The trumpet was tarnished and blood-stained and there was a long scratch along one side from a grazing bullet. Max used it to obliterate everything that had ever happened to him and take him away from the roach-infested dives he played at. He also used it as a blunt instrument to kill three of his wives, his old manager, and his accountant. The cops in Sweelley were still trying to figure out what had caused the deaths. Marvin Orr, the lieutenant in charge, had a whole table of lamp bases of various shapes and sizes and a dry-erase board of artistic renderings of the possible impact scenarios. Dorley, Orr’s competitor, had a list on his board that included statuettes, alarm clocks, and “Oriental weapons” but neither of them had come up with “trumpet” and Max was such a well-dressed and well-groomed citizen that no one in law enforcement suspected him yet.

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Reggie and Diane walked down the country road, meadows on either side, the sinking sun making the grasses glow. Diane, blonde hair dyed almost white, took a drag on a cigarette, sucking as much of the poison out of it that she could. Reggie stared out at the blinding sun. They walked a full mile without saying anything to each other. “I need to go to the store,” she said, finally. “The store?” he asked. She nodded. “Why?”

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The rain came down like daggers and Mulley cowered with Jen and the little guy Trent in the shadows under the overpass. Trent got the strange wooden box running, cranking the iron handle with his stubby arms. He watched for the electric charges to start bouncing around. “Maybe they already came down,” said Jen. “Hope not,” said Trent, cranking away, the box creating a racket with its squeaking gears and its buzzing. Mulley stared up at the raindrops as they showered down, sparkling from the streetlight. Jen and Trent watched the box. They heard a distant dog barking furiously.

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