Praying for Sleep

by Deaver, Jeffrey

  “No! Don’t do this!”

  Michael leaned forward. “Oh, you . . .” he whispered, and moved the long needle with its razor-sharp beveled edge even with the doctor’s eyes. It moved closer and closer, passing inches from his face as the man’s thin muscles struggled uselessly against Michael’s overwhelming strength.

  “Please, no!”

  The needle turned directly toward the doctor and started toward his chest.

  “No!”

  Then, with a skill that came from years of careful observation, Michael eased the needle deep into the doctor’s skin and injected the drug.

  From Dr. Richard’s lips came a mournful wail, which seemed not to be a cry of pain but appeared to come rather from a deeper sort of anguish—the sound perhaps of a man realizing that the last image in his thoughts as he died would be the look of betrayal upon the face of someone that he had, in a way, loved.

  “How far away was he?” Portia asked.

  “Fredericks. It’s only eight or nine miles from here. But the roads’re bound to be terrible.”

  They had changed clothes and shared the hair dryer. Lis stood in the kitchen window and saw, through the rain, a dot of light reflecting on the lake, a mile away. The house of their closest neighbor—a couple Owen and Lis knew casually. They were young, married only six months. The woman was very much a hausfrau and on several occasions had talked to Lis breathlessly and with queasy candor about wifedom. She asked many questions and watched with squinting eyes, her elbows on a vinyl place mat, as Lis awkwardly dished out advice about relationships. For heaven’s sake, Lis thought, how would I know if you should have sex with your husband even if you’ve got the flu? As if there were rules about such things.

  “You’re all packed?” Portia asked.

  “Packed? Nightgown, toothbrush, underwear. It’ll be about a six-hour stay. God, what I want is a hot bath. They might even catch him before Owen gets here. Hey, I need a drink. Brandy?”

  “Tastes like soap.”

  “Acquired taste, granted. Grand Marnier?”

  “More my style.”

  Lis poured two glasses and wandered into the doorway of the greenhouse.

  “We make a good dam. It’s still holding.”

  A huge burst of wind shook the windows. It howled through the open vents, loud enough to obscure conversation. The leafless trees whipped back and forth and whitecaps broke on the surface of the lake. Lis said that she’d never seen the water this turbulent. A huge streak of lightning split the sky to the west and the floor seemed to drop beneath their feet when the thunder rolled over the house.

  “Let’s retreat. To the living room?”

  Lis was happy to agree.

  They sat in silence for a moment. Lis avoided her sister’s eyes and glanced instead at a cluster of photographs on the end table. Pictures from their childhoods: Portia, sassy and sexy. Lis, studious and vigilant and, well, plain. Tall, stern Andrew, complete with anachronistic mustache and ubiquitous white shirt. And gracious Mother with her uplifted matriarchal jaw, her eyes commanding everyone except her husband, in whose presence she was timid.

  “Portia,” Lis said slowly, eyes now on the frames, not the photographs, “I’d like to talk to you about something.”

  Her sister looked toward her. “The nursery business?”

  “No,” Lis finally answered. “It’s about Indian Leap.

  What happened there. Between us, I mean. Not the murder. You don’t want to talk about it, I know. But will you just listen to what I have to say?”

  Portia was silent. She licked the sweet liquor from the rim of her glass and waited.

  Lis sighed. “I never wanted to see you again after that day.”

  “You must’ve figured that was how I felt too. Since we haven’t seen each other.”

  “I’ve felt so guilty.”

  “I don’t want an apology.”

  “Hitting you, saying the things I said . . . I was out of control. I’ve never been that way before. Never in my life. I was everything I always prayed I’d never be.”

  “You had a good teacher.” Portia tapped the photo of their father. “Got your right hook from him, it felt like.”

  Lis didn’t smile; she felt ill with shame and anger. She looked now for signs of forgiveness, softening. But Portia merely sat hugging her glass and staring—almost bored, it seemed—into the greenhouse. The eerie moaning of the wind continued.

  Absently, Lis said, “I went to the Dairy Queen the other day. Remember it?”

  “They’re still around? I haven’t been inside one for years.”

  “No, remember. There is no inside.”

  “That’s right. Sure.”

  Lis pictured them as young girls, with their Dutch bodyguard Jolande, buying the soft vanilla cones at a little screen window and sitting on a sticky picnic bench beside the parking lot. During the day bees hovered, and at night moths and beetles died fast, brilliant deaths as they flew into the mesmerizing purple glow of the bug zapper.

  “We’d get the cherry coatings,” the younger sister squinted as she recalled.

  “And the ice cream was always melting and running down the cone. It was always a race—trying to lick it off before it got to our hands.”

  “Sure, I remember.”

  They fell silent, as the whine from the wind grew more piercing. Lis walked to the greenhouse and closed the vent tightly. The sound waned but didn’t cease completely. When she returned she said, “I never mentioned it to you, Portia, but I had an affair last spring, and there are some things I have to tell you about it.”

  He cruises at seventy miles an hour, the tach on the dash edging red on the uphill grades, the engine a tortured whine. Owen Atcheson passes the Sav-Mor, now closed, the plate glass taped with huge X’s, as if instead of a fall storm a hurricane is anticipated. Then he speeds past a housing development, and beyond that, the Ford dealership, the blue and red sign turning slowly in the sky like a lighthouse beacon.

  Then Route 236 begins to curve through the hills that border Ridgeton—the hills that are also part of the same geologic glitch that, two hours away, rises high above the stone valley of Indian Leap, where Robert Gillespie had died broken and bloody.

  Owen slows to take these turns then speeds again to fifty, hurrying through the red light at the intersection of 116. The road now rises along the crest of a long hill and he catches a glimpse of water thirty feet below him, off to the right. From the dark creek rise the spindly black legs of the old Boston, Hartford & New York railroad trestle. He slows for the road’s only hairpin turn and lifts his foot off the brake to accelerate onto the long straightaway that will take him into downtown Ridgeton.

  The beige Subaru seems to drift leisurely from the cleft of bushes where it was hidden, pointed nose out. Owen sees, however, that the car’s rear wheels spin furiously, shooting mud and water behind them, and the import is actually moving at a good clip. In the instant before the huge hollow bang, he thinks he might escape, so close do the vehicles approach without striking. Then the car hits the Cherokee solidly amidships with a terrible jolt that twists Owen’s neck badly. Pain explodes in his face with a burst of yellow light.

  The Subaru stops short of the cliff ’s edge as the truck eases over the side. It teeters for what seems an eternity, giving Owen Atcheson plenty of time to see the face of Michael Hrubek, a mere six feet away. He’s grinning madly, pounding on the wheel, and shouting as he tries frantically, it seems, to make himself heard. Owen stares back but never does figure out what the message might be because just then the truck lurches forward and starts its plunge toward the creek far below.

  4/

  The Blossoms of Sin

  26

  Portia laughed shortly and asked with astonishment, “You? An affair?”

  The older sister’s eyes were fixed on the sheets of gray rain that cascaded down the windows.

  “Me. Wouldn’t’ve guessed, would you?”

  There, Lis thought. I’ve done
it. The first time I’ve confessed. To anyone. There’s lightning nearby but so far it hasn’t struck me dead.

  “You never said anything.” Portia was clearly amused. “I had no clue.”

  “I was afraid, I guess. That Owen would find out. You know him. That temper of his.”

  “Why would I tell Owen?”

  “I didn’t think you would. It just seemed to me that the more people who knew, the more the chance word would get out.” She paused. “Well, there’s something else too. . . . I was ashamed. I was afraid of what you’d think.”

  “Me? Why on earth?”

  “An affair isn’t anything to be proud of.”

  “Were you just fucking? Or were you in love?”

  Lis was offended, yet Portia’s question seemed motivated merely by curiosity. “No, no, no. It wasn’t just physical. We were in love. I really don’t know why I didn’t tell you before. I should have. There’ve been too many secrets between us.” She glanced at her sister. “Owen had an affair too.”

  The young woman nodded knowingly. Lis was horrified that Portia had somehow learned this already. But, no, it turned out that she’d simply pegged Owen as a man with a wandering eye.

  This offended Lis too. “Well, it was only one time,” she said defensively.

  “Frankly, Lis, I’m surprised you waited as long as you did to find somebody.”

  “How can you say that?” Lis retorted. “I’m not the sort . . .” Her voice faded.

  “Not like me ?” her sister asked wryly.

  “I mean that I wasn’t looking for anyone. We were trying to work it out, Owen and me. He’d given up the woman he was seeing and we were making a conscious effort—”

  “Conscious effort.”

  Lis listened for mockery and believed she heard none. She continued doggedly, “—an effort to keep our marriage together. The affair . . . just happened.”

  She’d begun the liaison at an awkward time, right in the middle of the terrible sequence of last winter: Owen’s affair, the slow death of her mother, her increased discontent with teaching, taking over the estate . . . The worst possible time, she thought, then reflected: As if there’s a convenient moment for cataclysm.

  Lis’s affair, unlike the tidy Hollywood version that she imagined Owen’s to have been, had tormented her mercilessly. It would’ve been far easier, she told herself, if she’d been able to separate the dick from the soul. But she couldn’t and so of course she fell in love—as her paramour did with her. At first, Lis admitted, she was partly drawn to her lover out of retaliation. It was petty, yes, but there it was—she wanted to get even with Owen. Besides, she found, she simply couldn’t control herself. The affair was all-consuming.

  Portia asked, “It’s over now?”

  “Yes, it’s over.”

  “Well, what’s the big deal?”

  “Oh,” Lis said bitterly, “but it is a big deal. I haven’t told you everything.”

  Lis opened her mouth to speak and for an unbearable moment she was about to confess everything. She truly believed that she was going to blurt out every scathing fact.

  And she probably would have if the car hadn’t arrived just then.

  Portia turned from her sister and looked out the kitchen window toward the driveway.

  “Owen!” Lis stared out the window, both overjoyed at his arrival and bitterly disappointed that the conversation with her sister was being interrupted.

  They walked into the kitchen and peered through the sheets of rain.

  “No, I don’t think it’s him,” her sister said slowly. They watched the headlights make their snaking way along the driveway. Lis counted the flares as the beams hit the orange reflectors along the route. Portia was right. Although she couldn’t make out the vehicle clearly through the bushes and trees, it was light-colored; Owen’s Cherokee truck was black as a gun barrel.

  Lis flung open the kitchen door and looked out through the dazzling rain.

  It was a police car. A young deputy climbed out. He glanced at the Acura sitting in the middle of the flood and ran into the kitchen, flicking rainwater from his face in an effeminate way. He was round with the tautness of recent fat and had the face of a man on an unexpected assignment.

  “Lis.” He pulled his hat off. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this. We just found Owen’s truck at the bottom of a ravine.”

  “Oh, God!” Lis’s hands flew to her eyes and she pressed hard, as if they stung with smoke.

  “He’d been run into—by that fellow Hrubek, looks like. The psycho. Knocked him off the road. Seemed to be an ambush.”

  “No! Hrubek’s going to Boyleston. You’re wrong!”

  “Well, he ain’t going to Boyleston in the car he was driving. Front end’s mashed in.”

  Lis turned instinctively toward where her purse lay on the counter. “How badly hurt is he? I have to go to him.”

  “We don’t know. Can’t find him. Or Hrubek either.”

  “Where did it happen?” Portia asked.

  “By the old railroad trestle. Near downtown.”

  “Downtown where?” Lis snapped.

  His fat mouth fell silent. Perhaps he suspected her of hysteria. He said, “Well, downtown Ridgeton.”

  No more than three miles from where they stood.

  The wreck wasn’t too bad, the deputy explained. “We think Hrubek took off and Owen’s after him.”

  “Or, Owen’s running, with Hrubek after him.”

  “We thought of that too. The sheriff and Tom Scalon are out looking for them. All the phones in this part of town’re out. Stan had me drive over to tell you. He’s thinking you oughta leave. Till they find him. But your car’s outta commission, looks like.”

  Lis didn’t respond. Portia told him that they couldn’t get a tow truck.

  “Believe you’ll need more’n a tow for that particular vehicle.” He nodded toward the sunken Acura. “Anyway, I’ll take you. Just get your stuff together.”

  “Owen . . .” Lis looked around her, scanning the woods in vain.

  “I’m thinking,” the deputy said, “we oughta get a move on.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until we find my husband.”

  Perhaps she sounded ferocious, for the deputy added cautiously, “I understand how you feel. . . . But I don’t exactly know there’s a lot you can do here but fret. And I’ll—”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she said slowly. “You understand?”

  He looked at Portia, who gave no response. Finally he said, “Have it your way, Lis. That’s your business. But Stanley said to make sure you’re okay. I better call him and tell him you don’t want to leave.” He waited a moment more, as if this might intimidate her into leaving. When she turned away he walked out into the rain once more and climbed into the front seat of the cruiser to make the radio call.

  “Lis,” Portia protested. “There’s nothing we can do.”

  “Go sit in the car with him if you want. Or have him take you to the Inn. I’m sorry, but I’m not leaving.”

  Portia glanced outside, at a tree bending under a furious gust of wind. “No, I’ll stay.”

  “Go lock the windows. I’ll check the doors.”

  Before he’d left, Owen had dead-bolted the front door. Lis now fixed the security chain, thinking momentarily how tiny the brass links seemed compared with the manacles that had gripped Hrubek’s hands at trial. She then locked and chained the door off the kitchen utility room. She wondered if Owen had remembered the lath-house door—the only way one could enter or leave the greenhouse from the outside. She walked toward it but paused halfway. She noticed a large rose plant—a Chrysler Imperial hybrid cultivated into a tree. Last year, one week after Owen confessed his affair, he had bought her this plant. It was the only one he’d ever purchased without her guidance. On the day of rest after owning up to Ms. Trollop, Esq., he appeared with the massive scarlet rosebush in the back of his truck. At the time Lis nearly pitched it out. Then she decided not to. The plant owed i
ts reprieve to a passage from a class assignment in Hamlet, which her students were then studying.

  Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin . . . No reckoning made, but sent to my account, with all my imperfections on my head.

  The coincidence was too great to dismiss—this combination of literature, horticulture and real-life drama. So what could Lis do but resist the urge to destroy it? She rooted the damn thing and wondered if the plant would survive. It of course proved to be one of her hardier specimens.

  Lis stepped forward and cradled the flower. It was a paradox of her love for plants that her gardener’s hands had toughened so much that she could no longer feel the delicacy of petals. She brushed the backs of her hands over the blossoms, then started once again toward the door. She’d taken only a few steps when she saw vague motion from outside.

  Walking cautiously to a window, thick with condensation and the sheets of rain, she wiped the glass with her sleeve and saw to her shock the indistinct form of a tall man standing near the house. Hands on his hips, he was trying to find the front door, it appeared. He wasn’t the young deputy. Maybe, she thought, another officer had accompanied him, though this fellow didn’t seem to be in uniform.

  He noticed the side door that led into the utility room and walked to it, oblivious to the downpour. He knocked politely, like a man picking up a date. Lis walked cautiously to the door, and looked out through the curtain. Although she didn’t recognize him he had such a pleasant, innocent face, and looked so completely wet, that she let him in.

  “Evening, ma’am. You must be Mrs. Atcheson.” He wiped his lanky hand on his pants, leaving it just as wet as before, and offered it to her. “Sorry to trouble you. My name’s—”

  But he didn’t have the chance to complete the introduction just then because a large bloodhound pushed his way uninvited into the greenhouse and started to shake himself enthusiastically, showering them both with a million drops of rain.