And this, Jazz had said with incredulity, is the price of your help?

And it had been. And so Jazz had done as Billy had commanded. Even now, months later, he wasn’t sure exactly why. Billy had no way of enforcing the favor he’d asked, after all. But Jazz had felt honor bound to do it. As though not moving that damn birdbath would have proven that he was an uncaring, unfeeling sociopath like Dear Old Dad, would have cemented his fate. So he’d moved it, and that very night Billy had broken out of prison.

Soon after the escape and its horrifying aftermath, Jazz had come clean to G. William, confessing to the sheriff that he’d done a favor for Billy. “I don’t see how it could be connected,” he’d said. “But I also don’t see how it couldn’t be.”

The next day—much to Gramma’s deluded consternation—a team made up of local cops and FBI analysts had descended on Jazz’s backyard. They dug up the ground where the birdbath had rested for years. They dug up the ground under its current location. They took sightings with surveyors’ tools along multiple angles, checking to see who or what might have a clear line of sight to the birdbath.

And they had also examined the birdbath itself, ultimately discovering the truth that destroyed Jazz.

Four screws held part of the fountain casing in place. Three of them were old and tarnished, but one was newer, still shiny. A bomb expert was called in—just in case—and when the screws were removed and the mechanism disassembled, they found…

“A GPS transmitter,” G. William told Jazz later that night in the sheriff’s office, where he’d summoned Jazz. “Pretty good one, too. Accurate to five meters.”

“Or one backyard,” Jazz muttered.

“Well…” G. William clearly didn’t want to confirm it. The big man’s florid, misshapen nose—bashed out of normalcy after a lifetime of being a cop—went bright red as the rest of his face paled. “Well, yeah.”

“So I move the birdbath and somewhere in the world, Billy’s lunatic confederate sees the Bat-signal and realizes it’s time to spring his Lord and Master from Wammaket. Next thing you know, there are dead guards—”

“Corrections officers,” G. William emended.

“Corrections officers, right, and Billy is in the wind.”

Billy’s escape gnawed at him with rat teeth. Obviously, he would rather Dear Old Dad stay behind bars, leaving Wammaket only when zipped up into a nice little body bag all his own. But Melissa… and the deaths of the COs… ah, now those chewed at him with saber-tooth fangs. Was he responsible for their deaths? In a manner of speaking, sure—he had set in motion the events leading to Billy’s escape, and the COs and Melissa had died as a result of that escape. But Jazz himself hadn’t killed them. The corrections officers had died during a mini-riot that covered Billy as he broke out of the infirmary and made his way outside. And Melissa had died ugly, at Billy’s own hand. Even if Jazz had known that moving the birdbath would mean Billy’s escape, could he reasonably have assumed people would die in the process?

He didn’t know. That didn’t stop him from feeling guilt, though.

Unless it wasn’t really guilt.

They got all these emotions, Billy had told him once. Things like love and fear and compassion and regret. They got ’em deep inside, all twisty and tight like a knot of living snakes. They think they’re in control of themselves, but they really just do what the snakes tell them.

“They,” of course, were ordinary people. Sheep. Potential victims. Prospects was the word Billy used to describe them. And their emotions? Well, those things were useless for people like Billy, but it was important to know how to fake them.

Is that what I’m doing? Jazz wondered. I know I should feel guilty for getting those people killed. And Billy spent my whole life teaching me how to pretend to feel things I wasn’t really feeling. Am I just fooling myself? Am I just acting guilty because that’s how I’m supposed to act? What is it really supposed to feel like?

Maybe Connie would know. Maybe Connie could describe it to him. Help him understand.

Maybe.

Almost against his will, he had shared more with Connie than he’d ever intended. He’d told her about the dreams, for example, the dreams in which he held a knife and cut… something. Or someone. He didn’t know for sure. He’d wondered for the longest time who he’d been cutting in the dream. Maybe it was his mother, he’d wondered. Maybe he had killed her….

But the last time he’d seen Billy, his father had seemed to deny that, saying that Jazz was a killer… just one who hadn’t killed yet. It was typical Billy double-talk, the kind of stuff Billy had said all of Jazz’s life, words defined and redefined and misdefined to break down Jazz’s natural inhibitions. People out there ain’t real, Billy would say. They ain’t really real, not real like you’re real or I’m real. They’re real in their own false way. They think they’re real, but they only get to think it because we let them, you see?

Classic brainwashing tactics. Cults used them. Heck, most established religions did, too. The human mind was a horribly fragile thing—breaking it and reassembling it in a new order was so easy it was depressing.

People are real, Jazz told himself, repeating his mantra. People matter.

In the dream, though, nothing mattered. Nothing, that is, except for bringing down the knife, his father’s voice urgent, the knife meeting the flesh… then parting it…

That dream was bad enough. But the new one… the one that had started the very night Billy escaped, the night Jazz met and defeated the Impressionist…

—touch—

—his hand runs up—

Oh, yes, you know—

—touching—

—you know how to—

The doorbell rang. Thank God.

Jazz got to the door before Gramma could, calming her as he cut through the parlor. “It’s just the doorbell,” he told her.

“Air raid!” Gramma screamed. “Air raid! Commie missiles!”

“Doorbell,” Jazz assured her. “Look—Bowflex on TV!”

Gramma swiveled and hitched in a breath at the sight of an oiled bodybuilder doing bench presses. “Muscles!” she shouted, and clapped like a little girl.

Jazz peered through the small window next to the door and heaved a sigh of relief that Gramma hadn’t made it to the door first—the man on the porch was black, and Gramma’s notion of racial tolerance hadn’t evolved past the late forties. The eighteen-forties.

The man was unfamiliar, but Jazz recognized the stance, the poise. Not a reporter, thank God. The guy was a cop of some variety. Maybe even an FBI agent. In any event, it was no one Jazz wanted to talk to. He would have to shoo the guy off—if he just ignored him, he would ring the bell again and set Gramma off.

So he opened the door a crack and focused his sternest gaze out onto the porch. “We gave at the office. I don’t like Girl Scout cookies. No, I would not like a copy of The Watchtower—we’re Buddhist. Thanks and bye.”

Before he could get the door closed, though, the cop moved with practiced ease and jammed his toe in the gap. “You don’t work at an office. You were raised Lutheran. And what on earth do you have against Thin Mints?”

Jazz pushed against the door. Nothing doing. The cop was wearing steel-toed boots; he could stand there all day. “You caught me. I just don’t like cops.”

“Neither do I,” the man said with forced joviality. “Come on, kid.” His voice became suddenly earnest, almost pleading. “Give me five minutes. I promise I’ll leave you alone after that.”

“Last person I opened this door for turned out to be doing his best impersonation of my father. You understand why I’m hesitant.”