Jeffery Deaver - Praying for Sleep

“Lis, there’s a car-”

Portia walked into the doorway and paused, glancing at Kohler.

Lis introduced them.

“Portia?” Kohler repeated. “Don’t hear that name much nowadays.”

She shrugged and neither sister said a word about the burdens of being the daughter of a man utterly devoted to the business of fortified wine.

“I’m going to tape the west windows. In the parlor. That’s where it’ll hit worst.”

“You’re right. We forgot to do those. Thanks.”

When she left, Lis turned to the doctor. “I don’t have much time. As soon as we’re finished here, we’re going to a hotel for the evening.” She added pointedly, “Because of Hrubek.”

It was the moment when he’d tell her there was nothing to worry about, the moment when he’d laugh and say that his patient was harmless as a puppy. He didn’t.

What he said was, “That’s probably not a bad idea.”

On the other hand he didn’t seem particularly alarmed or suggest that they get the hell out of the house immediately and flee for safety.

“Do they know where he is?”

“Not exactly, no.”

“But he is going away from here? East?”

“I saw one of the men tracking him not too long ago. He’s still east of the hospital but it looks like he may have gone east and then turned around.”

“He’s coming west?”

“I’d say he’s more likely wandering in circles. He isn’t as disabled as some people are making him out to be, but I don’t think he’d be able to get this far.”

“What exactly can I do for you, Doctor? I’d like to be out of here in twenty minutes or so.”

“I’m worried about Michael. I’d like to find him before the police do. Not many people know how to handle a patient like him. He could hurt himself or somebody else if they try to arrest him like any other prisoner.”

“Well, what can I do?”

“I understand he sent you a letter not long ago.”

“In September.”

“It had to do with the… incident last May?”

“It doesn’t seem to have to do with anything. It’s mostly gibberish.”

Kohler lifted his eyes but not his head and stared directly at her. “Mrs. Atcheson, I need to know about Indian Leap. Will you help me?”

Six large water spots were evident on the counter beside the sink. Lis lifted a sponge and rubbed them away.

“You see, I’m Michael’s attending psychiatrist. But I frankly don’t have a clue about what’s going on in his mind tonight. What happened last May was very… significant in his life.”

“Significant?” she repeated, appalled at the word.

“I don’t mean to downplay the tragedy.”

“Well, what exactly can I tell you?”

“I’ve read some newspaper stories. I have a few files. But Marsden hospital’s practically broke. We have very sketchy records. I don’t even have a transcript of his trial.”

This struck her as the epitome of bureaucratic nonsense, and she said so.

“Transcripts cost two dollars a page,” he explained. “Michael’s would have cost six thousand dollars. The state can’t afford it.”

“It seems to be just common sense to spend money like that.”

He gestured in concession.

“I really don’t think there’s time.” She nodded outside. “My sister and I have hotel reservations. And the storm…”

“It won’t take long.” He curled two fingers of his right hand around two fingers of his left, and Lis pictured the gangly teenage Richard Kohler asking a pretty girl to dance.

“The fact is, I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Yes, of course…” Kohler hesitated and seemed to be examining her. “But you have to understand my perspective. It’s important that I find him quickly. If he wanders up to someone’s house… If he gets scared and panics. People could get hurt. Inadvertently.”

Lis stood silent, looking down at the ruddy tile floor.

“ That’s what I’m concerned about, you see. Getting him back before there’s an… accident. And, I have to tell you, there is a chance he’s on his way here. Very slight, but it is a possibility. If you help me I might be able to prevent that.”

After a long moment Lis said, “Cream and sugar?”

Kohler blinked.

“You’ve glanced at the coffeemaker three times in the last minute.”

He laughed. “I’ve been trying my best to stay awake.”

“I’ll give you twenty minutes, Doctor. Not a minute more.”

“Thank you very much,” he said sincerely.

She stepped to the cupboard.

“Hope it’s no trouble.” His eyes were hungrily fixed to the can of Maxwell House.

“Can I ask a question?”

“Please.”

“Could you fall asleep now?” Lis asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“If you were home now would you be able to fall asleep?”

“At home? Yes. In my car, yes. On your front lawn. On your kitchen floor. Anytime, anyplace.”

She wagged her head at this miracle and watched the pot fill with black liquid. Impulsively she decided to have a cup too. “I won’t be asleep before eleven tomorrow night, whatever happens tonight.”

“Insomnia?” he asked.

A condition on which she was an expert, she explained. Warm milk, hot baths, cold showers, hypnosis, self-hypnosis, valerian roots, biofeedback, medication. “You name it, I’ve tried it.”

“In my practice I work with patients’ dreams a lot. But I’ve never done much with sleep disorders.”

She doctored her coffee with milk. Kohler took his black. “Let’s go in here,” she said.

With their thin mugs of steaming coffee in hand they walked into the greenhouse, at the far end of which was an alcove. As they sat in the deep wrought-iron chairs, the doctor looked about the room and offered a compliment, which because it had to do only with square footage and neatness meant he knew nothing of, and cared little for, flowers. He sat with his legs together, body forward, making his thin form that much thinner. He took loud sips, and she knew he was a man accustomed to dining quickly and alone. Then he set the cup down and took a pad and gold pen from his jacket pocket.

Lis asked, “Then you have no idea where he’s going tonight?”

“No. He may not either, not consciously. That’s the thing about Michael-you can’t take him literally. To understand him you have to look behind what he says. That note he sent you, for instance; were certain letters capitalized?”

“Yes. That was one of the eeriest things about it.”

“Michael does that. He sees relationships between things that to us don’t exist. Could I see it?”

She found it in the kitchen and returned to the greenhouse. Kohler was standing, holding a small ceramic picture frame.

“Your father?”

“I’m told there’s a resemblance.”

“Some, yes. Eyes and chin. He was, I’d guess… a professor?”

“More of a closet scholar.” The picture had been taken two days after he’d returned from Jerez, and Andrew L’Auberget was shown here climbing into the front seat of the Cadillac for the drive back to the airport. Young Lis had clicked the shutter as she stood shaded by her mother’s protruding belly, inside of which her sister floated oblivious to the tearful farewell. “He was a businessman but he really wanted to teach. He talked about it many times. He would’ve made a brilliant scholar.”

“Are you a professor?”

“Teacher. Sophomore English. And you?” she asked. “I understand medicine runs in the genes.”

“Oh, it does. My father was a doctor.” Kohler laughed. “Of course he wanted me to be an art historian. That was his dream. Then he grudgingly consented to medical school. On condition that I study surgery.”