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Dammit!

That dream’s warm fuzzy feeling was me shitting myself!

Goddamn greasy cheesesteak . . .

The kid now looked at him with a wrinkled, soured expression.

He went to the far side of the theater and, occasionally looking over his shoulder, began sticking the pole between the theater seats and pulling out discarded candy wrappers and paper cups.

As carefully as he could, Will Curtis made his way down the carpeted steps of the theater, then out into the corridor. He stopped, looked to the right, then to the left, and saw a pair of restrooms two screening rooms away.

He found the men’s room empty. After grabbing some paper towels, he entered a stall, closing and locking the door.

He unbuttoned his denim jacket, then reached under his shirttail to pull out the Glock. He looked around the stall but could not find a flat surface to put it on. And he could not simply set it on the floor as he had done at the church earlier in the day. Here the stall walls were a foot off the tiled floor, and anyone walking into the restroom would immediately see the gun in plain view.

And no doubt go screaming like a banshee into the corridor.

He looked from the floor to the back side of the door. There was a standard metal hook there, and he turned the gun upside down and slipped its trigger guard over the hook.

That works good.

He then undid his pants to inspect the damage.

He saw red.

That’s a lot of blood.

Not good . . .

He kicked off his black athletic shoes, then slipped off the slacks and hung them by a belt loop on the hook. Then he peeled off his fouled underwear and wrapped it in paper towels.

He was now naked from the waist down, and he suddenly felt very cold, chilled to the core.

And then there was a rumble in his abdomen.

A half hour later, feeling clammy and completely spent, Will managed to dress himself and exit the stall.

Washing his hands, he looked in the mirror and truly didn’t recognize himself. He was saddened by the ashen-faced, sickly old man staring back at him. He thought he looked worse than ever.

I know I damn sure feel worse than ever.

And I keep passing blood.

He dried his hands, then started for the door. Feeling dizzy, he took his steps carefully. At the door, he pulled it inward, then stopped.

Damn! The gun!

He retrieved the pistol from the toilet stall’s coat hook, stuck it behind his belt buckle, then made his way out of the cinema and across the complex to the car park.

The white Ford minivan was where he’d left it, but the full-size SUVs that had been on either side were gone, as were half the vehicles in the lot.

He got behind the wheel and started the engine. Looking at the dashboard, he saw the small stack of the four remaining FedEx envelopes. He picked them up and flipped through them.

The first had a Last Known Address that was in far South Philly, almost to Philadelphia International Airport. The second was on Richmond, the other side of Kensington. The third was on Ontario, near Eighteenth Street. And the fourth was the Last Known Address that had been a dead end—the house that had burned to the ground.

The Richmond one is too close to here for tonight.

He flipped back and looked at the Ontario address.