On the woman's back, in thin red lines, were the words HI MUSICIAN.
Blackburn went to the head of the bed on the left side and knelt on the floor. The woman's wrists were tied so that her arms angled upward. Her face was in her pillow. Even this close, he couldn't hear her breathing. But he saw her back moving. There were teeth marks on her shoulders.
He lifted her head and turned her face toward him. The face was Heather's. Her eyes opened, and they widened as she recognized him. Her mouth was covered with duct tape. He pulled the tape away and then saw that a donut had been stuffed into her mouth. She tried to cough it out, but couldn't.
Blackburn lowered her head to the pillow and dug out the donut with his fingers. The smell was thick and sweet. His trembling became violent. He tried to untie the cord around Heather's left wrist, but his fingers were clumsy and numb. He was worthless, useless, a sissy, a pussy. Little Jimmy, dropping his pants and grabbing the rim of the wheel well. He could hear the fiberglass rod cutting the air. Its hiss became a scream, and it bit into his flesh. His skin caught fire.
Then his hands spasmed, and his fingers sank in. It wasn't the rim of a wheel well. It was the edge of a mattress.
He wasn't little Jimmy anymore. He had learned better. He had no father, no mother, no sister, no friends. His only trust was in himself. He could see not only what was, but what should be. He was Blackburn.
And Blackburn always knew what to do, and how to do it.
He tried the cord again. Heather's left wrist came free, and her arm fell to the bed. Her fingernails scratched his face on the way down. The pain was sharp and pure. His trembling stopped.
"Nasty," a voice said. "But maybe she didn't mean it."
Blackburn looked up. The bedroom door was open, and Roy-Boy was standing in the doorway. He was holding a small silver pistol. He gave his chuckle, his piglike grunt.
"Look what somebody left behind the TV," he said. "A twenty-five-caliber semiautomatic. Who woulda thought?"
Blackburn stood. "This is what comes of committing a sin of omission," he said.
Roy-Boy's expression became quizzical. "Omission of what?"
"Your death," Blackburn said. "I could see its place in the pattern of my world, but I left it out because I didn't understand why it needed to be there. Now I see that the reason was obvious. Maybe even to you. Do you know why I should have killed you?"
"Beats me," Roy-Boy said. "But now you can make up for it with a surrogate. I was grooming her for myself, but when I saw you watching the place, I decided to save her for you. See, you need to become aware of the superiority of my world, and to do that you've got to live in it a while. In your world you've got your stud attitude, and she's got her bouncy little ass… but when you try to pull that shit on me, it's a different story. I'm Thomas Jefferson, and you're slaves."
Blackburn took a step toward him. "So command me."
"Stop," Roy-Boy said. He pointed the pistol at Blackburn's face. "And pick up my ice scraper."
Blackburn stopped. He was at the foot of the bed, four feet from Roy-Boy. He reached down between Heather's knees and picked up the glass shard.
"Now cut her," Roy-Boy said. "Anywhere you like. But cut deep, or I'll shoot you."
"You'll shoot me anyway."
"No, I won't. I promise. I'm a moral guy too."
Blackburn gripped the taped end of the shard with both hands. The sharp end was pointed up.
"Why should I have killed you?" Blackburn asked again.
"Maybe because I threaten your masculinity," Roy-Boy said. "So stick the glass between her butt cheeks. That should make you feel like a stud again."
Blackburn placed the point of the shard under his own chin and began to push upward. It hurt, but like Heather's fingernails on his face, the pain was pure, cleansing. He thought again of Dad's fiberglass rod. No matter how much he had hated it, it had contributed to his creation. This new pain reminded him of that truth.
Roy-Boy grimaced. "Not you, Musician," he said. He took a step toward Blackburn and pointed the silver pistol at Heather. "Her. Just turn around and-"
Blackburn thrust his fists out and down, cutting his chin, and slashed Roy-Boy's right wrist.
Roy-Boy shrieked. He swung his pistol toward Blackburn again.
But Blackburn was already lunging. He sank his teeth into Roy-Boy's slashed wrist. With his left hand he grabbed the silver pistol and tried to yank it away. With his right hand he used the shard to rip and stab. Roy-Boy stumbled backward. He was screaming things that might have been words, but Blackburn didn't listen to them. The only voice he listened to now was his own, the voice that told him what needed to be done.
They fell to the floor in the hall. Blackburn kept his teeth clamped and his left hand on the pistol, but concentrated on driving the shard into Roy-Boy's eyes, throat, belly, and groin. The odor of soap was overwhelmed by stronger smells. Before long the pistol came free.
Blackburn rolled off Roy-Boy and squatted beside him. He threw the shard into the living room. Then he looked down at what remained of Roy-Boy's face.
"You'd like to believe you're evil," Blackburn said. "But you're only stupid. Anyone who's done it seriously knows there's only one good way to kilclass="underline" a bullet to the head. Of course, with the smaller calibers, it might take more than one." He placed the muzzle of the silver pistol against Roy-Boy's forehead. "Do you know the answer to my question yet?"
One of Roy-Boy's hands flopped aimlessly.
"It's simple," Blackburn said.
He cocked the pistol.
"Because I felt like it."
He squeezed the trigger until the gun was empty.
Blackburn dropped the pistol on Roy-Boy's chest and stood. He was dizzy for a moment and steadied himself against the wall, leaving a handprint. He was a mess. There had been a lot of blood some of the other times, but never this much. He wanted to brush his teeth and take a shower. He wanted to scrub and burn incense until Roy-Boy's stink was gone.
On the floor, the carcass twitched. Its ponytail had come loose, and the hair was spread out like a fan on the trash bag Blackburn had dropped. The plastic was keeping most of the hair off the wet carpet. Blackburn thought of taking the scalp, then rejected the idea. He didn't want a trophy. He wasn't proud of the way things had gone with Roy-Boy.
He heard a noise in the bedroom and turned to look. Heather was up on her knees. She had managed to free her right wrist and was now trying to loosen the cords around her ankles. She wasn't having any success. She was unsteady, swaying.
Blackburn went to her. "I can do that," he said.
She looked up at him and tried to say something, or to scream. All that came out was a moan.
Blackburn wiped his hands on his shirt. It didn't help. His shirt was wet. "This is mostly his," he said.
Heather looked away as Blackburn untied the cords around her ankles. When she was free, he tried to help her up, but she pulled away and got off the bed on the other side. She stumbled into the hall.
Blackburn pulled the top sheet from the bed. The apartment was cold, and he thought Heather should cover herself. He went into the hall and saw her step over Roy-Boy's body. She didn't seem to notice it. He followed her into the kitchen and turned on the light. Then he draped the sheet over her shoulders, and she didn't even glance at him.
He saw that she was no longer the Heather who had slept with him, and he knew that he was responsible. For the first time in his life, he was horrified at himself. Not for what he had done, but for what he had failed to do. In that failure, he had become an accessory to torture and rape. Killing was not always murder, and stealing was not always a crime… but torture and rape were absolutes.