Jeffery Deaver - Praying for Sleep

“No, I don’t want to!”

“You take that tone, you’ll go under for twenty seconds.”

She practiced her strokes, beating the water with splayed fingers, which he forced closed into paddles. He supported her and held her buoyant while she swam in place.

“Calm down, girl! Water won’t kill you. Calm down !”

She rested on his palm, trying to coordinate her legs and arms. Just as she struck a rhythm that approximated a breaststroke, a wave rolled in and lifted her from his hand. For a moment she was actually swimming on her own. Then the crest passed and lowered her once more. But when she drifted back down, she’d moved forward a foot or so and she came to rest with her groin on his fingers. For a tense moment neither father nor daughter moved and-compelled by an urge she understood no better today than then-Lis pressed her legs together, capturing his hand in that spot.

And then she smiled.

Lisbonne L’Auberget looked at her father and gave him a slight smile-not one of seduction or power or pride. Least of all physical pleasure. No, just a smile that sprang spontaneously to her cold, blue lips.

And it was for this transgression, Lis later speculated, rather than the fluke contact of bodies, that she was so ruthlessly punished. The next thing she recalled was being dragged from the water, her arm almost popping from its socket, and being flung to the hard ground, where she lay on her belly, as her father’s hand-the same hand that had moments before cradled the most enigmatic part of her body-now rose and fell viciously upon another.

“Don’t you ever!” he roared, unwilling to give a name to the offense. “Don’t you ever! Don’t you ever!” The raw words kept time with the loud slap of his palm upon her wet buttocks. She felt little sting from the powerful blows-her skin was numb from the cold-but the greater pain was in her soul anyway. She cried of course and she cried hardest when she saw her mother start toward her then hesitate. The woman refused to look then turned away, leading her sister from the shore. Portia looked back once with an expression of cold curiosity. They disappeared toward the house.

Nearly thirty years ago. Lis remembered those few minutes perfectly. This very spot. Except for the level of the water and the height of the trees, the place was unchanged. Even the darkness of night was somehow reminiscent of that June. For though the picnic had been at lunchtime, she had no memory of sunlight; she recalled the whole beach being shrouded, as murky as the water in which her father had dunked her.

Tonight, Lis finally managed to push the memory aside and walked forward slowly over the gray sand of the beach to the dam. The lake was already pouring over a low portion of it-a cracked corner on the side nearest the house. Some of this spillage made its way into the runoff and the creek beyond but much of it was gathering in the culvert that led to the house. She leapt over this flood and walked to the wheel, set into the middle of the dam.

It was a piece of iron two feet in diameter, its spokes in graceful curves like wisteria vines, the foundry name prominently forged in some Gothic typeface. The wheel operated a gate, two by three feet, now closed, over which flowed the water that gushed into the spillway. Opening it all the way would presumably lower the lake by several feet.

Lis took the wheel in both hands and tried to twist it. Rose breeders develop good muscles-from twenty-five-pound bags of loam and manure if not the plants themselves-and Lis strained hard. But the whole mechanism was frozen solid with rust.

She found a rock and pounded on the shaft dully, chipping paint and sending a few sparks flying like miniature meteorites. She tried the wheel again without success then drew back and hammered the mechanism once more, hard. But the rock dipped into the spume of water and was ripped from her hand. It bent back her fingers as it catapulted deep into the culvert. She cried out in pain.

“Lis, you all right?”

She turned and saw Portia climbing cautiously over the slippery limestone rocks. The young woman walked up to the gate.

“The old dam. Still here.”

“Yup,” Lis said, pressing her stinging fingers. She laughed. “But then where would a dam go? Give me some muscle here, would you?”

They tried the wheel together but it didn’t move a millimeter. For five minutes the sisters hammered at the worn gears and the wheel’s shaft but were unable to budge the mechanism.

“Been years since anybody opened it, looks like.” Portia studied the gate and shook her head. She then gazed at the lake. It stretched away, a huge plain of opaque water at their feet.

“You remember this place?” Lis asked.

“Sure.”

“That’s where we were going to launch the boat.” Lis nodded at the beach.

“Right. Oh, is this it? The same boat?” Portia touched the gunwale of the rowboat.

“That? Of course not. It was that old mahogany sail-boat. Father sold it years ago.”

“What were we going to do? Run away? Sail someplace? Nantucket?”

“No, England, remember? That’s when we’d read books out loud. After lights out. I’d read you some Dickens story. And we were going to live in Mayfair.”

“No, it was Sherlock Holmes. I didn’t mind them. But Dickens you did solo. That was more than I could take.”

“You’re right. Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson. I think it was the idea of a housekeeper bringing us tea in the afternoon that we liked best.”

“And doing the dishes afterwards. Can you sail to Boston from here?”

“ I can’t sail to the other side of the lake from here.”

Portia peered into the water. “I’d forgotten all about the beach. I think one of my dolls drowned here. Barbie. Probably worth a hundred bucks nowadays. And we’d steal Oreos, then sneak down here and eat them. We’d come here all the time.” She tried unsuccessfully to skip a stone. “Until the picnic.”

“Until the picnic,” Lis echoed softly, dipping a hand into the dark water. “This is the first time I’ve been back.”

Portia was astonished. “Since then ?”

“Yep.”

“That was when? Twenty years ago?”

“Try thirty.”

Portia shook her head as the number sunk in. The rowboat gave a hard thud and bounced into the dam. She watched it for a moment then said, “It’ll go over if we don’t do something.” Portia eased the boat to the beach and tied it to a sapling. She stepped back, wiping the bits of rotten rope from her hands, and exhaled a fast laugh.

“What?”

“I was thinking. I don’t know if I ever asked what happened.”

“Happened?” Lis asked.

“That day? The picnic? I’d seen him mad but I’d never seen him that mad.”

Was it true? Had they never talked about it? Lis’s eyes were fixed on the jagged tops of three pines, rising out of the forest; the protruding trees were all different heights and for some reason put her in mind of Calvary. “I don’t know,” Lis answered. “I sassed him, probably. I don’t remember.”

“I wish I’d been older. I’d’ve turned him in.”

Lis didn’t speak for a moment. “See that?” She pointed to a rock the size of a grapefruit sticking up out of the sand and mud. The water was now an inch away from it. “After he finished spanking me, I crawled over to it. Tried to pick it up. I was going to hit him and push him into the lake.”

“You? The girl who never fought back?”

“I remember being on my hands and knees, wondering what it’d be like to be in jail-whether they had separate jails for boys and girls. I didn’t want to be in jail with a boy.”

“Why didn’t you do it?”

After a moment Lis replied, “I couldn’t get it out. That’s why.” Then abruptly she said, “We better get some sandbags here. It looks like we’ve got about a half hour till it overflows.”