The doctor now gazed over the spacious parking lot and drew his black overcoat about him in a futile effort to ward off the heavy rain and gusts of wind. He opened his backpack and lifted out the sturdy metal syringe then filled the reservoir with a large dosage of anesthetic. He flicked the bubbles to the top and fired a small spurt into the air to expel them. Then he leaned back, his face pelted with rain, and he looked up once more at the perpetual motion of the sign above his head.

“Look at this!”

A mile down the road Michael rounded a curve and barked a sudden laugh. He calmly recalled which pedal was the brake and he pressed it gently, slowing to ten miles an hour.

“Look!” He leaned forward, his head almost to the windshield, and gazed into the sky, filled with rain that reflected red, white and blue lights in a million spatters.

“Oh, God, what could this mean?” His skin hummed with emotion and upon his face a vast grin was spreading. Michael pulled onto the shoulder and stopped the Subaru. He stepped out into the rain and, as if in a trance, began walking through the parking lot, his John Worker boots scraping on the asphalt. He paused at the base of the shrine and stood with his hands clasped before him, reverently, staring up into the sky. He dug into his backpack and observed that he had two skulls left. He selected the one in worse condition-it was cracked in several places-and set it at the base of the sign.

The voice came from nearby. “Hello, Michael.”

The young man wasn’t startled in the least. “Hello, Dr. Richard.”

The thin man sat on the hood of a white car, one of fifty, all in a row. Doesn’t he look small, doesn’t he look wet? Michael thought, reminded once again of the raccoon he’d killed earlier in the evening. Such little things, both of them.

Dr. Richard scooted off the Taurus. Michael glanced at him but his eyes were drawn irresistibly to the radiant sign revolving above their heads.

Michael ignored the middle portion of the sign, noting only that the word MERCURY was bloody red. What he stared at were the two words in blue, Union-soldier blue: On the top, FORD. On the bottom, LINCOLN.

“That’s where you killed him, isn’t it, Michael? The theater?”

This is surely a miracle. Oh, God in your infinite brilliance…

“Ford… Lincoln… Ford’s Theater… Yessir, I sure did. Make no mistake. I snuck into the presidential box at ten-thirty on April 14, the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and sixty-five. It was Good Friday. I came up behind him and put a bullet into his head. The President didn’t die right away but lingered until the next day. He linnnnngered.”

“You yelled, ‘Sic semper tyrannis.’ ”

“They’ve been after me ever since.” Michael looked at his doctor. No, he was no impostor. It was truly Dr. Richard. You look tired, Doctor, Michael thought. I’m awake and you’re asleep. What do you make of that? He gazed up at the sign again.

“I want to help you.”

Michael chuckled.

“I’d like you to come back with me to the hospital.”

“That’s nuts, Dr. Richard. I just left there. Why would I want to go back?”

“Because you’ll be safe. There are people looking for you, people who want to hurt you.”

Michael snapped, “I’ve been telling you that for months.”

“That’s true, you have.” The doctor laughed.

Michael took the pistol from his pocket. Dr. Richard’s eyes flicked down momentarily but returned immediately to his patient’s. “Michael, I’ve done a lot for you. I got you the job on the farm. You like that job, don’t you? You like to work with the cows, I know you do.”

The pistol was warm. It was comfortable in his hand. It was, he thought, quite fashionable. “I’ve been wondering if-wouldn’t this be strange-if this was the same gun I’d used.”

“To shoot Lincoln?”

“The very same gun. That would have a special meaning. That would make a lot of sense. Do you like the scent of blood, Dr. Richard? When do you think a soul makes the a-scent to heaven? Do you think souls linnnnger on earth awhile?”

Why is he stepping closer to me? Michael wondered. When he’s this close, it’s easier to read my mind.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Michael held the pistol close to his face, smelling the metal. “But how do you explain that it was just there for me? This gun. It was just there in the store. The store with the heads.”

A shudder ran through Michael Hrubek.

“What heads?”

“All the little heads. White and smooth. Beautiful little white heads.”

“Those skulls?” Dr. Richard nodded toward the sign pole.

Michael blinked but said nothing.

“So you shot Lincoln, did you, Michael?”

“Sure did. I was willing and abe-le.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me about it? In any of our sessions?”

Michael’s stomach twisted with unbridled anxiety. “It was…”

“Why?”

Fear prickled at his neck. Between rapid breaths, Michael answered, “It was too terrible. I did a terrible thing. Terrible! He was such a great man. And look what I did. It was… It hurts! Don’t fucking ask me any more.”

“What,” Dr. Richard asked gently, “was so terrible about it? What was too terrible to tell me?”

“Many things. Too numerous to go into.”

“Tell me about one.”

“No.”

“Just pick one thing and tell me, Michael.”

“No.”

“Please. Now. Quick.”

“No!” What’s this fucker up to?

“Yes, Michael. Tell me.” For an instant the thin doctor’s eyes grew fierce and commanding. He ordered, “Now! Tell me!”

“The moon,” Michael blurted. “It…”

“What about the moon?”

“It rose bloody red. The moon is a sheet of blood. Eve is wrapped in the sheet.”

“Who’s Eve, Michael?”

“Nice try, fucker. Don’t expect me to say anything more.” Michael swallowed and looked around nervously.

“Where did the blood come from?”

“The moon. Ha, just kidding.”

“Where, Michael? Where did the blood come from? Where?!”

In a whisper: “From… their head.”

“Whose head, Michael?” Dr. Richard said, then shouted, “Tell me! Whose head?”

Michael began to speak then he smiled grimly and snarled, “Don’t try to trick me, fucker. His head. His, his, his head. Abraham Lincoln’s head. The sixteenth president of the United States’ head. The rail-splitter from Illinois’s head. That’s who I meant. I put a fucker of a bullet in his head.”

“Is that what you mean when you’d say ‘ahead,’ Michael? You were talking about somebody who got hurt in the head? Who? Who else got hurt, besides Lincoln?”

Michael blinked, and sizzled in panic. “Seward, you’re thinking of! Secretary of State. But he got stabbed! If you’re going to trick me, get your facts straight. He didn’t enjoy the evening much either, by the way.”

“But someone else got shot, didn’t they?”

“No!”

“Think, Michael. Think back. You can tell me.”

“No!” He pressed his hands over his ears. “No, no, no!”

“Where did all that blood come from? Blood everywhere!” Dr. Richard whispered. He leaned forward. “So much blood. Enough blood to cover the moon. Sheets and sheets of it.”

Enough blood to cover the sheet…

Michael cried, “There was so much of it.”

“Who else, Michael? Who else got shot? Please tell me.”

“I tell you, you telegraph the CIA and the Secret Service!”

“It’ll be our secret, Michael. I won’t tell another living soul.”

“Will you tell a dead soul?” he roared, throwing his head back and raving into the pouring rain. “They’re the ones we have to worry about! All the dead souls! That’s where the danger is!”

“Who, Michael? Tell me.”

“I…”

Oh, what’s that on your head? What’s that you’re wearing?›