Praying for Sleep

find the front door, it appeared. He wasn’t the young deputy. Maybe, she thought, another officer had accompanied him, though this fellow didn’t seem to be in uniform.
    He noticed the side door that led into the utility room and walked to it, oblivious to the downpour. He knocked politely, like a man picking up a date. Lis walked cautiously to the door, and looked out through the curtain. Although she didn’t recognize him he had such a pleasant, innocent face, and looked so completely wet, that she let him in.
    “Evening, ma’am. You must be Mrs. Atcheson.” He wiped his lanky hand on his pants, leaving it just as wet as before, and offered it to her. “Sorry to trouble you. My name’s—”
    But he didn’t have the chance to complete the introduction just then because a large bloodhound pushed his way uninvited into the greenhouse and started to shake himself enthusiastically, showering them both with a million drops of rain.
     
    Owen Atcheson, lying half in and half out of the chill creek, slowly came to. He sat up, praying that he wouldn’t faint again.
    After the Cherokee had stopped tumbling, Owen hadn’t waited for Hrubek to come leaping down the hill after him. He’d examined his left shoulder and felt the indentation where the bone ought to be. He’d made certain his pistol and ammunition were in his pocket and flung the bolt of the deer rifle far into the dark creek, exhaling at the astonishing pain caused by this slight effort.
    Then he’d straggled to his feet and run clumsily through the stream, putting distance between himself and the truck.
    Two hundred yards into the forest that surrounded downtown Ridgeton he’d stopped and rolled onto his back, lying against a flat rock softened by an old growth of moss. He’d slipped a length of oak branch into his mouth and chewed down hard, gripping his left biceps with his right hand. With excruciating concentration he had forced himself to relax and slowly, slowly manipulated the bone, eyes closed, breathing staccato bursts and sending his teeth deep into the wood. Suddenly, with a pop, the shoulder had reseated itself in the cuff. He cried out softly as the amazing pain made him vomit and then he fainted and slid into the creek.
    Now, his eyes open, he crawled to the shore and lay on his side.
    He allowed himself no more than five minutes of recuperation before standing up. He removed his belt and tightly bound his left arm to his side. The temporary sling increased the pain but would safeguard against a catastrophic jolt of agony that might make him faint again. He lifted his head and breathed deeply. The rain was falling steadily now and the wind whipped into his face. He threw his head back and inhaled the wet air. After a few moments he began to struggle through the woods, slowly making his way north, around downtown Ridgeton. He didn’t want Hrubek to find him of course but neither did he wish to be spotted by anyone else—least of all a meddling sheriff or deputy. After a torturous mile he came to the intersection of North Street and Cedar Swamp Road. He found a pay phone and lifted the receiver. He was not surprised to hear only silence.
    Driving north on Cedar Swamp was the only way to reach their address. It was possible to approach the house from the opposite direction but only after driving around two hundred acres of state park and into a different township then back south once again. Hrubek had rammed him so hard the Subaru was surely useless; the psycho would now be on foot too. If the Atcheson property was his destination, he’d have to come this way.
    Despite the delay to reset his shoulder Owen doubted that Hrubek had preceded him here. Unfamiliar with the area the man would first need to find a map. Then he’d have to orient himself and find the correct streets, many of which were not clearly marked.
    Owen struggled into the intersection cautiously—a soldier on advance patrol, sighting out ambush and fire zones, high ground, backfields, perimeters. He saw a drainage ditch and a corrugated metal pipe, four feet wide. A good hidey-hole, he thought, falling easily into combat-speak. He pictured Hrubek loping cautiously down the middle of the road then Owen himself stepping out, silently, coming up behind with the pistol at his side.
    The rain was cool and fragrant with the scents of a deep autumn. Owen inhaled this liquid air deeply then slipped down into the icy water that filled the ditch, guarding his damaged arm. But