Jeffery Deaver - Praying for Sleep

The Subaru stops short of the cliff ’s edge as the truck eases over the side. It teeters for what seems an eternity, giving Owen Atcheson plenty of time to see the face of Michael Hrubek, a mere six feet away. He’s grinning madly, pounding on the wheel, and shouting as he tries frantically, it seems, to make himself heard. Owen stares back but never does figure out what the message might be because just then the truck lurches forward and starts its plunge toward the creek far below.

Portia laughed shortly and asked with astonishment, “You? An affair?”

The older sister’s eyes were fixed on the sheets of gray rain that cascaded down the windows.

“Me. Wouldn’t’ve guessed, would you?”

There, Lis thought. I’ve done it. The first time I’ve confessed. To anyone. There’s lightning nearby but so far it hasn’t struck me dead.

“You never said anything.” Portia was clearly amused. “I had no clue.”

“I was afraid, I guess. That Owen would find out. You know him. That temper of his.”

“Why would I tell Owen?”

“I didn’t think you would. It just seemed to me that the more people who knew, the more the chance word would get out.” She paused. “Well, there’s something else too… I was ashamed. I was afraid of what you’d think.”

“Me? Why on earth?”

“An affair isn’t anything to be proud of.”

“Were you just fucking? Or were you in love?”

Lis was offended, yet Portia’s question seemed motivated merely by curiosity. “No, no, no. It wasn’t just physical. We were in love. I really don’t know why I didn’t tell you before. I should have. There’ve been too many secrets between us.” She glanced at her sister. “Owen had an affair too.”

The young woman nodded knowingly. Lis was horrified that Portia had somehow learned this already. But, no, it turned out that she’d simply pegged Owen as a man with a wandering eye.

This offended Lis too. “Well, it was only one time,” she said defensively.

“Frankly, Lis, I’m surprised you waited as long as you did to find somebody.”

“How can you say that?” Lis retorted. “I’m not the sort…” Her voice faded.

“Not like me ?” her sister asked wryly.

“I mean that I wasn’t looking for anyone. We were trying to work it out, Owen and me. He’d given up the woman he was seeing and we were making a conscious effort-”

“Conscious effort.”

Lis listened for mockery and believed she heard none. She continued doggedly, “-an effort to keep our marriage together. The affair… just happened.”

She’d begun the liaison at an awkward time, right in the middle of the terrible sequence of last winter: Owen’s affair, the slow death of her mother, her increased discontent with teaching, taking over the estate… The worst possible time, she thought, then reflected: As if there’s a convenient moment for cataclysm.

Lis’s affair, unlike the tidy Hollywood version that she imagined Owen’s to have been, had tormented her mercilessly. It would’ve been far easier, she told herself, if she’d been able to separate the dick from the soul. But she couldn’t and so of course she fell in love-as her paramour did with her. At first, Lis admitted, she was partly drawn to her lover out of retaliation. It was petty, yes, but there it was-she wanted to get even with Owen. Besides, she found, she simply couldn’t control herself. The affair was all-consuming.

Portia asked, “It’s over now?”

“Yes, it’s over.”

“Well, what’s the big deal?”

“Oh,” Lis said bitterly, “but it is a big deal. I haven’t told you everything.”

Lis opened her mouth to speak and for an unbearable moment she was about to confess everything. She truly believed that she was going to blurt out every scathing fact.

And she probably would have if the car hadn’t arrived just then.

Portia turned from her sister and looked out the kitchen window toward the driveway.

“Owen!” Lis stared out the window, both overjoyed at his arrival and bitterly disappointed that the conversation with her sister was being interrupted.

They walked into the kitchen and peered through the sheets of rain.

“No, I don’t think it’s him,” her sister said slowly. They watched the headlights make their snaking way along the driveway. Lis counted the flares as the beams hit the orange reflectors along the route. Portia was right. Although she couldn’t make out the vehicle clearly through the bushes and trees, it was light-colored; Owen’s Cherokee truck was black as a gun barrel.

Lis flung open the kitchen door and looked out through the dazzling rain.

It was a police car. A young deputy climbed out. He glanced at the Acura sitting in the middle of the flood and ran into the kitchen, flicking rainwater from his face in an effeminate way. He was round with the tautness of recent fat and had the face of a man on an unexpected assignment.

“Lis.” He pulled his hat off. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this. We just found Owen’s truck at the bottom of a ravine.”

“Oh, God!” Lis’s hands flew to her eyes and she pressed hard, as if they stung with smoke.

“He’d been run into-by that fellow Hrubek, looks like. The psycho. Knocked him off the road. Seemed to be an ambush.”

“No! Hrubek’s going to Boyleston. You’re wrong!”

“Well, he ain’t going to Boyleston in the car he was driving. Front end’s mashed in.”

Lis turned instinctively toward where her purse lay on the counter. “How badly hurt is he? I have to go to him.”

“We don’t know. Can’t find him. Or Hrubek either.”

“Where did it happen?” Portia asked.

“By the old railroad trestle. Near downtown.”

“Downtown where ?” Lis snapped.

His fat mouth fell silent. Perhaps he suspected her of hysteria. He said, “Well, downtown Ridgeton.”

No more than three miles from where they stood.

The wreck wasn’t too bad, the deputy explained. “We think Hrubek took off and Owen’s after him.”

“Or, Owen’s running, with Hrubek after him. ”

“We thought of that too. The sheriff and Tom Scalon are out looking for them. All the phones in this part of town’re out. Stan had me drive over to tell you. He’s thinking you oughta leave. Till they find him. But your car’s outta commission, looks like.”

Lis didn’t respond. Portia told him that they couldn’t get a tow truck.

“Believe you’ll need more’n a tow for that particular vehicle.” He nodded toward the sunken Acura. “Anyway, I’ll take you. Just get your stuff together.”

“Owen…” Lis looked around her, scanning the woods in vain.

“I’m thinking,” the deputy said, “we oughta get a move on.”

“I’m not going anywhere until we find my husband.”

Perhaps she sounded ferocious, for the deputy added cautiously, “I understand how you feel… But I don’t exactly know there’s a lot you can do here but fret. And I’ll-”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said slowly. “You understand?”

He looked at Portia, who gave no response. Finally he said, “Have it your way, Lis. That’s your business. But Stanley said to make sure you’re okay. I better call him and tell him you don’t want to leave.” He waited a moment more, as if this might intimidate her into leaving. When she turned away he walked out into the rain once more and climbed into the front seat of the cruiser to make the radio call.

“Lis,” Portia protested. “There’s nothing we can do.”

“Go sit in the car with him if you want. Or have him take you to the Inn. I’m sorry, but I’m not leaving.”