His hair was dirty blond going gray and hadn't been washed or cut in a while. His eyes peered out from behind it, feral, shifty, shy, not meeting Jim's. He whimpered again.

"Sir," Jim said, lowering his weapon. "I'm Alaska state trooper Jim Chopin, and ..."

His voice faded out as he took a step forward. The front of the man's clothing was covered in a dark substance that looked like dried blood.

So was the knife he held.

Without realizing it, Jim raised his gun. "All right, sir, could you put the knife down, please?"

Another whimper. "Sir, put the knife down. Now."

The man pushed himself into his corner, drawing up his knees and hiding behind his arms. He mumbled something.

"What? Sir, I couldn't hear you. What did you say?"

Dazed eyes blinked up at him. He mumbled something else.

It sounded like "angels," "angels" and something else. Jim swore to himself. He didn't want to put himself within striking range of someone who was seeing angelic apparitions, but there didn't seem to be a lot of choice, other than shooting the man outright. He transferred the Smith & Wesson nine-millimeter automatic to his left hand and took a step forward. "I'm going to take the knife, sir, all right? That's it, just relax. No one's going to hurt you. That's right, just hand it over. Let's everybody stay calm and no one will get hurt."

He continued with a steady stream of soothing babble as he inched forward, making no sudden movements as he bent his knees and reached out with his right hand, hoping he wasn't reaching out with it for the last time. "That's right, sir, just keep calm, keep still—"

The man pushed against the floor with his feet in a sudden movement that added ten years to Jim's life. "Sir. Sir. Please stay still. You might cut yourself, and we don't want that, do we?" He continued to move forward and the man continued to cringe away, his face buried in his arms, the knife clenched in his left fist. Jim's hand was two feet away, one foot, six inches. "That's it, sir, stay very still."

He took hold of the knife at the part of the handle protruding above the man's hand. More whimpering, more cringing, but to Jim's infinite relief, the man's grip relaxed and the knife slid free.

Jim took a deep breath. He took several. "Okay. That's good." He backed away and stood up. He always kept a couple of gallon-size Ziplocs in his inside pocket, and he placed the knife in one of them. He wrapped a second bag around the first and stored the bundle in a pocket. "Sir? Sir? Could you stand up? Come on, sir, I won't hurt you." He took a chance and holstered his weapon. "Come on. Stand up now."

He pulled the man to his feet. The man came up without resistance. His hair fell back and Jim saw that his face was stained with tears. "Did you hurt the cat?" the man said.