Jeffery Deaver - Praying for Sleep

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, crunching 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.

Only a few hundred feet west he found the tread again, turning into a private road or driveway of a residence. He couldn’t see a house from the road and, observing the length of the drive and the size of the property, guessed that the family was wealthy. Horse ranchers maybe. He looked back at the ground and noted that Hrubek had left the drive and was traveling through the brush. Making his way silently on the patches of dirt, Owen followed the madman’s clear path. A flash in the distant west caught his eye. Lightning.

Attempting to circle in front of Hrubek, he made his way west from the driveway into the field of tall, flesh-colored grass and moved south. From here he was able to see, a quarter mile away, a stately house. Although it was late, there were many lights on, giving a homey glow to the place.

But that impression vanished when Owen noticed a single unsettling token-the kitchen door was wide open, sending a shaft of bone-white light onto the gravel driveway, as if someone had fled quickly from the house.

Or maybe, Owen reflected, had entered quickly. And was still inside.

One who loves flowers and literature can’t doubt the existence of God. The lesson He’s got for us, though, probably isn’t so hot. We see miracles daily, that’s true. On the other hand God’s got the universe to mind and doesn’t have much time for passengers on colliding trains, kids dragged to death behind buses, and dear friends murdered by a madman in a state park.

“That,” Lis explained to Richard Kohler, “was the thought I just couldn’t get out of my mind. For months after the murder I repeated it to practically everyone I met. I’m sure they thought I was totally mad.”

Kohler nodded her bit of theology politely aside and frowned sympathetically. “You lost two friends at the same time. How terrible. I didn’t know about the girl’s death.”

Lis was silent for a long moment. Finally she said, “No, it wasn’t featured in the news about the trial. Her death was considered accidental.”