Praying for Sleep

by Deaver, Jeffrey

  “He was talking,” Lis told Kohler, “about conspirators.”

  Stumbling backwards Lis landed on her purse. Inside, she felt a knife. She’d packed it for the picnic, she explained, wrapping it in a paper towel and placing it in her bag so no one would reach blindly into the picnic basket and cut themselves. She pulled it out now and ripped the towel away from the blade—it was very sharp, a Chicago Cutlery, nine inches long. She pointed it at Hrubek and told him to keep back. But he just kept walking at her, saying, “Sic semper tyrannis!” again and again. Her nerve broke. She dropped the knife and ran.

  “That was the knife that he used?” Kohler asked. “I remember reading that the victim was stabbed as well as beaten. Sexually mutilated too.”

  After a moment Lis answered, “Robert was badly hurt but he probably could’ve survived. According to the evidence at the trial they think he would’ve recovered from the rock blows. He died from the stabbing.” She paused. “And the mutilation? Yes, Hrubek stabbed Robert in the groin. A number of times.”

  Only fifty feet away Lis found the exit and scrabbled through it. She collapsed on the ground and caught her breath. Then she headed into the canyon. But after running only a dozen yards she pulled up with a fierce cramp in her side. Hrubek was twenty or thirty feet behind her. He was saying, “Come here. You’re a very beautiful woman but what’s that on your hair? I don’t like your hair that way. What’s that on your head?” She’d gotten some of Robert’s blood on her hair. This upset Hrubek. He was very angry. She supposed that he was worried it was evidence. “What did you do to yourself?” he called. “That’s not fashionable. You shouldn’t’ve done that!”

  He stepped toward her and she dropped to her knees, rolling under a jutting overhang about a foot and a half high. It went back into the rock maybe six feet and there she wedged herself, shivering in the cold and fighting the panic from confinement. As she stared at the path, his feet appeared. He wore shoes. Huge ones. Wingtips. This astonished her. For some reason she expected him to be barefoot, with long yellow toenails. She wondered if he’d killed a man for the shoes. Then he bent down and lay on his belly.

  “‘Nice try,’ he kept saying. ‘Come on out here. You’re Eve, aren’t you? Beautiful lady. Ought to shave that fucking hair off.’ ”

  She wedged herself as far back as she could, her face pressing into the rock. When he groped for her, she screamed and the piercing sound of her own voice stunned her ears. He screamed too, crying at her to shut up. He grunted and tried again to grab her. With a huge effort he jammed his arm forward. The tip of his middle finger eased against her thigh. Those were the only parts of their bodies close enough to touch. Lis felt the feathery trail of his callused skin move toward her knee. The sensation was like a burn and it remained, searing, even when Hrubek stood and vanished.

  Lis lay, whimpering and fighting the grip of claustrophobia. Where was he? she wondered. Did she dare leave? It’d been a half hour since she’d disappeared from the beach. She knew Owen wouldn’t have arrived yet but Portia and Dorothy might’ve come looking for her. Claire too would be somewhere nearby.

  Outside she noticed rain beginning to spatter on the stone path.

  “I started to push myself out. Then I heard two things. One was Hrubek’s voice. He was very close and talking to himself. The other sound was thunder.”

  It shook the ground. She was worried that the rock above her might shift and trap her where she lay. But this fear was soon replaced by a more immediate one—that she would drown. Huge gushes of water suddenly flowed down the arroyo and the cave began to fill.

  She eased closer to the opening. If Hrubek had reached in again, he could have grabbed her easily. Her head was sideways—the only way it would fit into the narrow space—and she was twisting her mouth upward, desperately gasping for air. Soon, filthy water was surging around her face, flowing over her lips. She spat it out and started choking. More thunder, more torrents of water, tumbling over the stone. She pushed toward the opening but couldn’t make headway. Fighting the rush of water she finally got far enough through the current to fling her hand outside the cave. Blindly, she gripped a rock and pulled herself toward it.

  “Then the rock moved. It wasn’t a rock at all but a shoe. I pulled back quickly but a huge hand grabbed me by the wrist and tugged me out.” Lis looked away from Kohler. “My swimsuit snagged on a rock and tore open.”

  She was half-naked. But she had no choice—she couldn’t stay in the cave any longer. She remembered thinking she wished that she had the courage to choose to die by drowning rather than be raped and murdered by the madman. As she was drawn out of the cave, her mind was filled with images of Hrubek’s huge hands prodding her breasts and reaching between her legs. She began to cry.

  Then a man’s voice said, “It’s all right, ma’am, it’s all right. What’s the matter?”

  She collapsed into the arms of the park ranger.

  Leaning against the rock in the torrential rain she told him about Robert and Hrubek. He began asking questions but Lis couldn’t concentrate. All she could hear was a horrid keening that filled the air. It seemed to come from earth itself, resonating from the rocks, stretching out thinner and thinner, impossibly thin, an unsustainable note that nonetheless refused to stop. “ ‘What is that?’ I asked. ‘Make it stop. Oh, for God’s sake.’ ”

  And soon it did, Lis explained to the psychiatrist.

  For, as Lis found out just moments later from another ranger, an underground stream, swollen with rain, had overflowed into the cave where Lis had found Robert’s body—the cave where Claire had been all along. The sound had been the girl’s wail for help that had been stifled by the rising waters in which she’d drowned.

  Stopping the truck abruptly and extinguishing the lights, Owen Atcheson gazed about him, surveying this dismal stretch of deserted road.

  He slipped the pistol out of his pocket and stepped into the clearing, playing his flashlight on the dusty shoulder. Hrubek’s bike had been laid or had fallen on its side and there were footprints around it. Several of these he recognized as the madman’s boots but the others weren’t familiar to him. It was clear that at one point Hrubek had sat on the ground—the sides of his heels made deep cut marks and his hams wide indentations in the dirt of the highway’s shoulder.

  He couldn’t make any sense of what’d happened here. He noticed the bicycle treads led on again, continuing west down Route 236, yet still he studied the turnoff carefully, trying to get a clearer idea of how Hrubek’s mind worked. He saw a grassy access road nearby; a path disappearing into the forest. A number of tire treads led toward it, some fresh.

  Beyond this was a long road descending through trees, bushes, tall grass, vines, mist. Where the path flattened out again and vanished into the murky shadows of the forest was a car, sitting cockeyed in the brush. Owen shone his flashlight toward it but the distance was too great for illumination; all he saw was a vague image of the vehicle. He deduced it was an abandoned hulk because it appeared to be two-tone; Detroit had stopped making those a long time ago. He didn’t bother to explore the vehicle further but returned to the road and drove slowly west, checking every hundred yards or so for the weaving bike tread.

  And pondering again the biggest problem of the evening.

  His was no moral dilemma. Oh, Owen Atcheson had absolutely no ethical difficulty with walking right up to Hrubek and putting a bullet into his forehead. No, it was simply practical, one that Haversham had reminded him of in Adler’s office: how could he kill Michael Hrubek without ending up disbarred and in jail himself.

  If Hrubek had been a convicted felon, Owen would have an easier time of it. Fleeing felons could legally be shot in the back (Owen now squinted as he recited from cold memory the rules in the state Penal Code). But Hrubek was not a felon. Although the jury found that he had in fact killed Robert Gillespie, the verdict that was entered was not guilty by reason of insanity.

  This meant that there were only two justifiable way
s to kill Hrubek. First, to be attacked by him in a place from which Owen couldn’t reasonably escape: an enclosed room, a blocked tunnel, a bridge. Second, to catch Hrubek in the Atcheson house, where Owen could legally shoot him without provocation and have nothing but an inconvenient trip to police HQ to show for it. And possibly not even that.

  One of these scenarios would have to be engineered. But he was still too far from his prey to figure out exactly how. No, there was nothing to do now but continue on, driving slowly through the misty night, amid this troubled uncertainty—not of purpose, but of means. He gave in to the mood of combat, thinking purely of the mechanics of the kill: Which shot would be the most effective? Which gun should he use? How far would a man of Hrubek’s size be able to run with a mortal wound? (Like a cape buffalo or bear, a frighteningly long way, he guessed.) Was Hrubek himself stalking his pursuers? Was he even now laying another steel-jawed trap? Or something more deadly? From his military days, Owen knew the huge variety of booby traps that can be created out of gasoline, naphtha, fertilizer, nails, tools, lumber, wire.

  He was considering these matters when he passed an old roadside gas station and general store, closed and dark. He slowed and studied the road carefully. The station had apparently attracted Hrubek too; the bike treads turned into the driveway. Owen pulled the truck past the lot and stopped very slowly to keep the damp brakes from squealing. He took his pistol from his pocket and, verifying that he still had the rifle bolt with him, climbed out of the truck.

  He noticed in the front of the building, near one of the pumps, a box of doughnuts, half-empty. It seemed a little too prominent—as if it’d been left here to lure pursuers into a trap—and when Owen walked to the back of the building he walked very quietly. Yes, the window was broken and the dead bolt unlatched. He inhaled slowly, to steady himself, then pushed the door open—fast, to keep the hinges from squealing—and stepped inside and moved immediately out of the doorway.

  Standing still, he let his eyes grow accustomed to the gloom. His mouth was open wide—a soldier’s trick to mute a loud inhalation should he be startled. When he heard nothing for five full minutes, he walked in a crouch among the shelves filled with auto parts and greasy cartons.

  Foot by foot, Owen covered the back room of the store and found no evidence of Hrubek. Through the open doorway and smeared glass beyond he saw the highway. A car drove past and the light flooded around him, creating a thousand shadows that flipped from left to right, coalescing then spreading out again into darkness. The headlights had dimmed his night vision and he waited five minutes until he could see well enough to continue.

  Owen found another empty doughnut carton. Powdered sugar and cinnamon were scattered on the floor. He made his way toward the narrow doorway that opened onto the front room. He stopped suddenly, listening to a rumbling. It grew louder. Lights flickered outside, outlining the old-time gas pumps. A burping explosion from a truck’s exhaust stack filled the air as the driver revved the engine to upshift coming off the long incline of the highway. The truck thundered past.

  Owen partially closed his eyes to protect them from the light.

  That was when he felt, more than saw, the movement. He opened his eyes in alarm and gazed at the dark shape swinging into the doorway. Before it reached him he leapt backwards. But he misjudged and tripped over a metal table, falling backwards and dropping his gun. His head struck the steel edge on the way down and he lay on the concrete floor, stunned, while the shadowy form of his assailant filled the doorway, not more than three feet from him.

  Beckoning, the glossy truck sat like a blue jewel in the driveway.

  “That’ll take me to Ridgeton in no time at all. Make no mistake, no time at all.”

  O beautiful truck, I could sit upon your seat while the priest’s beautiful daughter sits upon his cock. . . .

  From the old gas station Hrubek had cycled to the long gravel driveway down which had vanished the 4x4 that contained the woman and her daughter. He couldn’t see any lights and guessed that their house must be a half mile or more from the highway. He’d slowly trudged through the field beside the driveway, pausing to take the last trap from his canvas bag and place it under some strands of tall grass. He continued on, carrying the bicycle with him, thinking. What a truck that is! Why would I go by a bi-cycle store to buy a fucking bi-cycle when I can drive a truck?

  He had paused, taken the rear wheel in both hands and eased his shoulders back. Like a discus thrower he spun around twice and sent the bike flying through the air; it fell into a clump of plants thirty feet away. He was disappointed it didn’t explode on impact, though he had no idea why it should. He continued up the driveway, thinking less about the truck than the woman’s beautiful hair. That’s what intrigued him the most. He supposed she had breasts, he supposed she had a pussy, he supposed she had masks on her eyes. But what captivated him so was her hair. It reminded him of his own hair before he cut it all off. When had he done that? Tonight? No, last year. And why? He couldn’t remember. Microphones probably.

  Hrubek had walked a half mile until he came to the place where he now stood—the driveway beside the house. “Now be smart,” he told himself gravely. By this he meant: there’d be a husband. A woman with such soft hair and a delicate face wouldn’t live alone. She’d be married to a big man with cold eyes—a conspirator, like the limping fucker with the dog.

  He crouched and walked closer, hiding in a stand of juniper, the dew soaking through his overalls. He looked at the three-story colonial. The lights were golden, the trim garden was filled with Indian cornstalks and fat pumpkins on runners, the house itself was solid, symmetrical, plumb-even, a picture-book place, its red front door decorated with a dried-flower wreath.

  He turned away and studied the shiny truck in the driveway. Next to it was a sporty yellow motorcycle. He vaguely remembered that he’d ridden a cycle several times at college and recalled being thrilled, as well as terrified, by the sensation. The cycle looked very nice, bright and springy. But the truck had captivated him first and it continued to possess his heart.

  Hrubek walked up to the house and, standing in the side yard, he peered through a window. He tasted bitter paint where his lips pressed against the sill. Through a thick screen and thicker glass he could see the kitchen. There she was! The woman with the beautiful hair. Yes, she was beautiful. Much prettier than she’d seemed at the gas station. Tight blue jeans, a white silky blouse . . . And hair cascading to her shoulders—no hats for her, just tangles of soft, blond hair. The daughter was heavier and wore a thick sweatshirt with the sleeves drooping over her hands. A third woman in the room was dark and her face was tight and sultry. Hrubek didn’t like her at all. The women vanished from sight for a moment. The kitchen door opened. The mother and daughter were carrying boxes out of the house. “Last load,” the woman said. “Be back soon.”

  In a high edgy voice the girl said, “Mom, I’m tired.”

  “It’s the church auction. And you volunteered to help.”

  “Mom,” she repeated hopelessly.

  Hrubek thought, Don’t whine, you little fucker.

  He heard a ringing. He squinted into the darkness of the driveway. Oh, no! The keys to the truck! His truck! They were taking it away. He stood and tensed to leap into the driveway. As he watched them load the boxes into the back of the truck, he rocked back and forth, willing himself to act.

  “See you later, Mattie.”

  “Bye,” the dark woman called and returned to the kitchen. Through the window Hrubek saw her pick up the phone. The pretty woman and her daughter the whiny little shit climbed into the truck. Hrubek couldn’t move; if he stepped out of hiding, the woman on the phone would call for help. The engine started. Overcome by a burst of anxiety, Hrubek nearly leapt forward but he restrained himself and closed his eyes, squinting furiously until his head screamed with pain and he regained control. He hunkered down beneath a holly bush, whose leaves were sharp as knives.

  The truck rolled past him, cru
nching gravel. When it was past he stepped away from the house and watched it disappear, and neither the mother nor daughter heard Hrubek’s anguished hiss of rage.

  With a resounding thud he kicked the motorcycle’s fender. He gazed at the cycle for a moment then continued to the back door of the house. Quietly he opened the screen and looked through the small window high in the back door. The dark-complected woman, still on the phone, was gesturing broadly and shaking her head as she talked. This made Hrubek think she’d be a screamer. On the stove was a teakettle just starting to steam over a high flame. As he silently twisted the knob back and forth, checking that the door was not locked, Hrubek thought, She’s having tea, that means she isn’t about to leave and won’t be expected anywhere soon.

  Hrubek congratulated himself on this smart thinking and he continued to act smart—he didn’t open the door and step into the kitchen until the woman had hung up and walked across the kitchen to the stove, far away from the phone.

  Owen Atcheson, his ear numb from striking the table leg as he fell, scrabbled away from the door, and unable to find his gun grabbed a soda bottle lying nearby. He cracked it hard against the floor and held the shard like a knife. He crouched and made himself ready for attack.

  The assailant didn’t move.

  Owen waited a moment longer. Finally he stood. Owen grabbed his pistol from the floor. When he heard no breathing and saw no other motion, he flicked on the light switch.

  Taste T

  Beats t

  Others C

  In fury Owen kicked shut the door of the old Pepsi machine. “Jesus,” he spat out. The lock had been broken—by Hrubek undoubtedly—and the door, dislodged by the semi as it rumbled past, had swung open into the doorway. His anger was so great he nearly put a bullet through the navel of the bikini-clad girl on the old, faded poster taped to the door. He jammed the gun into his pocket and trotted outside to his truck.