Praying for Sleep

by Deaver, Jeffrey

  “And what if he kills somebody else? You’re happy just to let him go.”

  “There are rules for how this works and I’m going to stick to ’em. And I’m going to see that you do too.”

  “You’re saying you’d stop me?” Heck spat out. “Use that gun? Use that fancy de-partmental Glock of yours?”

  Fennel was clearly stung by this but he received no apology from Heck, whose fists were balled at his side, as if spoiling for a schoolyard fight.

  “Don’t be stupid, Trenton,” Fennel said kindly. “Think about it. That Dr. Adler’s a peckerhead to start with. You think he’s going to pay you a penny of reward, you snag his boy out of state? You know he’ll cheat you if he can. And what if some pansy civil-liberties lawyer gets ahold of you for kidnapping some poor retard. Bang, your ass is hung out to dry.”

  It wouldn’t have hurt so bad, Heck knew, if they hadn’t been so close—if he’d gotten a notice that Hrubek was, say, in Florida or Toronto. But they were so damn close. . . . Trenton Heck glanced at Fennel then gazed across the empty fields, which seemed white, as if dusted with snow or lime. He saw in the vague, indiscernible distance the shape of a man’s back, crouching low as he ran. But as Heck’s eyes squinted the back became a shrub and he understood that he was seeing only what his imagination had created.

  Without a word to the two men Heck untied his hound and slipped off the harness, replacing it with the jangling ID collar. He said, “Come,” and returned to the squad car to wait for the others, Emil trotting along beside.

  They didn’t notice him for a full minute so he spent that time looking around the shabby office—the cheap desk, the vibrating fluorescent light, the carpet of shocking green, the books with torn jackets or no jackets at all, stacks of recycled manila folders, the shoddy walls.

  Owen Atcheson was himself a homeowner and handy with tools. He recognized that the paneling came from a cheap store and was mounted by cheaper labor. The carpet was stained and the windows were streaked with grease though Owen also observed that the glass in the frames holding the doctor’s diplomas was shiny as a diamond.

  “Excuse me.”

  The men turned. The one in uniform—this would be Haversham, the captain, the good man—pivoted on the heels of his short boots. The other one—whose office this was, a sandy-haired man of about fifty—seemed to have had only two hours of a much-needed sleep. Still, he had keen eyes, which now tersely examined his visitor.

  Owen introduced himself then asked, “You’re Dr. Adler?”

  “I am,” said the hospital director, neither polite nor contrary. “What can I do for you?”

  The trooper, whose eyes suggested that he remembered the name, surveyed Owen’s clothing.

  “I live in Ridgeton. It’s west of here about—”

  “Yes. Ridgeton. I know where it is.”

  “I’m here about Michael Hrubek.”

  Adler’s eyes flashed with brief alarm. “How’d you find out that he’s wandered away?”

  “Wandered away?” Owen asked wryly.

  “Who exactly are you?”

  The trooper spoke up. “It’s your wife . . . ?”

  “That’s right.”

  Adler nodded. “The woman at the trial? That sheriff called about her a while ago. Some letter Hrubek sent.” The doctor squinted, wondering, it seemed, where Owen might fit in the zodiac of the evening.

  “You haven’t caught him yet?”

  “Not quite. You really don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “No? That was a pretty frightening letter your patient sent my wife.”

  “Well, as I think we explained”—his gaze incorporated Haversham—“to your sheriff, Hrubek is a paranoid schizophrenic. What they write is usually meaningless. There’s nothing for you to wor—”

  “Usually meaningless? Then not always. I see. Don’t you think there’s something to it if he threatened my wife at the trial, then wrote this letter a few months back and here he goes and escapes?”

  Adler said, “It’s not really your concern, Mr. Atcheson. And we’re really quite busy—”

  “My wife’s safety is my concern.” Owen glanced at the doctor’s left hand. “It’s a man’s job to look after his wife. Don’t you look after yours?” He noticed with some pleasure that Adler had in this short time grown to dislike him. “Tell me why there are only four men in the search party.”

  The hospital director’s front teeth danced together briefly with several short taps. “The men after him’re experienced dog-trackers. More efficient than a dozen troopers just wandering around in the dark.”

  “He’s in Watertown?”

  “He was. He seems to be going north. He is going north, I should say.”

  From outside, the sound of hammering boomed. Owen recalled that entering the hospital grounds he’d seen workmen carrying sheets of plywood toward large plate-glass windows in what seemed to be a cafeteria.

  “Have they actually spotted him?” Owen asked curtly, and watched the doctor’s dislike become active hatred. But Owen was a lawyer; he was used to this.

  “I don’t think so,” Adler said. “But they’re very close.”

  Owen believed posture was a man’s most important attribute. He could have hair or no hair, be shaven or stubbled, tall or short, but if he stood up straight he was respected. Now, at attention, he stared down this doctor, who may have believed that Hrubek was harmless but on the other hand was here late on Sunday, looking like death itself, with an officer of the state police at his side.

  He asked, “He escaped in Stinson?”

  Dr. Adler glanced at the far ceiling. He nodded impatiently toward Haversham, who strode to the desk and with a capped Bic pen touched a location on the map. “Here’s why your wife’s got nothing to worry about. We’re tracking him here.” He touched a spot near the intersection of Routes 236 and 118. “He escaped . . .” The doctor’s eyes bored into Haversham at this choice of word. The captain paused then continued. “He wandered off here, just over the Stinson line.”

  “And how did he get to Stinson?”

  Adler plucked a sentence from inventory and responded quickly, “There was a mix-up. He took another patient’s place in a transport van.”

  Haversham took a moment to detach his gaze from the hospital director’s serene face and continued, “Then he eluded two orderlies here. In Watertown, here, he asked a driver for a ride to Boston. Oh, and he dropped a map of Boston while he was running. He’s on Route 118 now.”

  “Boston? What kind of lead does he have?”

  “Just a half hour. And our people are gaining fast. We should have him within twenty minutes.”

  “Now, if you’ll excuse us,” Adler said, “we’ve got some work to do.”

  Owen had the pleasure of staring the troubled man down once more and said to the state trooper, “I hope you’ll do my wife and me the courtesy of keeping the Ridgeton sheriff informed about what’s happening here.”

  “I’ll do that, sure.”

  Nodding to the trooper and ignoring Adler, Owen left the office. He was walking down the dank, murky corridor when the captain stepped into the hall and caught up with him.

  “ ’Scuse me, sir? A question?”

  The trooper was a big man though Owen was bigger and Haversham stepped back a pace so that he wasn’t looking up into Owen’s eyes at so steep an angle. “You out doing some camping when you heard about this?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The reason I ask is, you’re dressed like you’ve been camping. Or hunting.”

  “I just threw on some clothes and drove over here.”

  “All the way from Ridgeton?”

  “It’s straight down the highway. I’ll confess. I didn’t obey the posted.”

  “You might’ve called.” When he received no response the captain continued, “You armed, by any chance?”

  Owen asked if Haversham wanted to see his pistol permit.

  “That won’t be necessary, no. What line
of work you in?”

  “I’m an attorney.”

  “Lawyer, huh?” This seemed to please Haversham. “What sort?”

  “Corporate mostly.”

  “The doctor back there, he’s got a pretty low opinion of this Hrubek. And I suspect you and your wife do too. Now this fellow may be criminally insane but in the eyes of the law he isn’t no dog. He’s a human being and if somebody was to shoot him down they’d be guilty of murder just the same as they’d shot a minister. But I don’t need to tell you that, being a lawyer and all.”

  “Let me ask you something, Captain. Have you ever seen Michael Hrubek up close? You ever faced him?”

  “I sympathize with you, sir. But I’m telling you, we find him dead somewhere, I personally’ll be coming to talk to you. Even if you get off with manslaughter, that’ll be the end of your legal practice.”

  Owen looked back into the calm eyes of the captain, who finally said, “Those are just some things to consider.”

  “Duly noted, Captain. Good night to you now.”

  From the corner of his eye Michael Hrubek—running through tall grass—noticed headlights on a service road that paralleled his path along the highway. The car was keeping pace with his speed and he believed it was following him. The vehicle stopped suddenly, made a sharp turn and headed in his direction. “Conspirators!” he crowed. Amid the panic that enveloped him like a cloud of hornets he tripped and fell forward onto the shoulder. Cinders, pebbles and bits of glass embedded themselves in his palms and blood appeared. He screamed briefly, picked himself up and ran forty feet into the forest, crashing through a line of low brush then dropping onto the ground. A few moments later the green cube of a car drove past slowly and stopped.

  A door slammed and a man climbed out. The conspirator walked in a slow circle near the perimeter of the forest. Hrubek curled up on his side. He closed his eyes and prayed that he might fall asleep so that he’d grow invisible.

  “Michael!” the man called tentatively, as if undecided whether to shout or whisper. “Are you there?”

  Something familiar about the voice.

  “Michael, it’s me.”

  Dr. Richard! the stunned patient realized. Dr. Richard Kohler from Marsden!

  Or was it? Careful here. Something funny’s going on.

  “Michael, I want to talk to you. Can you hear me?”

  Hrubek opened his eyes and gazed out from between two ferns. It looked like Dr. Richard. How did those fuckers do it? Hrubek nervously scooted under a bush. His eyes flicked up and down suspiciously as he examined the man, studying the doctor’s thin frame, dark-blue suit, black penny loafers and Argyle socks. His backpack the color of old blood. Sure, this looked just like Dr. Richard. Identical! Hrubek gave the conspirator credit for disguising himself so cleverly.

  Smart fucker, make no mistake.

  “They told me you’d run off. Michael, is that you? I thought I saw you.”

  The footsteps grew closer, crushing leaves beneath the dainty feet. Hrubek pulled his own backpack to his side. It was heavy and clinked with the sound of metal and chains. He froze at the noise then rummaged inside quietly. At the bottom he found the pistol.

  “Michael, I know you’re scared. I want to help you.”

  He aimed the pistol at the shadowy form that approached. He’d shoot the impostor in the head. No, that’d be too merciful. I’ll aim for the belly, he thought, and let him die like a battlefield soldier, slowly, with a gut wound from a .54 Minié ball.

  . . . for I love the bonnie blue boy who gave his life for me. . . .

  The footsteps came closer. The beam from a tiny flashlight swept the ground, lit a patch of grass two feet from his foot, then moved on. Hrubek held the gun close to his face. He smelled oil and metal. As he gazed back into the clearing, a dreadful thought came into his mind: What if this wasn’t an impostor. Maybe this really was Dr. Richard. Maybe he was a conspirator too! Maybe he’d been a traitor all along. From the first fucking day they’d met. Four months of betrayal!

  “I’ve been looking all over for you. I want to give you some medicine. It’ll make you feel better.”

  How do you feel better when you’re dead? Hrubek responded silently. How does poison make you feel better? If I were a bettor, I’d say you were a bad bet, you fucker.

  The conspirator was ten feet away. Hrubek’s right hand began to shake as it gripped the gun, which was pointed directly at the belly of Dr. Richard the betrayer (or John Conspirator the impostor).

  “I’m your last chance. There are people who want to hurt you. . . .”

  Well, I knew that all along. You’re telling me something new? How’d you like to be in the news? CNN can do a story about your blown-up guts. He pulled the hammer back. The click was very soft but inexplicably it released in Hrubek a flood of fear. He began to quiver. The gun slipped from his hand and he remained paralyzed for a long moment. Finally his vision grew blacker than the black forest around him and his mind froze, seated like a hot drill bit in oak.

  When he opened his eyes again and was aware of his surroundings, some minutes had passed. The air felt colder, more oppressive, heavy with moisture. The conspirator was gone, his car too. Hrubek found the gun and lowered the hammer carefully, then stowed the weapon in his bag. As he rose to his feet, dazed and discomfited, and started jogging through the night once more, Hrubek wondered whether the entire incident had been just a dream. But he concluded that even if it hadn’t been real the apparition was certainly a message from God: to remind him that tonight he could trust no one, not even those who were—or who pretended to be—his closest friends on earth.

  11

  She called it the Berlin Wall.

  A six-foot-high stockade fence of gray cedar, surrounding most of the four acres of the L’Auberget estate. Lis now walked along a stretch of this fence on her way to the dam. To enclose the property had cost Andrew L’Auberget eighteen thousand dollars (and they’d been 1968 dollars, no less). But despite the price he was adamant about the barricade. Lis jokingly named it after the German barrier (the reference shared only with Portia and friends, never with her father) though the man’s concern hadn’t been the Red Peril. Terrorist kidnappings were his main fear.

  He’d become convinced that he, as a successful businessman with several European partnerships, was targeted. Goddamn Basques,” he railed. “Goddamn them! And they know all about me. The SDS, the Black Panthers! I’m in Who’s Who in American Business. There for the whole world to see! Where I live! My children’s names! They could read your name, Lisbonne. Remember what I told you about answering the door? Tell me what you’d do if you saw a Negro walking around outside the gate. Tell me!”

  The fence, even Lis the naïve child supposed, was easily breachable and less a deterrent to the bad guys than an inconvenience to the family, who had to walk three-quarters of a mile around it if they wanted to go for walks in the woods across Cedar Swamp Road. But like the builders of its namesake, L’Auberget’s purpose seemed only partially to keep the enemy out; he also wanted to restrain his own citizenry. “I will not have the children wandering off. They’re girls, for God’s sake!” Lis had often heard this declaration, or variations on it.

  As she walked along tonight Lis reflected with some irony that while its German counterpart was now dust, Andrew L’Auberget’s cedar folly was still as strong as ever. She noticed too that if the water did overflow the dam, the fence would make a perfect sluice, preventing any flood from spilling off the property into the woods and directing it straight to the house.

  She now approached the beach—a small crescent of dark sand. Just beyond was the dam, an old stone-and-cement slab twenty feet high, built around the turn of the century. It was against this wide lip of cement that the white rowboat she’d seen from the house thudded resonantly. Behind the dam was the narrow spillway fed by the overflow; usually dry, tonight it gushed like a Colorado rapid, the water disappearing into the creek that ran beneath the road. The dam was part of the L
’Auberget property though it was under the technical control of the state Corps of Engineers, which had been granted an easement to maintain it. Why weren’t they here tonight? she wondered.

  Lis continued a few feet toward the dam, then stopped, uneasy, reluctant to go further, watching the white jet of water shoot into the creek.

  Her hesitation had nothing to do with the safety of the dam or the ragged spume. The only thought on her mind at the moment was the picnic.

  Many, many years before: a rare event—a L’Auberget family outing.

  That June day had been a mixture of sun and shade, hot and cold. The family strolled from the house to this beach, and hadn’t gotten more than ten yards before Father started carping at Portia. “Calm down, quiet down!” The girl was five, even then cheerfully defiant and boisterous. Lis was horrified that because of the girl’s rowdiness Father would call off the picnic and she bluntly shushed her little sister. Portia tried to kick Lis in retaliation and, with a dark glance from her husband, Mother finally swept up the squirming girl and carried her.

  Lis, then eleven, and her father hefted picnic baskets packed by him so efficiently that she nearly tore muscles under the weight. Still, the girl didn’t complain; she’d endured eight months of her father’s absence while he was in Europe on yet another business trip and nothing on earth would stop her from walking at his side. She was thrilled speechless when he complimented her on her strength.

  “How about here?” Father asked, then answered himself. “Yes, I think so.”

  It seemed to Lis that he’d developed a minuscule accent in his recent travels. Portuguese, she supposed. She observed his dark slacks and white dress shirt buttoned at the neck, without tie, and short boots. This was hardly American fashion in the nineteen sixties but he’d have nothing to do with Brooks Brothers or Carnaby Street and remained faithful to the look favored by his Iberian business associates. It wasn’t until after he died that Lis and her mother would laugh that Andrew’s style could best be described as post-immigrant.

  That afternoon he’d watched his wife arranging the meal and gave her strident instructions. The food was cut geometrically, cooked perfectly, sealed in containers airtight as the NASA capsules that so fascinated him. Mother set out expensive stainless-steel utensils and ceramic plates the shade of milky plums.