squeal, followed by rattles and clangs. Then the toenail clicks returned. Jimmy felt the dog's furry body brush against his jeans. He turned back toward the vestibule and saw the dog trot into the sunshine. It was carrying a limp squirrel.

Jimmy clapped and whistled. He watched the dog start down the concrete steps, its tail wagging.

Then a loud crack cut the air. There was a spatter of blood. The dog fell over and lay still, halfway down the first step.

Jimmy stared at the dog's rump. He couldn't see its front half. He couldn't see the squirrel. The dog's rump didn't move. Its tail didn't wag.

Officer Johnston stepped into the rectangle of light and looked down at the dog. He was dressed in brown, with a black belt and boots. He was wearing his mirrored sunglasses. He was hatless, his thinning hair slicked back with grease. He held his big blue pistol in his right hand. He cocked it with his thumb and pointed it at the dog.

"Trespasser," he said.

Johnston prodded the dog with a boot. The dog's rump slid off the landing, leaving only a little blood. Johnston looked into the church, and Jimmy felt the cop's mirrored eyes probing.

"That must be you in there, Mr. Firecracker," Johnston said. "Come on out."

From the moment of the gunshot, Jimmy had been numb. Now, in the glare of the twin mirrors, the numbness burned off like frost before a flame. He hated the cop more than Satan hated God. He would not obey that bastard. Johnston wasn't his old man. Johnston wasn't shit.

Jimmy crouched and moved to his right, groping for a pew. He would get underneath and crawl toward the vestibule. Then he would wait until Johnston came well into the sanctuary, and dash out. If he was quiet and quick, Johnston wouldn't see him. There would be no way to prove who had been inside the church with the dog.

Johnston came inside. Jimmy hurried to get under a pew and banged into metal.

There were no pews. There were metal folding chairs instead. There was no way to hide under them and crawl to the door. The Nazarenes were a cheap-ass denomination.

Johnston stopped just inside the sanctuary and stood straddle-legged. He raised his cocked pistol. "Hey! Boy! Freeze!" His breath rasped. He smoked too much.

Jimmy knew that Johnston couldn't see him. Not without lights, and wearing mirrorshades. Jimmy backed up the aisle. As long as he didn't run into any more chairs, he didn't think Johnston would be able to hear him over the cop's own breathing.

Johnston came forward, fanning his pistol before him. He was looking back and forth, searching. He kept his sunglasses on. He didn't see Jimmy.

Jimmy came up against the dais at the front of the sanctuary and stepped onto it. It stood a foot off the floor and was covered with what felt like artificial turf. Jimmy glanced to his left and saw the shadow of the pulpit. He got down on all fours and crawled to hide behind it. Once there, he discovered that it was hollow. The hollow was covered with a cloth. Jimmy pushed through the cloth and crawled inside.

His left hand came down with his full weight on something soft and furry. The thing squeaked. Jimmy pulled his hand back and drew his legs into the pulpit. He sat with his knees hugged to his chest and tried to keep his breaths shallow and quiet.

The dais creaked as Johnston stepped onto it. His footsteps went toward the back wall, then stopped. Outside the pulpit, lights came on. They shone through the cloth. The cloth was white. It didn't hang all the way to the floor. Jimmy looked down and saw that the furry thing was a squirrel in a nest of shredded paper. It wasn't moving. He had crushed it. There was a bloody mess behind and beside it, and tiny pink babies. They looked dead too.

Johnston's footsteps resumed. They were loud thumps on the thin plywood. The platform groaned. The light dimmed, and the scuffed leather toes of Johnston's boots appeared below the edge of the white cloth.

"Come on out, boy," Johnston's voice said from above. "You're under arrest for trespassing."

Jimmy didn't want to leave the pulpit. He looked away from Johnston's toes and stared at the dead mama squirrel and her babies instead. He smelled blood.

"You know, Mr. Firecracker," Johnston said above, "I don't know for a fact that it's you in there. Could be a professional church thief. Could be a convict. Nobody'd blame me if I acted in self-defense. I could put a bullet through the pulpit and nobody'd question it. Not a soul."

Jimmy stared at the dead mama squirrel. Something was happening inside his head and chest. It knotted in his gut. Today was his birthday, and he had wanted to buy a car. Then he had tried to help a hungry dog, and the town cop had killed the dog for no reason. Now the cop wanted to kill him too. Because he was hiding in a pulpit.

"I could shoot you," Johnston said above, "just like I shot that damn dog."

There it was. The dog was dead. Jimmy had tried to help it, and Dad had made him drop his pants and had switched him with the fishing rod. The dog had killed rats, and Dad had shot it. The blind man had said that Jesus would help, but Mom had left, and the dog was dead. The dog had killed a squirrel, and Johnston had shot it. The blind man had not heard the voice of Jesus, had made it all up, had lied to him. Jimmy had swum in the pond with the dog, and now it was dead. Dad had hit Mom in the mouth. Jasmine had screamed at monsters in the night. Jimmy had hit the dog with a hammer so it wouldn't hurt. But Jasmine had seen. He had come into the church with the dog, and now it was dead. Jesus had not listened to him even though he was saved on Easter. Glass had broken in the living room. He had awakened in the morning with his sheets glued to his legs in lines of blood. Boss Stud had taunted his sister and stomped his kite. Johnston had kicked the dog down the steps. Jimmy had wrapped the dog in shop rags to bury it, and it was all his fault because he had made a deal with God. Jasmine came to him to say that she hated him. Dad pushed his face into the gravel, and Mom came back and served smoked pork chops. The dog swam out to where he and Ernie splashed and then the sound of the shotgun and the red splash on the concrete in front of the Nazarene church.

There it was.

The dog was dead.

Jimmy waited a moment longer, to feel the tightness of the change inside, to know it was right. It meant never seeing Mom again. Or Jasmine. Never goofing off with Ernie. Never trying to snuggle with Mary Carol Hauser. Never graduating from high school.

And then there was Dad.

A moving shadow told him that Johnston was reaching for the white cloth.

That was all, then. He could let Johnston pull away the cloth, or he could do it himself. Nothing he had ever done had made anyone behave any better, so the only choice left was how he would behave himself. But if Johnston pulled away the white cloth before he did, even that choice was taken away.

Mom. Jasmine. Ernie. Mary Carol.

Dad.

None of them was worth as much as this.

None of them was worth as much as the life of a dog.

He took the dead mama squirrel in both hands. It was warm and limp. One of the babies slid onto his wrist. He was surprised that he wasn't scared. He was trembling, but not from fear.

That was important.

Johnston's fingertips brushed the white cloth.

Jimmy's life was over.

Blackburn lunged through the cloth, thrusting the dead mama squirrel into the cop's face. The light was brilliant. The squirrel's eyes gleamed from each lens of the mirrorshades. Johnston gave a gargled scream. Blackburn shoved the squirrel into Johnston's mouth.

Johnston stumbled back. Blackburn went with him, trying to shove the squirrel down his throat. Johnston's pistol came up. The muzzle grazed Blackburn's cheek. It was hot. The engraving on the blue barrel was an inch from Blackburn's eyes. He saw the word colt. He saw the word python. He saw the numerals 3,5, and 7. It was a revelation. It was a God speaking to him on the green-turfed dais of the Nazarene church. He let go of the dead mama squirrel and reached for the pistol's blue perfection.

Johnston coughed out the squirrel and pointed the pistol at Blackburn's mouth. Blackburn grabbed it. He and Johnston fell together. The oil in Johnston's hair had the sharp smell of Vick's Vapo-Rub. A clump of black strands tickled Blackburn's upper lip. He spat the clump away and saw droplets appear on Johnston's sunglasses.

"Little prick," Johnston said. His breath was the essence of wet cigarettes. His teeth were yellow scabs.

Blackburn tried to pull the pistol away, but Johnston wouldn't let go. He was stronger than Blackburn. Johnston rose to his knees, pulling Blackburn with him. They knelt with their hands locked on the pistol between them. Blackburn tried to stare past his own reflections. He imagined the cop's eyes as milky white.

"You're under arrest, you piece of shit," Johnston said. He was breathing hard. He could hardly talk.

Blackburn smiled at him. "Nobody likes you," he said.

Johnston stopped breathing. His mouth opened. Blackburn leaned forward and kissed him. Johnston's grip weakened. Blackburn wrenched hard and fell.

He lay on his back, looking up at the white lights in the ceiling above the pulpit. He raised his hands over his face. They were wrapped around the body of the Python.

Johnston appeared above him, blocking the lights. He was standing. He was huge, but nothing more than a shadow. Nothing more than a ghost.

"Give me the gun, son," the cop said. A huge shadow hand reached down.

Blackburn turned the Python and held it two-fisted the way the cops on TV did. His right index finger curled around the trigger. It was hot. It felt right. His finger was happy. The hammer was already cocked. He pointed the muzzle at the shadow's head.

"No," he said.

The shadow moved away. Blackburn sat up, keeping the pistol steady. The Python was heavy, but the weight gave him strength.

The shadow brightened as Blackburn sat up, resolving into Officer Johnston. Johnston held his hands out before him. He backed away.

"Stay where you are," Blackburn said.

Johnston stopped. "Now, son," he said, "you're making things awful bad for yourself." His voice quavered.

Blackburn was disgusted. Big tough man. Big tough man with a gun. Big tough man killing a hungry dog.

Blackburn got to his feet. "Take off your shades," he said. "Take off your shades and drop them."

Johnston took off his shades and dropped them. They clattered on the green turf beside the dead mama squirrel. Johnston blinked. His eyes were dirt brown. They watered. The left eye had a spidery red blotch in the white.

"Get down on your hands and knees," Blackburn said.

Johnston shook his head. "Son, you're diggin' yourself in deeper and deeper."

"Hands and knees," Blackburn said.

Johnston got down on his hands and knees. Blackburn kept the gun trained on him.

"Bark like a dog," Blackburn said.

Johnston barked like a dog.

"Now pick up the squirrel."

Johnston lifted his right hand and reached for the squirrel.

"With your mouth."

Johnston lowered his hand. His lips pulled back from his teeth. Then he put his head down and picked up the dead mama squirrel with his mouth.

"Trespasser," Blackburn said, and pulled the trigger. The explosion rang from wall to wall in the empty church. The Python jumped. It almost hit Blackburn in the face.

Johnston fell over with the squirrel in his mouth. He landed on his right side. His legs twitched. After a few seconds they stopped.

Blackburn stood still for a while. His wrists tingled, then ached. His ears hummed. There was a stink of gunpowder, and then of gunpowder and shit. Blackburn lowered the Python and stepped forward to stand over Johnston. Johnston's eyes were open. His teeth were clamped on the dead mama squirrel, compressing its body in the middle. His legs had drawn up, and his hands were in front of his chest, the wrists bent. Dark blood was spreading through his shirt. Some of it was seeping from a hole under the left pocket. Blackburn thought he saw the cop's chest move a little, but only once.

Officer Johnston was dead.

Blackburn took a deep breath through his nose and let it out through his mouth. He started to feel a little scared, but squelched it. There was no point in being scared now. He hadn't even known that he was going to pull the trigger until it was already done, but once done, he couldn't take it back. He didn't think he would want to anyway.

He squatted and picked up Johnston's mirrorshades. They were in good shape. He might as well keep them.

Blackburn turned away from the body and stepped down from the dais. The humming noise in his ears faded as he walked up the aisle. When he reached the vestibule, he realized that he would have to hide the Python. He put on the mirrorshades and then pulled out his shirttail with his free hand. He loosened his belt and tucked the pistol into the back waistband of his jeans. The shirttail covered it. It was uncomfortable, but it would have to do for now.

He left the church and closed the door behind him. He went down the steps past the dog. The dog still had its squirrel in its mouth too. It was grinning and looked happy. Blackburn felt better.

Johnston's Blazer was parked down the block. Its tinted windows were up. Anyone who noticed it would assume that Johnston was inside. As Blackburn stepped onto the sidewalk, a new Plymouth sedan appeared on the street and turned into the Dunbars' driveway. Blackburn crossed into the Dunbars' yard.

A stooped man in coveralls emerged from the Plymouth and eyed Blackburn. He didn't look happy. Blackburn supposed that the mirrored sunglasses and untucked shirt made him look delinquent.

"Mr. Dunbar?" Blackburn said, coming close. "You still selling that car?" He nodded toward the black Falcon.

Mr. Dunbar looked wary. "Uh-huh."

"How much?"

"Five hundred."

"Give you four."

Mr. Dunbar shook his head.

Blackburn reached into his pocket and pulled out the wad of bills. "Four hundred cash money."

Mr. Dunbar started to shake his head again. Blackburn shifted the cash to his left hand and reached behind him. His fingers touched the butt of the Python.

"Well," Mr. Dunbar said. His headshake became a nod. "Fair enough."

Blackburn was relieved, and pleased. He was proud of himself for holding firm. He gave Mr. Dunbar eight fifties.

Mr. Dunbar removed two keys from a ring and handed them to Blackburn. "Hang on a sec and I'll fetch the title," he said. He stepped onto the porch.

"Could we do the title tomorrow, sir?" Blackburn asked. "I sort of have a date, and I thought maybe I could use the car. I'm kind of late as it is."

Mr. Dunbar shrugged. "I'll be home tomorrow about four-thirty again." He peered down at Blackburn. "What's your name?"

Mr. Dunbar had seen Blackburn plenty of times, but the sunglasses probably made him hard to recognize. Mr. Dunbar might not have known his name anyway. And that was fine with Blackburn.

"Sam," Blackburn said. "Sam Colt."

"Glad to do business with you, Sam," Mr. Dunbar said. He went into his house.

The Falcon's door creaked when Blackburn opened it, and the seat sank almost to the floor when he sat down. But the engine fired after only fifteen seconds of whining. Blackburn put the car into gear and drove through the shallow ditch onto the street.

The muffler had a hole. It was loud. And there was only a quarter tank of gas. But the steering was smooth, the acceleration fine. It was a decent car. Too bad he would have to get rid of it soon. It wouldn't be long before the Falcon was a wanted vehicle. He wondered if it would be hard to steal another car. He had never stolen anything bigger than a candy bar and wasn't sure how to go about it. He would have to devise a plan during the next few hours, while he drove.

Before hitting the highway, Blackburn cruised the side streets of Wantoda, past Ernie's house, past Todd Boyle's house, past the grade school. He wished that he could risk the time to drive out past his own home too. It would be nice to honk good-bye. But the faster and farther he could get away, the better. Mom and Jasmine wouldn't have known it was him anyway. And Dad probably wasn't home yet. He tended to keep working hours even when he was laid off. The taverns were open.

Blackburn stopped for a moment at the west edge of town, where the Potwin road ran north toward Clay Hill and the water tower stood guard over the town and its people. He looked up and saw himself on the catwalk, eyes stinging in the wind, spitting at the road below. He saw the silver tank burst at its rusted seams, the water exploding, sweeping him from the catwalk, ripping away the catwalk itself. He saw the water rush down as a wall, crushing the homes of Wantoda, drowning the inhabitants in froth. He saw his body at the crest of the leading wave as it smashed schools and cars and ripped up trees like brittle weeds.

Then he looked away and drove south, past the Methodist and Baptist churches. He turned east on K-132 and blasted past Nimper's IGA and the Volunteer Fire Station at sixty miles per hour, heading for the Ozarks. The wind tore through his open window and whipped his hair back. He didn't figure that there would be a speed trap today.

Once he was clear of Wantoda, he realized that the Python was digging into his spine. He steered with his left hand and leaned forward so he could reach back and pull the gun from his waistband with his right. As he did so, he glimpsed himself in the rearview mirror. The vision was startling and ugly.

It was the mirrored sunglasses. They made him look like a cop.

Blackburn put the Python under the seat, then took off the sunglasses and examined his face in the mirror. That was better. The eyes were clear. They were eyes that wouldn't hide anything, that wouldn't lie. They were eyes that only fools would doubt.

He threw the sunglasses out the window, and they disintegrated on the grille of a Peterbilt heading the other way. He smiled. He had heard the lenses break. The sound inspired him, and he sang "Happy Birthday" and "I Saw Her Standing There." He hoped that Mary Carol wouldn't be hurt at being stood up.

Blackburn leaned to the right to look at his face again. Yes. His eyes were meant to be seen.

He just wasn't a mirrorshades kind of guy.