“I appreciate this, Don.”

“Now let me ask. You got some bucks to spend?”

“How’s that?”

“There’s somebody I’m thinking might be a help. But he ain’t cheap.”

“We’re a state hospital,” Adler said. “We don’t have much money.”

“That may be true. But one thing you do have is an escaped nutzo who happens to look like Attila the effing Hun. So, what about it? You gonna hear me out?”

“Oh, by all means, Captain. By all means.”

A cold and anxious Michael Hrubek stood on broad, naked feet in the center of a large rectangle of ruined grass. His hands gripped the waistband of his muddy and dew-stained shorts, and he stared at the shabby building before him.

The small shop-taxidermy, trapping and hunting supplies-was surrounded by chicken wire suspended from rusted posts with Baggie twist ties. Much of the mesh was squashed to the ground in a way that for some reason depressed Hrubek profoundly.

He had run all the way from the site of the attack on the orderlies to this cluster of lights, ghostly in the fog: a truck stop, which contained this shop, a diner, a gas station and an antique store. Positive he was being pursued by the Secret Service, Hrubek wanted to keep moving. But, as he’d announced aloud to himself, a naked man’d be “too damn obvious. Make no mistake about that.”

He’d then noticed a window in this outdoors shop and that had decided the matter.

He now stood in the exact spot where he’d been frozen in place for the past few minutes, gazing into the store at seven tiny animal skulls, boiled and bleached white as clouds.

Oh, look there. Look at that!

Seven was an important number in the cosmology of Michael Hrubek and he now leaned forward, counting them aloud, and enjoying the sound of the numbers in his mouth.

Seven skulls, seven letters, M-I-C-H-A-E-L.

Make no mistake, he thought. This is a special night.

Much of Hrubek’s thinking was metaphoric and the image now occurred to him that he was waking up. He liked to sleep. He loved to sleep. Hours and hours in bed. His favorite position was on his side with his knees drawn up as far as his massive legs and thick chest and belly would allow. Most of his waking hours too were a type of sleep-a slippery succession of chaotic dreams, a jumble of disconnected faces and scenes that fished past him, products of both his troubled mind and various medications.

Awake!

He bent down and in the dirt at his feet wrote with his stubby finger: i as I am AWakE tonIght. AWakE!

He made his way around the store, noting a sign that said the owner was on vacation. He kicked in the side door and entered. Avoiding a tall black bear, mounted in a rearing position, he made a circuit of the shop. He inhaled deeply and smelled musk and boiled game flesh, his hands shaking with exhilaration. He noticed shelves containing clothing and he rummaged through the piles of shirts and coveralls until he found several items that more or less fit. Then socks, and finally an Irish-tweed cap that he liked very much. He placed it on his head.

“Very fashionable,” he whispered, looking into a mirror.

Hrubek continued searching until he located a pair of engineer’s boots and struggled to pull them on. They were tight but not painful. “John Worker,” he muttered, running his hands over his clothes with approval. “John Worker.” He poured cleaning fluid onto a rag and scrubbed hard at his face to remove the blue ink from his cheeks and forehead.

He solemnly placed the seven skulls into a green canvas backpack he found in the shop. Then, keeping a suspicious eye on the rearing bear, Hrubek crossed the floor to the sales counter, where he’d noticed a display of cellophane packs of beef jerky. He ripped them open with his teeth, one after another, and chewed down the salty meat, all eight packages.

He was about to leave when he glanced down, beneath the counter, and his face broke into a huge grin.

“A present from Jesus Cry-ist our Weeping Lord.”

The pistol was a long-barreled Colt revolver. Hrubek lifted it to his face and smelled it and rubbed the cold blue metal on his cheek, grinning like a boy who’d just pocketed a ten-dollar bill. He put the gun in his backpack and, once more sizing up the bear, slipped from the door.

A wedge of light suddenly filled the grass, accompanied by the clatter of an aluminum door. Hrubek stepped quickly into a large open shed behind the shop and pulled the pistol from the backpack.

A man’s voice cut through the night, “You left it out there, you go pick it up. It’s rusted, I’ll tan your hide, young man.”

The man was speaking from a dingy but brightly lit one-story house from whose chimney drifted wood and trash smoke. It was about thirty yards from the shop.

A boy, about eight or nine, walked sullenly past the shed. Without looking inside he disappeared behind the shop. A moment later he started back toward the house, holding a long hammer close to his eyes, inspecting it and scratching hopelessly with his thumbnail at dots of rust.

A noise nearby startled Hrubek. A fat raccoon was in the shed, scuttling over the concrete floor. It hadn’t seen him and was nosing obliviously among garbage bags. The boy had heard the scratching of claws on concrete and stopped. Holding the rusted hammer like a club he stepped to the shed door and peered into inky darkness.

Hrubek’s heart began to pulsate violently as he wondered what to do if the boy confronted him. What will I tell him? I know-I will tell him that I am Will-i-am Tell. I will shoot him in the head, Hrubek said to himself, and tried to control his panicked breath. The raccoon paused cautiously as it heard the boy’s footsteps. Its head turned and, seeing Hrubek, the animal tensed. Baring its fangs it panicked and leapt at the madman’s leg. In a short portion of a second Hrubek lunged, seizing the big animal by the neck. Even before the needlelike claws lashed out, Hrubek snapped its spine with a quiet pop.

Nice try, he thought. No such luck.

The animal quivered once and died.

The boy stepped closer to the doorway and listened. When he heard nothing else he walked slowly back into the house. The backyard spotlight was extinguished.

Hrubek calmed as he absently stroked the fur of the raccoon for a moment then arranged the animal very carefully on its stomach with its rear legs and tail spread out behind, its front paws reaching forward. Salivating with lust Hrubek picked up a screwdriver from a workbench and drove it deep into the back of the animal’s skull. Then he extracted the tool and threw the limp corpse into the corner of the garage.

As he was about to leave he looked above his head and saw a row of six animal traps hanging from pegs.

Well, look at this. More presents… These’ll slow ’em up, make no mistake!

Slipping three of the traps into his backpack, Hrubek stepped outside. He paused in the middle of a dusty patch behind the shop and smelled his hands. Mixed with the gasoline was a musky scent from the raccoon. He held his fingers close to his face and inhaled this smell on the wood-fire-laden air, deep, deep, so deep that his lungs hurt. As if the air overflowed into his groin, he went almost immediately erect. He guided his penis out of his overalls and stroked himself absently, using the slick blood from the screwdriver to lubricate the motion. Eyes closed, he swiveled his head sideways, keeping time with his right arm, feeling the pitch intensify, growing more and more dizzy as he hyperventilated.

He moaned an unearthly sound as he ejaculated, amply and hard, upon the dark earth.

Hrubek wiped his hands on the grass then he adjusted his Irish hat square on his head. Slipping into a stand of bushes he crouched down and made himself comfortable. There was only one more thing he needed right now and he knew in his heart God was about to send it to him.