Praying for Sleep

and boiled game flesh, his hands shaking with exhilaration. He noticed shelves containing clothing and he rummaged through the piles of shirts and coveralls until he found several items that more or less fit. Then socks, and finally an Irish-tweed cap that he liked very much. He placed it on his head.
    “Very fashionable,” he whispered, looking into a mirror.
    Hrubek continued searching until he located a pair of engineer’s boots and struggled to pull them on. They were tight but not painful. “John Worker,” he muttered, running his hands over his clothes with approval. “John Worker.” He poured cleaning fluid onto a rag and scrubbed hard at his face to remove the blue ink from his cheeks and forehead.
    He solemnly placed the seven skulls into a green canvas backpack he found in the shop. Then, keeping a suspicious eye on the rearing bear, Hrubek crossed the floor to the sales counter, where he’d noticed a display of cellophane packs of beef jerky. He ripped them open with his teeth, one after another, and chewed down the salty meat, all eight packages.
    He was about to leave when he glanced down, beneath the counter, and his face broke into a huge grin.
    “A present from Jesus Cry-ist our Weeping Lord.”
    The pistol was a long-barreled Colt revolver. Hrubek lifted it to his face and smelled it and rubbed the cold blue metal on his cheek, grinning like a boy who’d just pocketed a ten-dollar bill. He put the gun in his backpack and, once more sizing up the bear, slipped from the door.
    A wedge of light suddenly filled the grass, accompanied by the clatter of an aluminum door. Hrubek stepped quickly into a large open shed behind the shop and pulled the pistol from the backpack.
    A man’s voice cut through the night, “You left it out there, you go pick it up. It’s rusted, I’ll tan your hide, young man.”
    The man was speaking from a dingy but brightly lit one-story house from whose chimney drifted wood and trash smoke. It was about thirty yards from the shop.
    A boy, about eight or nine, walked sullenly past the shed. Without looking inside he disappeared behind the shop. A moment later he started back toward the house, holding a long hammer close to his eyes, inspecting it and scratching hopelessly with his thumbnail at dots of rust.
    A noise nearby startled Hrubek. A fat raccoon was in the shed, scuttling over the concrete floor. It hadn’t seen him and was nosing obliviously among garbage bags. The boy had heard the scratching of claws on concrete and stopped. Holding the rusted hammer like a club he stepped to the shed door and peered into inky darkness.
    Hrubek’s heart began to pulsate violently as he wondered what to do if the boy confronted him. What will I tell him? I know—I will tell him that I am Will- i-am Tell. I will shoot him in the head, Hrubek said to himself, and tried to control his panicked breath. The raccoon paused cautiously as it heard the boy’s footsteps. Its head turned and, seeing Hrubek, the animal tensed. Baring its fangs it panicked and leapt at the madman’s leg. In a short portion of a second Hrubek lunged, seizing the big animal by the neck. Even before the needlelike claws lashed out, Hrubek snapped its spine with a quiet pop.
    Nice try, he thought. No such luck.
    The animal quivered once and died.
    The boy stepped closer to the doorway and listened. When he heard nothing else he walked slowly back into the house. The backyard spotlight was extinguished.
    Hrubek calmed as he absently stroked the fur of the raccoon for a moment then arranged the animal very carefully on its stomach with its rear legs and tail spread out behind, its front paws reaching forward. Salivating with lust Hrubek picked up a screwdriver from a workbench and drove it deep into the back of the animal’s skull. Then he extracted the tool and threw the limp corpse into the corner of the garage.
    As he was about to leave he looked above his head and saw a row of six animal traps hanging from pegs.
    Well, look at this. More presents . . . These’ll slow ’em up, make no mistake!
    Slipping three of the traps into his backpack, Hrubek stepped outside. He paused in the middle of a dusty patch behind the shop and smelled his hands. Mixed with the gasoline was a musky scent from the raccoon. He held his fingers close to his face and inhaled this smell on the wood-fire-laden air, deep, deep, so deep that his lungs hurt. As if the air overflowed into his groin, he went almost immediately