THE NUMBER of necessary killings was growing. There was no emotional problem there, but the risk had increased. Moonie recognized risk. Two of the remaining killings, Jerry Johnstone and Roman Schmidt, were matters of honor, simple as that. They were essential and inescapable and had already been delayed too long. If not done now, the targets might escape forever. Moonie blew some more smoke at the sky. Once the honor killings were done, and the reality had soaked in—the completion of his task, the pleasure of the memories—there’d be time to rest. Sleep had never come easily—four good hours were hard to find, and after thirty-plus years of sleep deprivation, Moonie had built up a great crankiness. Or maybe insanity. Whatever. Made no difference. TWO MORE KILLINGS were business necessities. A third, that of Virgil Flowers, might become necessary, because of the way Flowers was deliberately roiling the town. People were closing down, locking doors, talking from behind chains.
