Praying for Sleep

of betrayal! Fuckers!”
    In an instant his pulse rate leapt to 175 and sweat sprung from his pores. His teeth clattered like galloping hooves on concrete. His mind snapped shut. He forgot GET TO, he forgot Lis-bone, he forgot Eve, the conspirators and Dr. Anne and Dr. Richard. . . . He forgot everything but the icy clutch of fear.
    His hands quavered on the steering wheel. He gazed at the Cadillac’s hood with shock—as if he’d suddenly awakened and found himself riding a rampaging bull.
    I’ll fight this, he thought. God, please help me fight this! He lowered his head and chewed on his inner cheek. He tasted blood. I will fight it!
    And for a very brief moment he did.
    For a very brief moment he gripped the ivory wheel firmly and forced the car back into the right lane of the highway.
    For this brief moment Michael Hrubek was not a maladroit lunatic, a host holding an ancient killer’s soul. He was not driven by unbearable guilt. Abraham Lincoln was merely a great, sad figure from history whose face graced copper pennies, and Michael himself was just a big, strong, young man filled with much promise, driving a gaudy old car down a country road, scared to death, yes, but more or less in charge of himself.
    And then this delusion vanished.
    He could fight it no longer. He lost all conception of the controls and it was the pedal on the right upon which he stamped his huge foot in an effort to stop the skid. He covered his eyes, howled a plea for help and kept his foot to the floorboard as the car disappeared into a low stand of juniper and began turning over and over and over.

23
    You’ve got this thing to do ahead of you. . . .
    Owen Atcheson remembered his platoon lieutenant looking steel-eyed and crazed from hits of local funny-dust but sounding calm as a college professor. “You’ve got this thing ahead of you, and you’ve got to go out and meet it. . . .”
    Owen and three other Marines more often than not rolled their eyes at this pep talk. But, inspired by it nonetheless, they then clipped on their gear and blackened their faces and disappeared into the jungle to cut the throats of thin soldiers or murder politicians with silenced pistols or rig gelignite and C4 satchel charges.
    Owen thought of those times now—as he stood on the ridge of a hill, looking at the antique Cadillac that sat upright, its roof half-staved in and windows spidered with fractures, one parking lamp the only light that had survived the crash. He opened the cylinder of his gun. He’d owned revolvers all his life and, fastidious about safety, had always kept the chamber under the hammer empty. He now loaded a sixth shell into the gun and swung the cylinder closed. He started toward the car. The incline was steep and Owen needed one hand to steady himself as he climbed down to a low hedge.
    He felt a stunning exhilaration and told himself that he shouldn’t be enjoying this so much. The thrill diminished when he recalled that Hrubek was armed and saw that there was no way to approach the car under cover. It had crashed through a line of juniper and tumbled for thirty feet into the center of a grassy clearing.
    The rain wasn’t heavy and the wind was subdued; his approach would be noisy. And Hrubek—assuming his injuries hadn’t prevented him from doing so—had also had plenty of time to establish a defensive position. Owen considered tactics for a moment then decided not to bother with a cautious approach. He clutched the gun hard, inhaled long then ran at top speed, ready to aim and shoot from a tumbling position. As he sped across the grass, a primitive howl bubbled in his throat and he suppressed the urge to let this grow into the Marines’ battle cry.
    He charged the car straight on and slid into the grass like a runner stealing home, ending up behind the rear bumper. The muddy leaves scattered by his run settled around him and he looked about frantically. The rear windshield was less obscured than the others but he still was unable to tell if Hrubek was inside. He crouched, using the trunk as cover, and looked behind the car.
    Nothing.
    He moved toward the rear door. . . .
    Underneath!
    Owen dropped to his stomach with a grunt and aimed the gun under the car. A shattered pipe hung like an arm and startled him but Hrubek wasn’t hiding there. He stood and breathed deeply several times then switched his gun to his left hand and yanked the car’s right rear door open.
    Empty. The Cadillac held no evidence of Michael