“We’ll get him.”

The captain looked off into the night and seemed to be debating. Finally he said, “ Trenton? I know I told you he wasn’t dangerous but keep that close to you.” Haversham indicated the pistol on Heck’s hip. “I gotta tell you-was probably an accident, from what Adler says, but Hrubek might’ve attacked a couple orderlies. Cracked one of ’em’s arm like a toothpick. Could’ve died if nobody’d found him.”

“Well, is he dangerous, or ain’t he?” Heck asked.

“All I’m saying is, keep your eye out. Say, what is that piece?”

“That old P-38 of mine.” Heck patted his holster, remembering in detail the day he handed his Glock service automatic over to this very man, Heck’s eyes frozen on the black gun as he turned it in, grip first, clip out, slide locked open. The badge and the ID card followed. Heck had bought the uniform himself so they let him keep that though he had to sign a form that said he’d never wear it in public, and his face was red with anger and shame as he set his name to paper.

“They still sell ammunition for that old thing?”

“Nine-millimeter parabellum is all it is.”

Haversham stuck his head through the passenger window and stroked the hound’s head. The dog sat insensible and bored, staring at the motion of the captain’s gray hair. “All right, Emil, go do us and your master proud. You hear? You go catch us a crazy man. Good boy, good boy.” Haversham turned to Heck. “Isn’t he a good old boy?”

And Trenton Heck-who’d midwived bitches and nursed pups with eyedroppers and sucked snake venom out of the shoulders of retrievers and sped to vets at ninety mph to save dogs that could be saved and shot them remorselessly with a merciful bullet when they could not, who didn’t speak to dogs except to command them-Trenton Heck just nodded at the captain with a cautious smile. “Better be going. ’Fore that track gets cold.”

“How the hell did it happen?” Owen barked. “He’s a madman. He can’t escape! Did they leave the son-of-a-bitch door open?”

“Some mix-up of some kind. They were kind of, you know, sketchy on details.” Stanley Weber, duly elected sheriff of the Incorporated Village of Ridgeton, turned out to have been the intruder who’d wakened Lis from her brief sleep. He’d passed by without even noticing her, directed by Portia down to the culvert where Owen was working.

His news was far more disturbing than his unexpected arrival.

“My God, Stan,” Lis said, “it’s a hospital for the criminally insane. Don’t they have bars?”

She was remembering: Eyes set deep in the moonish jolly mad face. Teeth yellow. His howling voice. “Sic semper tyrannis… Lis-bone… Hello Lis-bone!”

“There’s no excuse for it.” Owen paced angrily. He was a large man, strong in many ways, and he had a temper that scared even Lis. The sheriff crossed his arms defensively and leaned into the anger. “When did it happen?” Owen continued. “Do they know where he’s going?”

“Within the last couple hours. I was on the radio.” He pointed to his squad car as if trying to lead Owen’s fury off track. “I was speaking to Don Haversham. With the state police?” He added significantly, “He’s a good man. He’s a captain.”

“Oh, a captain. My.”

Lis found herself staring at the sheriff’s feet; in his heavy, dark boots he appeared less a civil servant than a man of combat on a combat mission. A breath of air stirred, reaching damply into her blouse. She watched a dozen leaves fall straight from the branches of a towering maple as if seeking cover before the storm arrived. Lis shivered and realized the kitchen door was ajar. She closed it.

Footsteps sounded suddenly and Lis glanced at the doorway to the living room.

Portia paused then entered the kitchen, still dressed in her thin, sexy outfit, her abundant breasts provocatively defined by the white silken cloth of her blouse. The sheriff nodded at the young woman, who smiled indifferently. The lawman’s eyes dipped twice to her chest. Portia’s Discman was stuffed into the pocket of the skirt and a single earplug was stuck in one ear. A tinny chunka-chunka sound came from the dangling plug.

“Hrubek’s escaped,” Lis told her.

“Oh, no.” The second earplug was extracted and she flung the wire around her neck the way a doctor wears a stethoscope. The raspy sound of rock music was louder now, shooting from both tiny plugs.

“Say, could you shut that off?” Lis asked, and Portia absently complied.

Lis, Owen and Portia stood on glazed terra-cotta tile as cold as the concrete stoop outside, all in a line, arms crossed. Their formation struck Lis as silly and she broke ranks to fill a kettle. “Coffee or tea, Stanley?”

“No, thankya. He’s just wandering around lost, they say. He got away in Stinson, nearly ten miles east of the hospital.”

And fifty miles east of where they now stood, Lis thought. Like having a full gas tank or two twenty-dollar bills in your pocket this was a comfort-maybe insubstantial, maybe useless, but a comfort nonetheless.

“So,” Portia said, “he’s heading away from here.”

“Seems to be.”

Lis was remembering: The madman bursting to life, hand and foot shackles jingling, his eyes molesting the trial spectators. And she was the person he undressed most eagerly. “Lis-bone, Lisbone…”

Lis had cried then-in June-hearing his hyena-pitched laugh fill the courtroom and she wanted to cry now. She clamped her teeth together and turned to the stove to make a cup of herbal tea. Owen was still firing angry questions at the sheriff. How many men are out looking for him? Do they have dogs? Did he take any weapons? The sheriff endured this cross-examination gamely then responded, “The fact is they’re not doing a whole lot about it. It went out as an information bulletin only. Not an escape-assistance request. I myself’d guess they’ve pretty much cured him. Shocked him, probably, like they do. With those electrode things. He’s out wandering around and they’ll pick him up-”

Owen waved his hand and started to speak but Lis interrupted. “If nobody’s worried about it, Stan, what are you doing here?”

“Well, I come by to ask if you still got that letter. Thought it might give ’em a clue where he’s got himself to.”

“Letter?” Owen asked.

Lis, however, knew exactly which letter he was referring to. It’d been her first thought this evening when the sheriff had said the word “Marsden.”

“I know where it is,” she said, and went to get it.

Mrs. Lis-bone Atcheson:

I am in this room I can’t breathe I can’t hear. I am held here unfAIRly and thEY, yes thEy are stopping me from what I MUST DO. This is very Important. they are holding me and have told lIes About Me to waShingtOn and the enTIRE worlD. they think that I am dANGERous etc but this is their excUSE and EVErybody beliEVEs it. That is beliEVEs “them”. they are very Strong & we Must fear them, they arE eVErywhere.

It is a CONSPIRACY. CON + S + PIRACY.

and I know YOU are in it!!!!

Revenge is mine it is not the LORDS because the LORD knows what I have Done and will not let ME rest. He shoots me in the hEAd every nighT!!! I accept my fATE and YOU who are bEAuTiful mUSt too. Come to me for eternal rest forever.

EVErywhere. forEVEr. rEVEnge.

EVE the woman

COME to ME.

i your lover

Michael Hrubek’s penmanship featured green, black and blue ink.

And for her name, and his “signature,” red.

The sheriff sucked air between shiny white teeth in a loud, irritating way. “Does any of this make sense to you?” He addressed the question to Owen.

Lis answered, “It’s just babble.”

Owen glanced at her, then added, “We talked about it when it came but we thought it was a kid’s prank.”