The cackling laugh sent shivers down his spine as the gap-toothed grin leered over him. The dirty hands with the thick stubby fingers began to lower the rifle, the weak light from a flashlight beam catching the dull black metal of the barrel. The laugh grew louder, as did the howls from the hounds. The stock of the rifle got closer to denim-covered shoulder as the black-nailed index finger curled around the trigger. A deafeningly loud crack split the air –

He woke with a start and a gasp, sitting up quickly, the light sheet that had been pulled to his waist twisted in his hands. His eyes snapped open on the dark room as he fought to control his pounding heart and heaving chest. Momentarily dizzy, he stretched both hands out behind him and leaned his head back, gulping for air.

He turned his head slightly and looked at the clock/radio: 3:21. With a heavy sigh, he leaned forward and gently massaged his aching left calf, trying not to wince. It seemed to be taking a long time to heal and he was getting a little discouraged.

With a resigned sigh, he laid back on the bed and stared into the darkness above him. Any further sleep would be elusive, he knew. He had been home for two days now and had managed a total of five and a half hours of sleep.

He wasn't too upset about it; he didn't relive the nightmare when he was awake…

# # # # #

Sitting up almost vertically on the queen-sized bed, courtesy of a wooden bed wedge that Olsen had borrowed from a doctor friend and a good number of pillows, his breaths were full and even. He was in a deep and restful sleep.

On the bedside table, a glass of water, there so long small bubbles were forming along the sides, stood beside an open plastic pharmacy bottle with Valium on the label. A congealing plate of macaroni and cheese was sitting near the glass; it had barely been touched.

Since he had returned from the required visit to his own doctor yesterday morning, Valium in hand, and Olsen had arrived with the bed wedge shortly thereafter, he had barely been awake. He had been told to keep his arm in the sling for a few more days; it supposedly would help with the pain. When he popped the most recent pill just before midnight, as he put the uneaten dinner down, he realized that in the two days he had been home, he'd been awake for less than six hours.

Because he remembered when he was awake. He remembered the ear-splitting cacophony of bullets hitting the Galaxie, the never-ending barrage that tore the car apart. He could feel the hot slug tearing through his shoulder, slamming him back against the seat and taking his breath away, yet knowing he had to keep his wits about him so he could get out of there alive, so they could get out of there alive.

In sleep there was freedom; in sleep there was escape.

# # # # #

Lieutenant Devitt knocked on the door then opened it without waiting for a response. He stuck his head into the office. "Rudy, you got a minute?"

The grey-haired captain looked up from the file he was reading. "Sure, Roy, come on it. What's up?"

Closing the door and crossing to the guest chair, Devitt said quickly, "So, ah, have you been talking to Mike lately?"

Olsen laid the file down. "I saw him yesterday morning, why?"

Devitt sighed. "I went to see Steve last night – I brought him some groceries - and, in addition to the fact that he looks like hell, he's worried about Mike. Says they haven't talked since they got back. Do you know what the hell is going on?"

Inhaling deeply, Olsen raised his eyebrows. "I had a feeling this would happen." He shook his head and looked away briefly. "They went through a hell of an ordeal in Kentucky. To be perfectly honest, they're both lucky to be alive." He looked back at his lieutenant. "You haven't heard all the details yet, have ya?"

Devitt shook his head. "Just what I've gleaned from things I've overheard. I didn't want to ask Steve directly; I wanted to wait till he got, ah, he got things under control, if you know what I mean?"

"Well, let's just say, for a time back there they both thought the other was dead." Devitt inhaled sharply and Olsen nodded. "And I'm not talking minutes here either, I mean for hours. And I don't think either of them have come to grips with that, let alone the personal terror they each went through. So I'm not at all surprised that they want to put some distance between each other, now that they're home, to get a handle on their own personal demons before they can attempt to help each other."

"Do you think that's wise?"

"Well, it was the – what do the kids call it nowadays? The vibe I got from both of them, and they're grown men, after all, they can make their own decisions. And in a way, I understand what they're going through. But it might be time to bring Lenny in on all this. What do you think?"

Devitt nodded. "Good, good. 'Cause to be perfectly honest, Rudy, Steve had me really worried. He looks like he hasn't slept since he's been back, his eyes are all bloodshot and his hands were trembling. I'm pretty sure it's not all physical, it's mental too. I really think talking to Lenny might be his best option at the moment and, for god's sake, get Mike to give him a call."

Nodding as he picked up the phone and began to dial, Olsen concurred. "I'll get on that right now. Thanks, Roy. And ah, I'll keep you in the loop, I promise."

# # # # #

The first knock went unanswered. After the second did the same, a key was inserted in the lock and the door slowly opened.

Hesitantly, with a quiet, "Mike, are you up?" Olsen stepped over the threshold, followed by the police department's consulting psychiatrist, Doctor Lenny Murchison. The captain looked around the dark, empty living room then closed the door as the shrink walked past him deeper into the house.

"He's up in his room, I'll bet," Olsen said as he pocketed the key and started up the stairs. The bedroom door was slightly ajar and he quietly called Mike's name before pushing it open.

The injured man was deeply asleep, still propped up against the pillows and the wedge. He did look comfortingly peaceful and the two intruders glanced at each other before quietly taking a step back, Olsen beginning to close the door. Murchison's hand suddenly on his forearm stopped him, and the doctor pushed the door open and entered the room quickly, crossing to the bedtable.

With a brief backward glance at Olsen, who had followed, he picked up the plastic bottle and read the label, even though he knew from the size and colour of the pills exactly what they were. He held the bottle towards the captain. "Did you give him these?" he asked sotto voce.

"No," Olsen said, shaking his head, "he brought them home after he went to his own doctor yesterday morning. Why?"

Murchison had looked into the bottle and counted the pills.

"Why, Lenny?" Olsen insisted, a tinge of panic in his tone.

Murchison exhaled loudly. "Okay," he said, almost more to himself than to Olsen, "he's, ah – okay, ah, there're more pills gone than should be but not enough for an overdose."

"An overdose? What are you talking about?" Now there was panic in the older man's voice.

"There should be about three more pills in here, if he was taking them when prescribed. I think he's taking them whenever he wakes up, so he goes right back to sleep." He put the bottle down and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning closer to the sleeping man. He put a hand gently on Mike's left forearm. "Mike!" he said sharply.

When there was no response, Murchison glanced over his shoulder at Olsen then tried again. "Mike! Mike, can you hear me?" He shook the lieutenant's arm, but there was still no reaction.

"Jesus," Olsen breathed loudly in the doctor's ear, "should I call for an ambulance."

"No, no," Murchison said quickly. "It's not an overdose; he's just in a deep sleep. He'll come out of it. It'll just take some time."

"How much time?" The tension and guilt in the captain's voice were unmistakable.

The psychiatrist shrugged. "It all depends on when he took the last pill. Could be a couple of hours, could be longer."

Olsen exhaled loudly, but he seemed to relax. Murchison looked up at him. "Listen, Rudy, I'll hold down the fort here; I'll stay and talk to him when he wakes up. Why don't you head over to Steve's and see how he's doing, all right? There's no point in both of us waiting and I bet Steve could use some company about now, and then you can let me know how he's doing, okay?"

Nodding but unable to tear his eyes from the comatose man on the bed, Olsen mumbled, "Yeah, yeah, Lenny, that sounds, ah, that sounds good. Yeah, I'll, ah, I'll do that." Olsen leaned closer to the bed and laid a hand on top of his old friend's head, gently ruffling his hair. He backed away. "I'll, ah, I'll lock the door after me downstairs."

"That sounds good. Oh, hey, uh, Rudy, don't tell Steve about this, okay?" he requested, nodding towards Mike. "Don't want him getting any more upset than he already is, right?"

Nodding and swallowing hard, Olsen pulled the door almost closed behind him. Murchison heard him descend the stairs, then the front door open and close, the key being turned in the lock. He stood, pulled the small armchair closer to the side of the bed and sat. "Oh, Mike," he whispered aloud, "what the hell are you doing to yourself…?"

# # # # #

The front door of the blue-gray clapboard apartment opened after the third knock. Dressed in a dark blue tartan-patterned dressing gown over beige pajamas and in bare feet, balancing awkwardly on one crutch, a red-eyed and exhausted-looking Steve Keller opened the door. He didn't smile as he tried to back up enough to allow his visitor to enter.

"I guess I don't have to tell you you look like hell," Olsen growled as he crossed into the living room and sat on the couch without being invited.

"Thanks," Steve mumbled coldly as he closed the door then hopped clumsily towards the armchair and dropped into it with a groan. "So what can I do for you?"

The older man stared at him then said finally, "You can start by telling me what the hell is going on here. You didn't look this bad when we got back; what's happened in the past coupla days to account for… this?" He gestured vaguely towards the disheveled younger man.

Steve snorted, looking away. "My leg hurts."

"Bullshit. It was hurting when we were in Kentucky and you didn't look like this; how could it have gotten any worse since then?"

Their eyes met and held defiantly, neither backing down. Then finally the younger man blinked and dropped his eyes.

"What's going on, Steve?" Olsen's voice softened. "Come on, you can talk to me, you know that."

Steve took a deep breath and ran one hand through his unwashed hair.

"You're having nightmares, aren't you?"

The younger man nodded slowly.

"When did they start?"

"Before we left Kentucky." Olsen had to strain to hear the hushed tones.

"Did you tell Mike?"

A gentle shake of a head.

"Are they getting better or worse?"

"Worse."

"So, ah, what, so you're not sleeping, is that it?"

A pause, no movement, then a slow nod.

Olsen sighed. "You can't keep that up, you know. It's not healthy; you'll make yourself sick."

Another nod. "I know."

"Do you want to talk to Lenny?" It was a question asked quietly and carefully.

A shake of a head, then softly, "No. I need to talk to Mike." Steve looked up and met Olsen's eyes once again. The older man struggled to maintain a neutral expression; he thoughts returned to the Potrero house bedroom, where a patient psychiatrist sat waiting for a police lieutenant, wounded physically, mentally and emotionally, to emerge from his self-imposed oblivion.