Relief was not immediate, but the sensation that it would eventually arrive was comforting. He turned his mind away from his straining bladder and diverted his attention to his lowered pants.

A new discovery. The legs and cuffs were covered with foxtail and bramble. Again, hill 14.

He bent forward to pluck at the weeds but: "Not in here!" Roared the voice of Boone the bone man Merrill.

Demon snapped back on the toilet, a tiny jet of alarmed urine escaping his urethra.

He shifted his focus back from pants to penis. It would be best to solve things one at a time and in order of urgency. With the seal now broken he felt he could compel the rest. And that he did. It took a series of starts and stops. Each stop prompted by random images and feelings both recent and long forgotten and hidden. He took extraordinary care to direct his stop-and-go stream to the silent porcelain and not the noisy water.

Eventually, his bladder signaled his brain, relaying the message that the job was complete. His brain shot back 'no, feel the pressure, the bladder is never completely relieved.'

Demon wavered. He coaxed out four more drops, each plinking the water and creating a tiny ripple, and only then did he feel satisfied.

He rose and re-did his pants, taking special note to zip and cover his candy-coated underwear. He reached for the flush handle, but caught himself. Flushing would signify that he was done in the bathroom. He still had work to do.

The weed encrusted pants could wait. Right now there was a siren song coming from the bathroom mirror. Being stoned had changed how the world looked, and that would have included him. He had to see himself in the mirror.

Demon moved into view not knowing what to expect; what he saw was abhorring. Nesting in the corners of his mouth were peanut fragments, and his lower lip and chin displayed speckles of chocolate splatter. An enterprising foxtail had lodged under his right arm. His hair (although not greasy) was a disheveled mess. But most abhorring of all, a clear ring of laughter-induced mucus framed the bottom of one nostril and was threatening precariously to graduate into a runner.

The magic of the night evaporated and paranoia set in.

From the mirror came voices. The Bird: 'Ha! Fuckin' A. Tricked you Demon didn't I!' Had the Bird tricked him, let him make a fool out of himself for his own pleasure? No. The Bird would never do that, at the prospector the Bird had helped him. Still, there was a nagging hint of suspicion. The 7-11 clerk. He had seen the weeds and open barn door and then had smirked at him in a funny way. 'The munchies are over there.' He knew. Demon recoiled at the memory and vowed never to set foot in the 7-11 again.

The siren song of the mirror had become sirens of panic. The panic led to action.

Demon looked furtively for a washcloth, hand towel, even a rag to scrub his shame from his face. The room was empty. He re-scanned and again found nothing. Finally, while contemplating the momentous task of exiting the bathroom to retrieve a wash cloth from the closet, he spotted a dried up rag on the edge of the sink.

Had it been there all along?

He picked it up and turned the hardened mass over and over in his hands trying to puzzle out the disappearing/reappearing act just performed.

He reached for the hot water handle and stopped short.

Water makes noise. He had performed all of his bathroom duties tonight in exquisite silence. Turning the tap would mean water splashing in the sink, the whine of water pressure coursing through the pipes, the pipes that ran through the house and could awake his parents and alert them that he was in the bathroom doing god knows what.

But a dry rag was useless.

Carefully he eased open the tap. The sound was tame to his ears but cataclysmic to his mind.

He wet down the rag, bending out the brittle folds, until he had a flattened sopping panel of fabric. Without looking, he scrubbed viciously at his face, the warmth of the cloth soothing, the awareness of what he was removing, humiliating.

Finished, he gently snicked open the medicine cabinet, taking great care not to catch a glimpse of himself in the swinging mirror, and retrieved his comb.

He dragged the comb through his hair and then dared a look in the mirror.

Better. But not quite. Some of his hair was just a little out of place. He made the adjustment, but now the other side was off. Another correction. For the next five minutes, he combed and re-combed obsessively to find balance. The fact that, in a few minutes, he would be in bed; his hair again disheveled, went unrecognized.

As he combed, Demon began to observe dried specks of white on the face of the mirror. Toothpaste; his mind prompted; my toothpaste. One large white bubble in particular peered at him accusatorily.

He dropped the comb into the sink and retrieved the rag. He took to the white blob in deliberate earnest. Rubbing a little, checking, then rubbing some more. The middle of the bubble was easily erased, but the outlining ring took more work.

Done.

Then a second stain, this time a streak the size of an eyelash. Demon set to work. And then he saw another and another. As soon as he finished one dit, dot or dash he would discover more that needed cleaning.

With a paper towel and a few squirts of Windex he could have done the job in 30 seconds. Or he could have not done it all, the dirty mirror having gone unnoticed for years. But there was something about the minutiae of the task he was performing that felt necessary. He kept at it for 10 minutes, examining each section of the mirror and eliminating the marks one by one. And if not for a rather sudden and loud creak of the house settling, he may have been there all night.

Startled, he dropped the rag into the sink and listened for footsteps.

Nothing.

Still it got him moving. He had been in the bathroom far, far, too long and needed out. Now.

He gripped the door handle and reached for the light switch. First, the light off, then the door - open. He stepped into the hallway and groped his way, tracing his hands along the wall like a blind man ambulating down a nursing home corridor. The few steps that he needed to cover seemed especially long, but finally his outstretched fingers nudged the frame. He took another step and was rewarded with partial vision.

In Demon's room, the streetlight shined unabated through his anemic window curtains. Here he could, as he had always, prepare for bed without the need of any indoor artificial light.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he fumbled hopelessly with his shirt buttons. After undoing only the top two, he conceded by pulling the shirt over his head and dropping it on the floor. A jingle of coins hit the hardwood making him jump.

Money? Where did that.... He picked up the shirt and looked it over. The breast pocket limped slightly and he felt inside. Two quarters. The lighter stuff, dimes and pennies had spilled across the floor. Demon contorted his brain to think, finally landing upon juggling coins, candy and door handles at the 7-11. He considered the task of picking up the coins, then decided it could wait 'til morning. The shirt went back on the floor.

He kicked off his shoes without unlacing them, then rose slightly, undid his pants and allowed them to drop on top.

Undressing for bed and redressing in the morning was still a new practice, trying to perform it on the tail end of being stoned, made it damn near impossible.

As he reclined in bed and groped for his single disheveled blanket, Demon lapsed into mental lethargy. In this one night alone there had been so much: The Bird taking the blame from the bone man; his own confusion over working too fast/working too slow; the incredible ride, cigarettes, music, the hills, bob. There was the daunting task of making a purchase at 7-11, and then the incredible payoff of discovering munchies. He had been mortified by his open fly, the inability to pee, and the embarrassment of being covered with foxtails, and the mixture of peanuts, chocolate and snot that soiled his face.

All of these things, indeed any one of these things would normally have occupied his mind for hours.

But he was stoned.

Demon lay his head on his withered pillow. And where there should have been a kaleidoscope of images from the nights adventures, good and bad, there was only darkness. Within moments, he was asleep.

It was the most pure form of sleep he had ever experienced. No dreams, no movement.

Vacant, void, empty.

Complete.

Perfect.

Until he heard the screams of his mother the next morning.

Part 4.

Sabbatical.

Chapter 1.

1.

The grandfatherly type sat in his parked car on Pershing Drive wishing for things to hurry up. He glanced at his watch, 7:55, then looked longingly at the store. Hoping; hoping that the hand would appear from behind the glass and switch the sign a few minutes prematurely from 'closed' to 'open.'

It wasn't that he needed to be anywhere soon, it was just that he wanted to be done and on his way as quickly and discretely as possible.

7:57, still no hand, still 'closed.'

The car that he was driving was a nondescript rental, as it was each time he visited the twin cities. His trench coat, far too much, even by Minnesota standards; for late May. Throw in the sunglasses and Greek fisherman's cap and you had all the makings of an east coast gangster.

But gangster he was not; the easy lines of his face could tell you that. 'I am a man you can come to, I can listen to your worries and respond with compassion,' they broadcast to all who gazed upon them.

7:59.

And he was that man. The man that people turned to for consolation. The man who gave them hope when things looked darkest. The man who christened their births, celebrated their marriages, mourned their dead.

8:00.

The man who raped their children.

By necessity Gustavus Milliken took great pains to hide his dirty secret. Ergo the rental sedan for the 70 mile trip from Elmwood, ergo the get-up of coat, hat and shades, and ergo the early morning hour, when he could get in and out of the store with minimal risk of human interaction. Other than the clerk that is; and the slimy weasel behind the counter hardly qualified as human.

8:02.

"Shit on a shingle!" Gus looked nervously along Pershing Drive; still barren of traffic. But even in this seedy commercial district people would soon be moving about as the day progressed.

A glint caught his eye and he turned back to the store.

"Open" he had missed the hand, but only by a moment. The sign swung lazily as the suspension cord settled on the hook.

Gus checked himself in the rearview. The cap and shades helped, but could not conceal him entirely. He wished for a spot of rain or a cold blustery wind to justify it, but turned up the collar of the trench coat just the same, notching the top button into its socket to seal the deal.

What was left, was forehead, cheeks and chin. All other identifying elements, save for his hands, concealed. And these he stuffed, after exiting the car, deep into the pockets of the trench.

He crossed Pershing slowly; just an elderly gentleman who had suffered his share of fantastically cruel winters, and took no chances by overdressing. An old man out for his morning walk, perhaps he was on his way to the corner mart to pick up muffins and dried prunes for breakfast. Or maybe he was headed to the newsstand for the latest issue of The New Yorker and a couple of White Owl cigars.

Or maybe, for anyone so inclined to watch, he could just be another dirty old man making a beeline for the corporate headquarters and sole location, prominently displayed on the vertical sign, of EXtreme EXotica EXchange Gus gripped the door handle through the fabric of the trench. As he stepped in he was awash with feelings of reservation, both for the violation of his sacred vows and for the chance of discovery.

The clerk merely looked at him and then returned to priming the cash register.

Gus didn't need a greeting (didn't want one). And he didn't need directions. He headed straight to the back room.

He browsed for a few moments, not at all interested in the merchandise, but as a method to determine if anyone else was in the store. He wove his way back to the front, glancing down each aisle to ensure privacy, and then approached the clerk.

"Boys room." The statement was brief, the meaning immense. This time the clerk took much greater interest in his customer. He didn't look familiar, but he did know the codeword. Child porn may not be their biggest item, but if fetched a great price and usually a handsome tip for the seller. The fact that it was highly illegal, jail-time illegal, made it a risky proposition.

"You been here before?" The clerk wanted just a little more reassurance before proceeding.

"Yes."

"So you know where the boys room is?"

"Behind the counter. In the safe."

The guy was legit. The clerk glanced leeringly at the entrance, then stooped behind the counter. The safe was still open from his cash register priming. He lifted a false panel from the bottom and retrieved two magazines: "Cock-a-diddle-do" and "Pubes."

Gus knew better than to leisurely leaf through the offerings. This wasn't the public library. The clerk was at much risk as he was.

"Both."

The clerk quickly concealed both smut rags into a sleeve. He shot the old guy a price, $35. Gus had pre-planned. To avoid having to extract his wallet (and potentially reveal some form of identity) he had planted 4 twenty-dollar bills in his trench. He unfolded two of them on the counter, nodded knowingly at the clerk and left without his change.

Outside the store he was awhirl with anticipation and anxiety. He held his package guiltily; the urge to hide it under his coat was compelling, the knowledge that he would be driving to a municipal park (preferably near a playground) and glancing through the pages, scintillating. The street was still quiet, there were no pedestrians; but a block up, a metro bus was idling at a stop light. A half minute sooner, and the metro with its 20 gawking passengers would have been abreast of his exit from the triple X exchange. He acknowledged his good fortune, yet cringed at the thought of the near miss.

He re-crossed the street, this time with a little more meaningful pace. Driven by the need to create distance between himself and the store, and beckoned by the pleasures that awaited, his black oxfords literally skimmed across the asphalt.

The car had been left unlocked; intentionally. Fumbling with keys and an unfamiliar lock would mean precious seconds lost. It might also have caused him to drop his package, allowing pages of naked grade school boys to flutter openly along Pershing Drive.

Unacceptable.

Gus yanked at the handle with his free hand, tossed his package on the passenger seat, and settled his frame behind the wheel.

Time to go.

He hesitated just briefly, shaking off the slimy feeling of the store and the immorality of the purchase. He would have preferred to have shed the trench and the stupid hat and glasses, but he knew better. Those would have to wait. Gus fired up the sedan, checked for traffic three times (Even a slight fender bender would have meant police, his name on an incident report and publication in the daily blotter) and cautiously pulled onto Pershing Drive.

With the seedy district left behind, his trepidation eased while his anticipation bulged. Still he kept the vehicles pace nearly sedentary, well under the speed limit. He gauged his approach to each stoplight by the pedestrian signals, if the white stickman was lit, he rolled through freely. If the amber "DON'T WALK" was flashing, he coasted; right foot poised on the brake. He would rather stop well in advance than roll under a yellow; potentially attracting the attention of some rookie cop trying to buffer his ticket quota and with a no tolerance policy for 'in-betweeners.' "Sir may I see some identification. And what's that you have in the package?"

He signaled his lane changes with great deliberation. Turns; he executed slowly, providing a safe cushion between the sedan and any other vehicles, and preventing inertia from sliding his cargo off the passenger seat.

Gus longed to free his right hand from the wheel to caress the package, even for a moment, but lower Hennepin County was a tricky patchwork of roads. He dispensed with his original idea of finding a sleepy municipal park and stealing a few glimpses. Something in his gut was telling him that it would be safer outside the city. He would have to devote his full attention until he was on the expressway.

The expressway provided several turnouts for weary travelers, and at this early hour chances were good that the rest areas would be lightly used, maybe even unoccupied. There he could remove the getup and finally get his paws on the pictures (and maybe something else to boot) if the conditions favored him.

Sheridan boulevard loomed ahead. Two miles of Sheridan would link him up with I-75 SW. He took the ramp and entered the thinning confluence of morning traffic.