Praying for Sleep

Massachusetts.”
    “Hrubek? In Massachusetts?”
    “Yes’m.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “They tracked him to the state line then our boys had to call off the search. Handed it over to the Mass troopers. They’re top-notch at finding people even though they don’t have any sense of humor. That’s what Stan says.”
    “Have they . . . ? Have they found him?”
    “I don’t know. The storm’ll hit there in an hour, hour and a half, so I don’t suppose a drugged-up psycho’s a real high priority but that’s me speaking not them. They might not take to madmen from out of state. Being so serious and all. You know, Mrs. Atcheson, been meaning to speak to you about that C-minus Amy got.”
    “Could we talk about it next week, Peg?”
    “Absolutely. It’s just that Irv coached her like a demon, and he reads all the time. Knows his literature, and I don’t mean just schlock either. He read Last of the Mohicans even before it was a movie.”
    “Next week?”
    “Absolutely. Good night to you, Mrs. Atcheson.”
    She hung up and wandered out to Portia, who stood sipping a Coke on a small screened-in porch off the kitchen. They didn’t use the place much for entertaining. The sun never reached it, and the view of the yard and lake was all but cut off by a tall growth of juniper.
    “This is pretty,” her sister commented, running her hand along an elaborate railing of mahogany, carved in the shapes of flowers, vines and leaves. The wind blew an aerated mist of icy rain toward the house and the women stepped back suddenly.
    “That’s right, you haven’t seen it.”
    Lis had noticed the balustrade at an upstate demolition site and knew at once that she had to have it. In one of her brashest moments she’d laid quick, cold dollars into the ponderous hands of the wrecking-crew captain. It was probably an illicit deal, for he turned his back as she dragged off the delicate sculpture, which she then spent another two thousand dollars incorporating into the railing here.
    Friends wondered why such a beautiful piece of woodwork accented a dark, out-of-the-way porch like this. But the carving had one frequent admirer: Lis herself spent many nights here, bedded down in a chaise longue she’d commandeered for the times when the insomnia was particularly bad. The porch was open on three sides. If there was wind the breezes flowed over her as she lay beneath the blankets and if there was rain the sound was hypnotic. Even when Owen was away on business, she’d often come down here. She supposed it was risky, being alone and so exposed to the night. Yet the game of finding sleep is a crucible of trade-offs and an insomniac can’t afford the luxury of separating slumber and vulnerability.
    “I heard,” Portia said. “No tow truck?”
    “Nope.”
    “Can we walk?”
    “Two miles? In this rain and wind?” Lis laughed. “Rather not.”
    “What about Hrubek?”
    “Supposedly in Massachusetts.”
    “So why don’t we just sit it out? Get a fire going and tell ghost stories?”
    If only they’d left twenty minutes sooner. . . . Angrily Lis remembered Kohler. If he hadn’t stopped by, they’d be at the Inn by now. She felt a chill thinking that it was as if Michael Hrubek had sent an agent to detain her.
    Portia asked, “Well? We’re staying?”
    Overhead the wind sliced through the treetops with a hissing sound—the noise electric trains make—of motion not propulsion. The rain pounded the soaked earth.
    “No,” Lis said finally, “we’re leaving. Let’s get some shovels and dig out the car.”
     
    Animals are far easier than humans to pursue for long distances, for three reasons: They eat whenever they’re hungry. They don’t control elimination of wastes. They have limited options for locomotion.
    The world at large, Trenton Heck reflected, may have considered Michael Hrubek an animal but so far his journey west had all the trappings of a trip by a damn clever human being.
    Heck was in despair. The driving rain had virtually erased all the airborne scent and he could find no other evidence of Hrubek’s trail. Emil had quartered again and again over the highway and surrounding fields for an hour and had found nothing.
    But now, just outside of Cloverton, Heck found that the madman had lapsed momentarily. His animal’s impulse to eat had overcome his need for evasion.
    At first Heck didn’t think anything of the Hostess doughnut box lying in the driveway of the old gas station. Then he noticed it