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.