He liked shopping at this time of night. The aisles of Stop & Shop were practically empty. The rage was still brewing inside him, threatening to dislodge the nausea, but there was no one to notice if he had to dart to the rest rooms or abandon his cart and leave the store suddenly. Which reminded him, he needed to stock up on more of the chalky crap.

Ever since leaving the library he’d felt a tingling in his hands and a weakness in his knees. He turned around to see if anyone was watching, if he was being followed. There was someone out to destroy him. But how did they know? How did they get his e-mail address?

At first he thought it might be the old man. But now he was convinced it had to be that nosy reporter. That bitch! He should have known she would be a problem. She was following him. He had seen her several places, snooping around. He had almost bumped into her yesterday, and she looked through him as if he didn’t exist. Had she been pretending that she didn’t know anything? No, she knew something. Why else was she everywhere he went?

And now was she playing games with him, sending him e-mails and pretending to be Joan. It had to be that reporter. It had to be. Had to be. But how did she know? How did she know he had Joan? Had the old man told her something? Had he seen him taking Joan that night in Hubbard Park?

He had to keep calm. He had to breathe. He would take care of his enemies, all in good time. He just needed to stay calm. He tapped his pocket, making sure the folded piece of paper was there. While at the library reading his e-mail he looked up the TV station’s address and phone number. Some receptionist told him Jennifer Carpenter wouldn’t be in until ten-thirty. That he could call back after the eleven o’clock news if he wished to speak with her. Speak to her? Well, yes, maybe he did wish to speak to her. Maybe he would ask her why she was following him. Why she was harassing him.

He searched the shelves, trying to relax, trying to concentrate on his shopping. He chose several jars of jelly. The twelve ounce would work fine. Then he noticed a large jar with olives. He hadn’t seen these before. He picked it up to examine it, thirty-two ounces and a nice wide mouth with a screw-on lid. He put it into his cart next to the cans of soup and loaf of white bread. Mayonnaise. He remembered he was out of mayonnaise. If only it came in a larger jar, and now they were selling it in sixty-four-ounce plastic containers. Plastic just wasn’t sufficient.

He tried to get his mind off the e-mail, off the rage it had made him feel. It was stupid, stupid, stupid to play games with him, to pretend to be Joan Begley. She was out to destroy him. They were all out to destroy him. That old man. Even that FBI agent. He didn’t trust any of them. They were all out to get him. But they couldn’t. No, they couldn’t destroy him. Not if he took care of them first.

That made him smile. Yes, one by one he would take care of his enemies. They had discovered his dumping ground, but he could find other places. That made him feel back in control.

He started down a new aisle. Someone said the old man had Alzheimer’s disease. He hated the way they had said it, like it was something that they were supposed to feel bad about. Like they felt sorry for the poor old guy.

He wondered what it looked like. What would something like Alzheimer’s disease look like? Did it make parts of the brain shrivel up? Did it discolor it in any way? He wouldn’t mind seeing that, taking a look.

Last time a large pickle jar had worked just fine, and he started to look for a similar one. Yes, Steve Earlman’s brain fit perfectly in a large pickle jar and so would Luc Racine’s.