Lis pictured a dark-red, a blood-red Victorian John Armstrong rose and that was the last image in her mind before she slipped under.

It was perhaps no more than ten seconds later that a branch snapped, loud as a gunshot. Lis, her ruddy hands folded scrupulously on her chest like the effigy of a long-dead saint, sat up, instantly and irrevocably awake, drawing closed her blouse and pulling down her skirt, as she stared at the dark form of the man who appeared from a row of hemlocks and trod forward.

Easing the ’79 Chevy pickup off the back road onto Route 236 he goosed the lazy ticking engine until the truck climbed to seventy. He heard what he diagnosed as an ornery bearing and chose not to think about it further.

Trenton Heck sat nearly reclining, his left foot on the accelerator and his right straight out, resting on the bench under the saggy flesh of a four-year-old male dog, whose face was full of lamentation. This was the way Heck drove-with his leg stretched out, not necessarily with a hound atop it-and he’d bought a vehicle with an automatic transmission and bench seat solely because of this practice.

Exactly thirty-two years older than the dog, Trenton Heck was sometimes referred to as “that skinny guy from Hammond Creek” though if people saw him with his shirt off, revealing muscles formed from a life of hunting, fishing, and odd jobs in rural towns, they’d decide that he wasn’t skinny at all. He was lean, he was sinewy. Only in the past month had his belly started to roll past his waistband. This was due mostly to inactivity though some of it could be traced to chain-drinking Budweisers and to single suppers of twin TV dinners.

Heck tonight massaged a spot on his faded blue jeans under which was a glossy mess of old bullet wound dead center in his right thigh. Four years old (coming up on the anniversary, he reflected), the wound still pulled his muscles taut as cold rubber bands. Heck passed a slow-moving sedan and eased back into his lane. A big plastic Milk Bone swung from the truck’s rearview mirror. It looked real and Heck had bought it to perplex the dog though of course it didn’t; Emil was a purebred blood.

Heck drove along the highway at a good clip, whistling a tuneless tune between uneven teeth. A roadside sign flashed past and he lifted his foot off the accelerator and braked quickly, causing the hound to slide forward on the vinyl seat, grimacing. Heck eased into the turnoff and drove a quarter mile down a country lane of bad asphalt. He saw lights in the far distance and a few shy stars but mostly felt an overwhelming sense of solitude. He found the deserted roadside stand-a shack from which a farmer had years ago sold cheese and honey. Heck climbed out of the truck, leaving the engine running and the dog antsy on the seat.

Heck’s outfit tonight was what he always wore unless the temperature was crackling cold: a black T-shirt under a workshirt under a blue-jean jacket. Covering the curly brown hair that dipped over his ears was a cap emblazoned with the logo of the New York Mets. The cap had been a present from a woman who could recite all the vital statistics of the Flushing Meadow sluggers going back fifteen years (Jill had a great knuckleball herself) but he didn’t care for the team and wore the tattered hat only because it was a present from her.

He looked around uneasily and wandered in a slow circle through the dusty parking area. He glanced at the idling truck and concluded that it was too much of a beacon. He shut off the engine and lights. Enveloped in darkness, he resumed his pacing. Rustling sounded nearby. Heck immediately recognized the sound of a raccoon’s footfalls. Moments later he identified a residue of musk on a skunk’s ass fur as the animal passed silently behind him. These creatures weren’t a threat, yet as he paced he kept his hand on the black Bakelite ribbed grip of his old automatic pistol, dangling from an even older cowboy holster, complete with rawhide leg thongs.

Clouds filled the sky. The storm was overdue. Rain if you’ve gotta, he spoke silently though not heavenward, but keep that wind away for another few hours, Lord. I could use some help here and I could use it bad.

A twig snapped behind him, loud, and he turned fast, coming close to drawing down on a conspicuous birch tree. He knew of few animals in the wild that would snap twigs this way; he recalled only a towering moose lumbering along with her calves, and a seven-foot grizzly bear, gazing at Heck hungrily from the amiable haze of his protected-species status.

Maybe it’s a drunk deer, he thought, to cheer himself up.

Heck continued to pace. Then lights filled the parking lot and the car arrived. It parked with a leisurely squeal of brakes. Upright as a boot-camp sergeant, the gray-suited officer walked over the damp ground to where Heck stood.

“Don.” Heck offered a limp salute.

“ Trent. Glad you were free. Good to see you.”

“That storm’s on its way,” Heck said.

“That Emil of yours could scent through a hurricane, I thought.”

That may be, he told Haversham, but he wasn’t inclined to get himself lightning-struck. “Now, who’s the escapee?”

“That psycho they got at Indian Leap last spring. You remember it?”

“Who don’t, round here?”

“Snuck off in somebody’s body bag tonight.” Haversham explained about the escape.

“Crazy maybe but that shows some smarts.”

“He’s over near Stinson.”

“So he drove a ways, this nutzo?”

“Yup. The coroner’s boy, the one who was driving’s over there now. So’s Charlie Fennel and a couple troopers from J. He’s got his bitches with him.”

The Troop’s dogs weren’t true trackers but hunting dogs- Labradors -occasionally drafted for scenting. They had fair noses and being spayed bitches they stayed clear of posts and trees and weren’t easily led astray. But they did get distracted. Emil was a track-sure dog; when he was on scent he’d walk right over a rabbit sitting in his path and ignore it, and the only sound you’d hear was the rasp of his anxious breath as he charged along the trail. The girls on the other hand were track-happy and spent much of the time quartering with sloppy enthusiasm and yelping. Still, when you were after a dangerous escapee, it was good practice to go with a pack. He asked Haversham what they could use to scent on.

“Skivvies.” The captain handed over a plastic bag. Heck was confident that Haversham knew how to handle scent articles. He’d have made sure that the underwear hadn’t been laundered recently and that nobody had touched the cloth with their fingers. The trooper added, “He’s running mostly naked, near as we can tell.”

Heck thought the captain was joking.

“No sir. He’s a big fellow, got lots of padding on him. Adler, that doctor at Marsden, he was telling me these schizos don’t feel cold like normal people. It’s like they’re pretty numb. They don’t feel pain either. You can hit ’em and they don’t even know they’re hit.”

“Ooo, that’s good to know, Don. Tell me, does he fly too?”

Haversham chuckled then added, “They say he’s pretty harmless. He does this a lot. Adler says he’s escaped from seven hospitals. They always find him. It’s like a game for him. The bag he snuck out in? The fellow’s it was, was a suicide.”

“Harmless? Didn’t they read about Indian Leap?” Heck snickered, and nodded down the road toward Marsden hospital. “Who’s crazy in there and who isn’t?” Heck was suddenly unable to look at Haversham. “Say, over the phone you mentioned five hundred for my fee. And the reward. Ten thousand. That right, Don? Ten?”

“Yessir. The fee’s from my assistance fund just like normal. The reward’s from the state. From Adler’s budget. He’s pretty anxious to get this fellow.”

“I don’t suppose he put it in writing?”

“Adler? Nope. But he’s really anxious to see this boy caught. You collar him, you’ll get your money, Trent. And you’re the only civvy on the case. My boys can’t take a penny.”