Jeffery Deaver - Praying for Sleep

“Not at all. Michael’s tormented by the inability to achieve what he thinks he can become. That conflict shows itself as what we call madness. To him, his delusions are merciful explanations for why he can’t be like the rest of the world.”

“You seem to be saying his disease isn’t anybody’s fault.” She waved her arm at the clouds speeding past. “Well, neither are tornadoes but we’d stop them if we could. We should stop Hrubek. Somebody should… lock him up and throw away the key.” She’d come a split second away from saying, track him down and shoot him. “He’s just a psychopath!”

“No, he isn’t. That’s a very different diagnosis from schizophrenia. Psychopaths adapt well to society. They seem normal-they have jobs and families-but they’re completely detached from morality and emotion. They’re evil. A psychopath would kill you because you took his parking place or wouldn’t give him ten dollars. And he wouldn’t think twice about it. Michael would only kill for the same reasons you would-self-defense, for instance.”

“Please, Doctor. Michael’s harmless? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“No, of course not. But…” Kohler’s voice faded. “I’m sorry. I’ve upset you.”

After a moment Lis said, “No. We see things differently, that’s all.” But she said it quite coolly.

“It’s late. I’ve used up my twenty minutes.” He rose and walked toward the kitchen. When they approached the back door, he asked, “One thing I’m still curious about. Why would he associate you with betrayal? ‘The Eve of betrayal.’ ‘Revenge.’ ‘Forever.’ Why?”

“Well, I suppose because I testified against him.” She lifted her palms at the simplicity of this deduction.

“You think that’s it?”

“I suppose. I really don’t know.”

Kohler nodded and fell silent. A moment later his mind made another of its odd leaps, punctuated by a stab at his pale scalp with a nervous finger. “There’s a car lot outside of town, isn’t there?”

She thought she’d misheard him. “A car lot? What did you say?”

“Cars. A dealership.”

“Well, yes. But…”

“I’m thinking of the big one. All lit up. A Ford dealership.”

“Klepperman’s Ford, that’s right.”

“Where is it exactly?”

“Half mile outside of town. On Route 236. Just over the hills east of town. Why?”

“Just curious.”

She waited for an explanation but none came and it was clear that the interview, or interrogation, or whatever it had been, was over. Kohler cleared his throat and thanked her. She was grateful he was leaving; the visit had angered her. But she was confused too. What had he learned that was so helpful?

And what had he not told her?

Outside, walking to his car, they both looked up at the thick clouds. The wind was fierce now and whipped her hair in an irritating way, flinging it into her face.

“Doctor?” Lis stopped him, touching his bony upper arm. “Tell me, what are the odds that he’s on his way here?”

Kohler continued to gaze at the clouds. “The odds? The odds are that they’ll find him soon, and even if not, that he’d never make it this far alone. But if you want my opinion I think you should go to that hotel you mentioned.”

He glanced at her for a moment then it was clear that his thoughts were elsewhere, maybe wandering with his terrified, mad patient through brush and forests, lost on highways, sitting in a deserted cabin somewhere. As she watched him walk to his car, she pushed aside her anger for a moment and saw Kohler for the ambitious young physician that he was, and tough and devoted. And undoubtedly damn smart too. But she sensed something else about him and was unable for a few moments to fathom exactly what that might be. His car had disappeared down the long driveway before she understood. Dr. Richard Kohler, Lis decided, was a very worried man.

The ambulance and the police car arrived simultaneously, their urgent lights painting the underside of the trees with peculiar metallic illumination. The brakes squealed and the yard was filled with uniformed men and women, equipment, stretchers, electric boxes dotted with lights and buttons. The medics trotted toward the large colonial house. The police too, holstering their long flashlights as they ran.

Owen Atcheson sat on the back steps beside the kitchen door, which was still open. His head was in his hands as he watched the medics run toward the doorway. One said to him, “You called nine-one-one? Reported a woman was attacked?”

He nodded.

“Where is she?”

“In the kitchen,” Owen said, exhaustion and discouragement thick in his voice. “But you can take your time.”

“How’s that?”

“I said there’s no rush. The only place she’s going tonight is the morgue.”

“Who is it? Not Mary Haddon? Jesus, not their daughter ?”

“No, that’s not her.”

“That’s not Mary?”

“ Look at her, for God’s sake! It’s not Mary.”

But nobody wanted to look. They’d look at the wall calendar, the Post-it notes, the shattered teacup, the scraps of paper clinging to the avocado-colored refrigerator door under fruit-shaped magnets. They’d look everywhere but at the terrible creature tied with bell wire to the maple captain’s chair. The senior medic walked carefully into the room, minding the huge slick of blood on the tile floor. He bent down and studied the intricately tied knots. Her head, loosened by the deep cut to her throat, lolled backwards, and her blouse was pulled open. The awkward letters cut into her skin were stark against her blue-white chest.

“Fucking mess,” one of the young cops said.

“Hey, let’s don’t have any of that talk here,” a plainclothes detective said. “Check out the house. All the bedrooms.”

“I think Joe and Mary’re over at the church. The charity auction’s tomorrow and he’s chairman. I heard they’re working late. Oh, I hope their daughter’s with them. Man, I hope that.”

“Well, call ’em up or get a car over there. Let’s get on with this.”

One cop entered and looked at the corpse. “Lord, that’s Mattie! Mattie Selwyn. She’s the Haddons’ housekeeper. I know her brother.”

The nervous banter continued. “Oh, this is a bad thing. What’s that in her lap, that little white thing?… Jesus, some kind of skull or something. A badger?”

“Why tonight?” a deputy lamented. “Storm’ll be here any time. Already had a twister in Morristown. Couple people died. You hear? Man-”

Owen stood in the doorway and looked again at the carnage. He shook his head.

“You the one who called us, sir?” the detective asked, running his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.

Owen nodded and wiped sweat from his face. After calling 911 he’d glanced into a window and seen on his face the mud smeared on his cheekbones and forehead to mask the glossiness of his skin. He had washed his face before the police arrived. Still, his handkerchief now came away from his forehead dirty and he supposed he looked a mess. He explained about Hrubek’s escape, the bicycle, following him here. The detective said, “Yessir, we had a notice about that runaway. But we thought he was heading east.”

“I told them he wasn’t,” Owen said heatedly. “I told them he’d turn west. They wouldn’t listen. Nobody took this thing seriously from the start. And now look…”

“We also heard he was harmless,” the detective said bitterly, staring at the body. Then he glanced at Owen. “What’s your role in this exactly?”

He told them that he’d come out to see what the state police were doing to capture the escapee, who appeared to have a grudge against his wife. As he spoke he realized that the story was outlandish and he was neither surprised nor offended when the officer asked, “Could I see some ID, please?”