'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
'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.
EIGHT
The deadbolt wasn't set, so Blackburn broke into the apartment with a six-inch metal ruler. A lamp was on inside. He scanned the living room, but wasn't interested in the TV or stereo. This was a second-story apartment with outside stairs, so he couldn't take anything big. The VCR was small enough, but he decided against it anyway. He wasn't proud that he had turned to thievery, so he preferred to steal only those things that were of no use or pleasure to their owners. But that rule tended to limit him to class rings and junk, so he didn't always stick to it.
He didn't bother with the kitchen. Apartment dwellers didn't own silver. He pulled his folded duffel bag from his coat and stepped into the hallway that led to the bedroom. Bedrooms were good for jewelry. Houston pawn shops paid cash for gold chains and silver earrings.
The bedroom door opened, and a man stepped out. Blackburn froze.
The man closed the door behind him. He was tall. His face and most of his body were shadowed. His right hand was empty, but Blackburn couldn't see his left. It might be holding a weapon.
'What are you doing here?' the man asked. His voice was of moderate pitch. He didn't sound upset.
Blackburn was confused. He had watched this building for three days, noting the occupants of each apartment and their schedules. This unit's occupant was a woman who had left for her night shift at Whataburger twenty minutes ago. He was sure that she lived alone. The man at the end of the hall should not exist.
'Don't be afraid,' the man said. 'I just want to know why you're here.'
Blackburn took two steps backward. His Colt Python was in its pouch in his coat, but he couldn't reach for it without dropping the duffel bag from his right hand. Then it would take two or three seconds to reach into the left side of his coat, open the Velcro flap, and pull out the pistol. If the shadowed man had a gun or knife, Blackburn might be dead before getting off a shot. So his best option was to leave, but he had to do it without turning his back.
'Tell me why you're here,' the shadowed man said, 'and I won't hurt you. But if you don't stand still, I will.'
Blackburn stopped. 'I was going to steal things,' he said, 'but I'm not going to now.'
'What things were you going to steal?'
'Jewelry. Rings, necklaces. Maybe a musical instrument, like an old trumpet or an out-of-tune guitar.'
'Why out of tune?' the shadowed man asked.
'A guitar that's in tune is in use,' Blackburn said. 'I don't like to steal things people use.'
The shadowed man gave a short chuckle, almost a grunt. 'A burglar with a moral code,' he said. 'But people use jewelry too, you know.'
'It just hangs there,' Blackburn said. 'It's stupid.'
'In your opinion.'
Blackburn started to relax his grip on the duffel bag. He had decided to try for the Python. 'Yes,' he said. 'In my opinion.'
'And that's the only opinion that counts.'
'Yes.' The duffel began to slip from Blackburn's fingers.
'Don't reach for your pistol, Musician,' the shadowed man said.
'I don't have a pistol.'
'You have a lump in your coat. It's big, but the wrong shape for an automatic. I'm guessing a three fifty-seven. A forty-four would be awfully heavy.'
Blackburn tightened his grip on the duffel bag again. 'All right. I won't reach for it.'
'Good. If you did, I'd have to kill you. And that would be a shame, because I agree with you. Your opinion is the only one that matters.
'That's a contradiction,' Blackburn said.
'Why? You create your world, I create mine. Contradictions only exist for people who aren't bright enough to do that. When they come up against someone who is, it's matter and antimatter. Know what I mean?'
'Yes.'
'I knew you would,' the shadowed man said. 'I'm going to come toward you now so we can see each other. I'll move slowly, and you won't move at all. All right?'
'All right.'
A smell of deodorant soap preceded the man as he stepped from the shadows. He had long dark hair, shot through with gray. It was pulled back from his face. His skin was sallow, his eyes a greenish brown. He was wearing a hooded black pullover sweatshirt, black sweatpants, and gray running shoes. His left hand held a small paper bag. There was no visible weapon.
Blackburn dropped his duffel and brought out the Python. He cocked it and pointed it at the man's face.
The man stopped. 'You agreed not to move,' he said.
