Praying for Sleep
from the truck and walked back toward the Cadillac, the sound of his passage obscured by the steady rain and sharp slashes of wind. He paused and squinted into the night. Sixty, seventy feet away a large form stood with his back to Owen, urinating on a bush. The man’s bald head was tilted back as he looked up into the sky, staring at the rain. He seemed to be singing or chanting softly.
Owen crouched down, slipping his pistol from his belt. He considered what to do next. When it had seemed that Hrubek was heading for the house in Ridgeton, Owen had planned simply to follow him there and then slip into the house ahead of him. If the madman broke in, Owen would simply shoot him. Maybe he’d slip a knife or crowbar into the man’s hand—to make a tidier scene for the prosecutor. But now Hrubek had a car and it occurred to Owen that maybe Ridgeton wasn’t his destination after all. Maybe he really would turn south and make for Boyleston. Or simply keep going on 236 and drive to New York, or even further west.
Besides, here was his quarry, defenseless, unsuspecting, alone—an opportunity Owen might not have again, wherever Hrubek was ultimately headed.
He made his decision: better to take the man now.
But what about the Cadillac? He could leave his truck here, dump the body in the trunk of the old car then drive it to Ridgeton himself. Once there he’d lug the body inside the house and—
But, no, of course not. The blood. The .357 hollow points would cause a lot of damage. Some forensic technician was sure to examine the Cadillac’s trunk.
After a moment of debate Owen concluded that he’d simply leave the car here. Hrubek was crazy. He’d become scared of driving and had abandoned it, continuing on foot to Ridgeton. It occurred to him too that he probably shouldn’t kill Hrubek here—the coroner might be able to determine that he’d died an hour or so before Owen claimed he had.
He decided that he’d just immobilize Hrubek now—shoot him in the upper arm and in the leg. Owen would lug him into the back of the Cherokee and drive on to Ridgeton.
And there the patient would be found, in the Atchesons’ kitchen. Owen would be sitting in the living room, staring numbly out the window, staggered by the tragedy of it all—having fired two shots to try to stop him and finally a third, a lethal, bullet, when the big man would not heed Owen’s orders to halt.
The blood in the Cherokee? Well, that was a risk. But he’d park it behind the garage. There’d be no reason for any investigators to see it, let alone have a forensics team go through the truck.
He analyzed the plan in detail, deciding that, yes, it was chancy but the risks were acceptable.
Cocking the pistol he made his way closer to the looming shape of Hrubek, who’d now finished his business and was staring up at the turbulent sky, listening to the sharp hiss of the wind in the tips of the pine trees and letting the rain fall into his face.
Owen got no further than five steps toward his prey before he heard the distinctive double snap of a pump shotgun and saw the policeman aim the muzzle at his chest.
“On the ground, freeze!” the young man’s trembling voice called.
“What are you doing?” Owen cried.
“Freeze! Drop your gun! Drop that gun!”
Then Hrubek was running, a thick dark mass fleeing toward the Cadillac.
“I’m not going to tell you again!” the cop’s voice was high with panic.
“You fucking idiot,” Owen yelled, his temper flaring. He stepped toward the cop.
The trooper lifted the shotgun higher. Owen froze and dropped the Smith & Wesson. “Okay, okay!”
The sound of the Cadillac firing to life filled the clearing. As the car sped past them, the trooper glanced in shock at the sound. Owen easily shoved the shotgun muzzle to the side and drove his right fist into the side of the trooper’s face. The young man dropped like deadweight and Owen was on him in a minute, slugging the trooper again and again, anger exploding within him. Gasping, he finally managed to control himself and looked down at the bloody face of the unconscious cop.
“Fuck,” he spat bitterly.
The sudden crack sounded some yards behind him. It seemed like a gunshot and Owen dropped into a crouch, snatching up his pistol. He heard nothing else other than the wind and the drumming of the rain. The distant horizon lit up for a moment with huge sheets of lightning.
He turned back to the cop and handcuffed the man’s wrists behind
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