Jeffery Deaver - Praying for Sleep

The pistol was warm. It was comfortable in his hand. It was, he thought, quite fashionable. “I’ve been wondering if-wouldn’t this be strange-if this was the same gun I’d used.”

“To shoot Lincoln?”

“The very same gun. That would have a special meaning. That would make a lot of sense. Do you like the scent of blood, Dr. Richard? When do you think a soul makes the a- scent to heaven? Do you think souls linnnnger on earth awhile?”

Why is he stepping closer to me? Michael wondered. When he’s this close, it’s easier to read my mind.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Michael held the pistol close to his face, smelling the metal. “But how do you explain that it was just there for me? This gun. It was just there in the store. The store with the heads.”

A shudder ran through Michael Hrubek.

“What heads?”

“All the little heads. White and smooth. Beautiful little white heads.”

“Those skulls?” Dr. Richard nodded toward the sign pole.

Michael blinked but said nothing.

“So you shot Lincoln, did you, Michael?”

“Sure did. I was willing and abe -le.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me about it? In any of our sessions?”

Michael’s stomach twisted with unbridled anxiety. “It was…”

“Why?”

Fear prickled at his neck. Between rapid breaths, Michael answered, “It was too terrible. I did a terrible thing. Terrible! He was such a great man. And look what I did. It was… It hurts! Don’t fucking ask me any more.”

“What,” Dr. Richard asked gently, “was so terrible about it? What was too terrible to tell me?”

“Many things. Too numerous to go into.”

“Tell me about one.”

“No.”

“Just pick one thing and tell me, Michael.”

“No.”

“Please. Now. Quick.”

“No!” What’s this fucker up to?

“Yes, Michael. Tell me.” For an instant the thin doctor’s eyes grew fierce and commanding. He ordered, “Now! Tell me!”

“The moon,” Michael blurted. “It…”

“What about the moon?”

“It rose bloody red. The moon is a sheet of blood. Eve is wrapped in the sheet.”

“Who’s Eve, Michael?”

“Nice try, fucker. Don’t expect me to say anything more.” Michael swallowed and looked around nervously.

“Where did the blood come from?”

“The moon. Ha, just kidding.”

“Where, Michael? Where did the blood come from? Where?!”

In a whisper: “From… their head.”

“ Whose head, Michael?” Dr. Richard said, then shouted, “Tell me! Whose head?”

Michael began to speak then he smiled grimly and snarled, “Don’t try to trick me, fucker. His head. His, his, his head. Abraham Lincoln’s head. The sixteenth president of the United States’ head. The rail-splitter from Illinois’s head. That’s who I meant. I put a fucker of a bullet in his head.”

“Is that what you mean when you’d say ‘ahead,’ Michael? You were talking about somebody who got hurt in the head? Who? Who else got hurt, besides Lincoln?”

Michael blinked, and sizzled in panic. “Seward, you’re thinking of! Secretary of State. But he got stabbed ! If you’re going to trick me, get your facts straight. He didn’t enjoy the evening much either, by the way.”

“But someone else got shot, didn’t they?”

“No!”

“Think, Michael. Think back. You can tell me.”

“No!” He pressed his hands over his ears. “No, no, no!”

“Where did all that blood come from? Blood everywhere!” Dr. Richard whispered. He leaned forward. “So much blood. Enough blood to cover the moon. Sheets and sheets of it.”

Enough blood to cover the sheet…

Michael cried, “There was so much of it.”

“Who else, Michael? Who else got shot? Please tell me.”

“I tell you, you tele graph the CIA and the Secret Service!”

“It’ll be our secret, Michael. I won’t tell another living soul.”

“Will you tell a dead soul?” he roared, throwing his head back and raving into the pouring rain. “ They’re the ones we have to worry about! All the dead souls! That’s where the danger is!”

“Who, Michael? Tell me.”

“I…”

Oh, what’s that on your head? What’s that you’re wearing?›

Daddy’ll be home soon. Daddy’ll make her take it off.

Her beautiful head, all ruined. No, no!

“Michael, talk to me! Why are you crying?” Dr. Richard gripped his arm. “What are you thinking?”

He’s thinking: I came into the house. I’d been in the backyard doing many important things. I came into the house and there she was, and there were no masks on her eyes and her fingernails weren’t burning. There she was in the bedroom, wearing the same nightgown she’d worn for days and days and days. Very fashionable. The very thing to wear to go by the store to buy the store. The very thing to wear when you’re holding a gun, this very gun. John Wilkes Booth had given it to her.

“Michael! What’s the matter? Look at me! What are you thinking?”

He’s thinking: Booth must have been her lover and he gave her this gun-to protect her from dead Union sold iers. But she sold me out. She betrayed me!

“Did you say betrayal? I can’t hear you. You’re muttering. What are you saying, Michael?”

She held the gun in her hand. She was lying in bed in her nightgown. She sat up when I came into the doorway and she said… She said… She said, “Oh, you.”

Michael heard her words tonight, as he’d heard them a million times before-spoken not in surprise or contempt or supplication but out of infinite disappointment.

He’s thinking: And then she kissed her gold hair with the lips of the gun, and blood flew high as the moon and covered her head like a red glistening hat. It covered the sheets.

Oh, you… Oh, you…

Michael had stood in the doorway of her bedroom as he watched the blond hair grow dark under the crimson hat. Then he leaned down and touched her quivering hand awkwardly, the first physical contact between mother and son in years. Her unfocused eyes grew dark as eclipses, her forked fingers shuddered once and relaxed and then slowly lost whatever warmth they’d once held, though Michael let go long, long before her flesh grew cold.

“The beautiful head…”

“ Whose, Michael?”

Then the memories vanished, as if a switch had been shut off. The tears stopped and Michael found himself gazing down at Dr. Richard, who was now only a foot or so from him.

“Who?” said the doctor desperately.

“Nice try,” Michael said, cheerfully sarcastic. “But I don’t think so.”

Dr. Richard closed his eyes for a moment. His lips tightened then he sighed. “Okay, Michael. Okay.” He fell silent for a moment then said, “How ’bout we drive back to the hospital together? I’ve got the BMW. We talked about going for a ride sometime. You said you’d like that. You said a BMW was one fucker of a car.”

“Fucker of a Nazi car,” Michael corrected.

“Let’s go, come on.”

“Oh, but I can’t, Dr. Richard. I’m going to pay a little visit to Lis-bone. Oh, that was bad, what happened there. I’ve got some evening up to do.”

“Why, Michael? Why?”

“She’s the Eve of betrayal,” he answered as if it were self-evident.

Dr. Richard’s face slowly relaxed. He looked away for a long moment. Then his face brightened-every bit of his face except his eyes, Michael noticed. “Hey, you’ve got a car too. I’m impressed, Michael.”