The adrenaline was still pounding through his body at a rate nearly as strong as when he first finished reading that taunting letter from the I-90 Killer. He knew at some point in the not-too-distant future, all that adrenaline would wear off and he would crash, feeling headachy and sick to his stomach.But fall asleep? No way. It would never happen.But he did sleep, and when he did, his dreams came all night, nearly nonstop. They were vivid and colorful, free-form, filled with jagged shapes and menacing shadows and threatening monsters. Enemies he could not see or feel or touch assaulted him from all sides. He could hear them, though, and they taunted him, telling him they were going to tear him apart slowly, so that he could feel every limb as it was ripped from his agonized body, count every drop of blood as it spilled from his torn arteries onto the floor.Interspersed among these nonspecific visions of impending doom were other, more detailed dreams. They were like subconscious commercials, breaking up the longer.
