Today was going to be a good one, he assured himself. The pressure had built up since the last time, three weeks ago. Tall, clean-shaven, a rather boyish face and an athletic, muscular build obscured by a loose fitting shirt and pants; these made for an unthreatening appearance. The sling for his left arm gave him the exact aura of helplessness, which almost always paid off. And the sling was a handy place to hide the straightedge razor. He had six of the burnished lengths of steel, always treated gently, carefully honed and oiled. His favorite with the carved ivory eagle head for a handle was the one he'd decided to use today. It had splendid memories attached to it, and he'd spent almost an hour stropping it before coming out to the mall. Just a touch with it would break the flesh.

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Deep in the wildest, most forsaken suburbs was a lively little house, all pea green with purple squiggles. Its windows blinked briskly awake and its door yawned, and a long pink welcome mat rolled out. A little boy named Derek stepped out on the porch and flapped his arms and crowed "Cocka-doodle-do!"

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Kentucky Tom Granger stood in the dust-beaten main street of a town called Tolerance and faced the Spirit of the bleeding west. Wooden buildings lined the hardpacked street, discolored to gray uniformity by the sand-laden desert winds. Tom had crossed the Arizona border to reach the town, but Tolerance was not in Arizona, or any other state, either. Tolerance was simply in the west.

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