That put him two up on a lot of people. Including, by now, Jay Pinkerton.

The Coronet died soon after he turned off U.S. 287 onto Texas 19, before he could find one of the back roads that he preferred. There was a grinding noise, and then the engine quit. Blackburn let the car coast into the ditch and stopped it under an overhanging tree. God was still trying to get him to believe in Him, and had decided that he should wander on foot for a while longer.

Blackburn didn't think that would have to be for long. After turning onto Texas 19, he had passed a gravel road with a sign beside it that said Palestine community forest, and he had seen red taillights wink off among the trees. At least one car was parked in there.

He took his two plastic bags and trudged back toward the gravel road. The ground was moist rather than muddy, so he knew the rain had not been as heavy here. A car passed by on the highway, and he lay down in the grass at the bottom of the ditch so its occupants wouldn't see him. When he stood, his clothes were damp, and he felt bugs, probably ticks, crawling on his skin. He stopped and set down his bags to brush himself off, but it was too dark for him to see whether he was successful. The sensation of things crawling on him didn't go away, so he had to walk on and try to ignore it. He couldn't wait to get out of Texas.

When he could see the flat shadow that was the mouth of the gravel road, he climbed the slope of the ditch and entered the forest, weaving his way between the trees. The woods were alive with chirps, clicks, and scrabblings, some of which ceased as Blackburn passed by. He didn't want to think about all the ticks he was rousing, so he thought about snakes instead. Snakes could be shot.

A few hundred yards into the forest, an automobile appeared among the trees. It was a Nissan Z car that, in the darkness, appeared to be a dull gray color. It was parked in a clearing at the end of a dirt track that Blackburn assumed led back to the gravel road. The Nissan's windows were down, and as Blackburn approached, he heard slurping sounds from within. Kids making out.

Blackburn's plan was simple. He would force the Nissan's occupants out of the car and take it. But he would have to be careful. In Texas, even people in sports cars were often armed. Blackburn set down his bags among the roots of an elm, removed the Python from his rolled-up suit jacket, and stepped into the clearing.

At that moment, another man emerged from the trees on the opposite side of the clearing. This man's shirt, like Blackburn's, was white, and his legs, like Blackburn's, were bare. He stood out so sharply against the dark trees that he seemed to glow. Blackburn stopped and stared, thinking at first that he was seeing a reflection of himself, a terrestrial gegenschein. Then, as the other man continued to approach, Blackburn saw that he was small and walked in a stoop, and that his shirt was in fact a gown that stopped at mid-thigh. His gray hair was long and matted, and his beard touched his chest. He was not a reflection of Blackburn.

The man raised his hands above his head and shouted in a high-pitched, cracking voice: "Fornicators! Repent!"

Two heads popped up in the Nissan. Blackburn hissed "Shit" and stepped back into the trees. He didn't know if the people in the car had seen him or not.

The long-haired man continued to shout. "The wages of sin is death!" he cried. He was standing beside the car now, pounding its roof with his fists. "At least use a rubber!"

The Nissan's engine started, and its headlights came on. The beams stabbed into the woods and pinned Blackburn against a tree trunk. He dropped to the ground, hoping the kids were too intent on getting away to notice him. The Nissan spun its rear wheels, backed up in a half circle, and scraped against a cedar. Metal squealed as it lurched forward onto the dirt track, and then it was gone. Blackburn heard it turn onto the gravel road and roar off toward the highway.

"Oh, generation of vipers!" the long-haired man shouted, shaking a finger toward the sound of the departing car. "Who hath warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Me, that's who!"

Blackburn was perturbed. He stood, sure that he was covered with ticks again, and stepped back into the clearing.

"Hey, you!" he said. "You're Morton, right?"

The long-haired man froze, his finger still raised. Then his head swiveled, and he stared at Blackburn.

"My child," he said. His voice was hoarse.

Blackburn raised the Python and shook it as the longhaired man had shaken his finger. "You may have just ruined my chances for getting out of here alive. I'd kill you, but killing crazy people is bad luck."

The long-haired man turned so that his finger pointed at Blackburn. "I am the good shepherd," he said, "and know my sheep, and am known of mine. Thou knowest I am the Morton. Thou art mine." He lowered his hand and scratched his crotch. "As for killing me, go ahead. That's what I'm here for. But if ye seek to be set free-" He turned and shuffled toward the trees from which he had emerged. "Follow me."

Blackburn considered. Insane or not, Morton had managed to escape from a state hospital, and so far he had avoided capture for three days. Blackburn followed him into the forest.

Morton was fast, and Blackburn had trouble keeping up. Sometimes Morton vanished, then reappeared farther away, a will o' the wisp in a hospital gown. Blackburn scraped his elbows on tree trunks, and tripped and fell twice. The forest seemed endless, and Morton flitted through it as if he were composed not of flesh, but of white gases that could pass through tree trunks as easily as through air.

At last, when Blackburn was sweating and his lungs had been aching for what seemed like hours, Morton stopped in a clearing. Blackburn collapsed a few yards away from him, breathing hard, not caring about ticks. After a minute or two he was able to sit up and saw that Morton had made a small pile of sticks on a strip of bare earth. Morton was sitting cross-legged before the sticks and setting them on fire with a butane lighter. When the fire was burning well, Morton tossed the lighter over his shoulder. It landed behind him with a clink.

"Isn't it warm enough already?" Blackburn asked, rising to a crouch and moving closer. He saw now that Morton was wearing dirty high-topped sneakers with cracked soles and no shoelaces.

"Be willing for a season to rejoice in a burning and shining light," Morton said. He leaned over the blaze and grinned. "Fire good," he said.

Blackburn sat down across the fire from Morton and laid the Python beside him. "You said you'd set me free," he said, "and for me that means getting out of Texas. You don't happen to have a car, do you?"

Morton shrugged. "I am the way, the truth, and the life, but I got no wheels."

"So how do I get out of here?" Blackburn asked. "I'm lost."

"Yea, the son of Stan is come to save that which was lost," Morton said. "No man cometh unto the fat herd, but by me."

"What's that mean?"

"Hang out with me until the old farts come from town for their picnics tomorrow," Morton said. "Then you can snag a Buick and take a journey into a far country. But waste not your substance with riotous living unless your old man is a soft touch. Fatted calves don't grow on trees."

Blackburn decided that, at its core, Morton's plan made sense. His only alternative was to take off through the woods on foot again, and that would get him nowhere. He had no idea where the nearest road might be or what he would do even if he found it. He might as well consider himself settled in for the night.

"Speaking of fatted calves," he said, "I'm hungry. I had some bread and cheese, but I left it beside a tree. Do you have anything?"

"I have food for the spirit, my son," Morton said.