their partners, whose families are complete, and whose incomes must support those families. We prefer that single men who have fathered no children see private physicians…'
A woman in a white smock appeared in the doorway. 'Melissa,' she called. 'We're ready.'
Across the room, a girl of sixteen or seventeen stood up. As she stepped around the children, she trembled.
'…but, in any case, you should read the pamphlet,' Ms. Duncan was saying. She opened the drawer again and brought out a sheet of paper. 'Then I hope you'll contact one of the physicians on this list.' She put the list on the desk and looked at Blackburn as if she expected him to take it and leave.
He watched the girl named Melissa disappear down a hall.
'Why is she going back there?' he asked.
Ms. Duncan stared. 'That's none of your business.'
Blackburn stared back. 'Does she have a family? Must her income support it? Did she consult with her partner?'
Ms. Duncan's face flushed. 'Please leave.'
'Why?'
'Because I don't think you're here for information. I think you're one of those who stand outside and shout horrible things at the people who come to us for help. You're here to harass us.'
Blackburn shook his head. 'No. I'm here because I don't want kids. I have no partner to consult, but since I work as a short-order cook, I also have no savings account or health insurance.'
Ms. Duncan studied him. 'All right,' she said, picking up a pen and poising it over a calendar. 'You'll have to meet with our staff counselor.'
'I don't need-'
'It's required. The discussion will deal with your reasons for this decision and with the nature of the procedure. Your cost will be calculated then.' She looked at the calendar. 'Could you come back tomorrow at five forty-five?'
'I'll be here.'
'I'm glad I was able to help you,' Ms. Duncan said.
Blackburn was glad too. When Ms. Duncan had begun asking her irritating questions, he had decided to kill her if she turned him away. He had never killed a woman before, and he had not been happy at the prospect.
The sun had gone down, and the air was cold. As Blackburn left the building, he put his hands into the side pockets of his jeans jacket and gazed at the concrete walk. He didn't see the people who blocked his way until he was almost upon them. They hadn't been there when he'd arrived.
There were eight of them, clustered beside the drive that led to the clinic parking lot. Each held a burning candle in one hand and a handmade sign in the other. The letters shone in the glare of the streetlights.
Blackburn stopped and read the signs, GOD COUNTS THE CHILDREN, said one. SAVE THE UNBORN, said another. ABORTION IS MURDER, said a third.
A man stepped out of the cluster and asked, 'Have you come from in there?' He pointed with his candle, and the flame faltered. 'There where they butcher babies?'
'I've just been inside,' Blackburn said, 'but I don't know anything about any butchering.'
A slender woman joined the man. She was dressed in a gray coat with matching gloves, muffler, and cap. Her eyes and lips gleamed with reflections of her candle flame. Wisps of brown hair quivered beneath the edge of her cap.
'If you've been in there, you know about it,' she said. Her voice had a rich timbre but was hoarse. 'They do abortions.'
'They didn't do one to me,' Blackburn said. 'Now, please, let me pass. My car is across the street.'
'So why are you here?' the woman demanded. 'Did you drop off your girlfriend so she could let them kill your baby? Or-' The flames in her eyes brightened. 'Or have you killed babies yourself? Are you going to a home paid for with the flesh of infants?'
Blackburn had heard enough. These people were lucky that after his close call with Ms. Duncan, he didn't feel much like killing anyone tonight. He strode forward.
The man who had confronted him jumped aside, and the cluster of six did likewise. The woman in gray stayed where she was.
Blackburn stopped again to decide whether to shoulder his way past her or to try to go around.
The woman dropped her candle and reached into a pocket, bringing out a vial filled with dark liquid. She pulled out the stopper with her teeth (perfect teeth, Blackburn saw; white, smooth), then spat it out and screamed
The liquid hit him in the face and got into his left eye and his mouth. He took his hands from his jacket pockets, and as he rubbed his eye, he tasted what was on his tongue: blood. Cow's blood, pig's blood, maybe even blood that the woman had drawn from her own veins.
She remained before him, holding the vial like a weapon. It was not empty.
Blackburn took a step. The woman stood her ground. He reached out and plucked the vial from her glove, raised it to his lips, and drank. When the blood stopped flowing, he put his tongue inside and cleaned the glass.
Then he dropped the vial to the sidewalk and crushed it under his foot. The edge of his shoe caught the discarded candle as well, flattening it.
The woman gaped at him.
Blackburn walked around her and crossed the street to his car. Once inside, he turned on the interior light and examined the smears on his fingers. He almost reached for his Colt Python, which was nestled under the seat, but did not. He was calling it even with the woman in gray.
When he returned the next evening, the protesters were pacing, their breath wafting in faint clouds. He parked the Dart where he had the day before and walked across, but they ignored him as he passed.
Inside, Ms. Duncan gave him a personal information and medical history form to fill out, and when he had completed it (having lied where necessary), she led him to a cubicle where the staff counselor, a black man in his mid-thirties, was waiting. Ms. Duncan introduced the counselor as Lawrence Tatum.
'Call me Larry,' Tatum said as Ms. Duncan left. He was sitting at a desk covered with a jumble of books, pamphlets, and folders. 'I'll take that data sheet off your hands.'
Blackburn handed him the form and sat down. The desk was against the wall, so the two men faced each other with nothing between them.
Tatum examined the form, then looked up and asked, 'What happens if you decide to get married, your wife-to-be wants kids, and you've had your balls disconnected?'
Blackburn tried to imagine the situation, but the only wife-to-be he could picture was Dolores, she of the perpetual white bikini patches. 'I won't be a father,' he said, remembering how his own father had shot his dog and then pushed his face into the gravel for crying. 'Any woman who knew me and still wanted to have children by me would make a poor wife.'
'A vasectomy is permanent, Arthur. What if you turn thirty and all of a sudden,
Blackburn doubted that he would live to be thirty, but he considered the question
