Praying for Sleep

trap—and when Owen walked to the back of the building he walked very quietly. Yes, the window was broken and the dead bolt unlatched. He inhaled slowly, to steady himself, then pushed the door open—fast, to keep the hinges from squealing—and stepped inside and moved immediately out of the doorway.
    Standing still, he let his eyes grow accustomed to the gloom. His mouth was open wide—a soldier’s trick to mute a loud inhalation should he be startled. When he heard nothing for five full minutes, he walked in a crouch among the shelves filled with auto parts and greasy cartons.
    Foot by foot, Owen covered the back room of the store and found no evidence of Hrubek. Through the open doorway and smeared glass beyond he saw the highway. A car drove past and the light flooded around him, creating a thousand shadows that flipped from left to right, coalescing then spreading out again into darkness. The headlights had dimmed his night vision and he waited five minutes until he could see well enough to continue.
    Owen found another empty doughnut carton. Powdered sugar and cinnamon were scattered on the floor. He made his way toward the narrow doorway that opened onto the front room. He stopped suddenly, listening to a rumbling. It grew louder. Lights flickered outside, outlining the old-time gas pumps. A burping explosion from a truck’s exhaust stack filled the air as the driver revved the engine to upshift coming off the long incline of the highway. The truck thundered past.
    Owen partially closed his eyes to protect them from the light.
    That was when he felt, more than saw, the movement. He opened his eyes in alarm and gazed at the dark shape swinging into the doorway. Before it reached him he leapt backwards. But he misjudged and tripped over a metal table, falling backwards and dropping his gun. His head struck the steel edge on the way down and he lay on the concrete floor, stunned, while the shadowy form of his assailant filled the doorway, not more than three feet from him.

    Beckoning, the glossy truck sat like a blue jewel in the driveway.
    “That’ll take me to Ridgeton in no time at all. Make no mistake, no time at all.”
    O beautiful truck, I could sit upon your seat while the priest’s beautiful daughter sits upon his cock. . . .
    From the old gas station Hrubek had cycled to the long gravel driveway down which had vanished the 4x4 that contained the woman and her daughter. He couldn’t see any lights and guessed that their house must be a half mile or more from the highway. He’d slowly trudged through the field beside the driveway, pausing to take the last trap from his canvas bag and place it under some strands of tall grass. He continued on, carrying the bicycle with him, thinking. What a truck that is! Why would I go by a bi -cycle store to buy a fucking bi -cycle when I can drive a truck?
    He had paused, taken the rear wheel in both hands and eased his shoulders back. Like a discus thrower he spun around twice and sent the bike flying through the air; it fell into a clump of plants thirty feet away. He was disappointed it didn’t explode on impact, though he had no idea why it should. He continued up the driveway, thinking less about the truck than the woman’s beautiful hair. That’s what intrigued him the most. He supposed she had breasts, he supposed she had a pussy, he supposed she had masks on her eyes. But what captivated him so was her hair. It reminded him of his own hair before he cut it all off. When had he done that? Tonight? No, last year. And why? He couldn’t remember. Microphones probably.
    Hrubek had walked a half mile until he came to the place where he now stood—the driveway beside the house. “Now be smart,” he told himself gravely. By this he meant: there’d be a husband. A woman with such soft hair and a delicate face wouldn’t live alone. She’d be married to a big man with cold eyes—a conspirator, like the limping fucker with the dog.
    He crouched and walked closer, hiding in a stand of juniper, the dew soaking through his overalls. He looked at the three-story colonial. The lights were golden, the trim garden was filled with Indian cornstalks and fat pumpkins on runners, the house itself was solid, symmetrical, plumb-even, a picture-book place, its red front door decorated with a dried-flower wreath.
    He turned away and studied the shiny truck in the driveway. Next to it was a sporty yellow motorcycle. He vaguely remembered that he’d ridden a cycle