Praying for Sleep

past month had his belly started to roll past his waistband. This was due mostly to inactivity though some of it could be traced to chain-drinking Budweisers and to single suppers of twin TV dinners.
    Heck tonight massaged a spot on his faded blue jeans under which was a glossy mess of old bullet wound dead center in his right thigh. Four years old (coming up on the anniversary, he reflected), the wound still pulled his muscles taut as cold rubber bands. Heck passed a slow-moving sedan and eased back into his lane. A big plastic Milk Bone swung from the truck’s rearview mirror. It looked real and Heck had bought it to perplex the dog though of course it didn’t; Emil was a purebred blood.
    Heck drove along the highway at a good clip, whistling a tuneless tune between uneven teeth. A roadside sign flashed past and he lifted his foot off the accelerator and braked quickly, causing the hound to slide forward on the vinyl seat, grimacing. Heck eased into the turnoff and drove a quarter mile down a country lane of bad asphalt. He saw lights in the far distance and a few shy stars but mostly felt an overwhelming sense of solitude. He found the deserted roadside stand—a shack from which a farmer had years ago sold cheese and honey. Heck climbed out of the truck, leaving the engine running and the dog antsy on the seat.
    Heck’s outfit tonight was what he always wore unless the temperature was crackling cold: a black T-shirt under a workshirt under a blue-jean jacket. Covering the curly brown hair that dipped over his ears was a cap emblazoned with the logo of the New York Mets. The cap had been a present from a woman who could recite all the vital statistics of the Flushing Meadow sluggers going back fifteen years (Jill had a great knuckleball herself) but he didn’t care for the team and wore the tattered hat only because it was a present from her.
    He looked around uneasily and wandered in a slow circle through the dusty parking area. He glanced at the idling truck and concluded that it was too much of a beacon. He shut off the engine and lights. Enveloped in darkness, he resumed his pacing. Rustling sounded nearby. Heck immediately recognized the sound of a raccoon’s footfalls. Moments later he identified a residue of musk on a skunk’s ass fur as the animal passed silently behind him. These creatures weren’t a threat, yet as he paced he kept his hand on the black Bakelite ribbed grip of his old automatic pistol, dangling from an even older cowboy holster, complete with rawhide leg thongs.
    Clouds filled the sky. The storm was overdue. Rain if you’ve gotta, he spoke silently though not heavenward, but keep that wind away for another few hours, Lord. I could use some help here and I could use it bad.
    A twig snapped behind him, loud, and he turned fast, coming close to drawing down on a conspicuous birch tree. He knew of few animals in the wild that would snap twigs this way; he recalled only a towering moose lumbering along with her calves, and a seven-foot grizzly bear, gazing at Heck hungrily from the amiable haze of his protected-species status.
    Maybe it’s a drunk deer, he thought, to cheer himself up.
    Heck continued to pace. Then lights filled the parking lot and the car arrived. It parked with a leisurely squeal of brakes. Upright as a boot-camp sergeant, the gray-suited officer walked over the damp ground to where Heck stood.
    “Don.” Heck offered a limp salute.
    “Trent. Glad you were free. Good to see you.”
    “That storm’s on its way,” Heck said.
    “That Emil of yours could scent through a hurricane, I thought.”
    That may be, he told Haversham, but he wasn’t inclined to get himself lightning-struck. “Now, who’s the escapee?”
    “That psycho they got at Indian Leap last spring. You remember it?”
    “Who don’t, round here?”
    “Snuck off in somebody’s body bag tonight.” Haversham explained about the escape.
    “Crazy maybe but that shows some smarts.”
    “He’s over near Stinson.”
    “So he drove a ways, this nutzo?”
    “Yup. The coroner’s boy, the one who was driving’s over there now. So’s Charlie Fennel and a couple troopers from J. He’s got his bitches with him.”
    The Troop’s dogs weren’t true trackers but hunting dogs—Labradors—occasionally drafted for scenting. They had fair noses and being spayed bitches they stayed clear of posts and trees and weren’t easily led astray. But they did get distracted. Emil was a track-sure dog; when he