Jeffery Deaver - Praying for Sleep

“But you didn’t put a return address on it. And you didn’t sign it. How would I know who it was from?”

“Nice try,” he snapped. “But you knew I sent it.”

His eyes were so piercing she said at once, “I knew, yes. I’m sorry.”

“ They kept you from writing, didn’t they?”

“Well-”

“The spirits. The con- spirat -ors.”

She nodded and he rambled on. He seemed to think her given name had seven letters in it. This pleased him enormously and she was terrified that he’d find some correspondence or a bill that would reveal the extra letter and he’d kill her for this deceit.

“And now it’s time,” he said solemnly, and Lis shivered again.

He pulled his backpack off and set it beside him. Then he undid his overalls, pulling them down over his massive thighs. The fly of his boxer shorts parted and, stunned, she saw a dark stubby penis, semi-erect.

Oh, God…

Lis gripped the knife, waiting for him to put down the pistol and pull his engorged prick free. She’d leap the instant he did.

But Michael never let go of the gun. His left hand, the damaged one, was deep within his stained and filthy underwear, as if exciting himself further. But after a moment, when he removed his fingers, she saw he was holding a small plastic bag. The opening had been tied shut with a piece of string and he squinted like an absorbed child as he carefully untied it with his good hand. He paused to pull his overalls up once more and with some frustration reclipped the straps.

He pulled from the bag a piece of newspaper. It was damp and tattered. He held it out like a tray and on it he reverently placed a tiny perfect animal skull, which he’d taken from his backpack. When she didn’t touch either of these, he smiled knowingly at her caution and laid them on the table beside her. He opened and smoothed the newspaper clipping then pushed it halfway to her, stepping back like a retriever that had just deposited a shot quail at a hunter’s foot.

His hands were at his side, the gun muzzle down. Lis planned her assault. She would slip closer and aim for his eyes. What a horrible thought! But she had to act. Now was the time. She tightened her grip and glanced at the clipping. It was a local newspaper’s account of the murder trial, the margins filled with the minute scrawl of his handwriting. Bits of words, pictures, stars, arrows-a good freehand drawing of what seemed to be the presidential seal. A silhouette of Abraham Lincoln. American flags. These all surrounded a photograph Lis recognized: her own grainy black-and-white image, taken as she walked down the courthouse steps toward the car after the verdict.

She and Michael were now six feet apart. She casually stepped closer, lifting the clipping, tilting her head toward it as she pretended to read. Her eyes were on the gun in his hand. She smelled his foul odor, she heard his labored breathing.

“There’s so much betrayal,” he whispered.

She gripped the knife. His eyes! Aim for the eyes. Do it. Do it! Left eye, then right. Then roll beneath a table. Do it! Don’t hesitate. She eased her weight forward, ready to leap.

“So much betrayal,” he said, and flecks of his spittle pelted her face. She didn’t back away. He looked down at the gun and transferred it to his good hand. Lis’s grip tightened on the knife. She was incapable of praying but many thoughts filled her mind: Of her father. And mother. Oh, and please, Owen, I hope you’re alive. Our love was perhaps damaged but at least, at times, it was love. And Portia I love you too-even if we’ll never become what I hoped we might.

“All right,” Michael Hrubek said. He turned the gun over in his palm and offered it to her, grip first. “All right,” he repeated gently. She was too afraid to take her eyes from the pistol for more than an instant but in that brief glance at his face she saw the abundant tears that streamed down his cheeks. “Do it now,” he said with a choked voice, “do it quickly.”

Lis did not move.

“Here,” he insisted, and thrust the gun into her hand. She dropped the clipping. It spun to the floor like a leaf. Michael knelt at her feet and lowered his head in a primitive signal of supplication. He pointed to the back of his head and said, “Here. Do it here.”

It’s a trick! she thought madly. It must be.

“Do it quickly.”

She set the knife on the table and held the gun loosely. “Michael…” His first name was cold in her mouth. It was like tasting sand. “Michael, what do you want?”

“I’ll pay for the betrayal with my life. Do it now, do it quickly.”

She whispered, “You didn’t come here to kill me?”

“Why, I’d no more kill you than hurt that dog in there.” He laughed, nodding toward the supply closet.

Lis spoke without thinking. “But you set traps for dogs!”

He twisted his mouth up wryly. “I put the traps down to slow up the conspirators, sure. That was just a smart thing to do. But they weren’t set. They were sprung already. I’d never hurt a dog. Dogs are God’s creatures and live in pure innocence.”

She was shocked. Why, his whole journey this evening meant nothing. A man who’d kill people and revere dogs. Michael had traveled all these miles to play out some macabre, pointless fantasy.

“You see,” he offered, “what people say about Eve isn’t true. She was a victim. Just like me. A victim of the devil, in her case. Government conspirators, in mine. How can you blame someone who’s been betrayed ? You can’t! It wouldn’t be fair ! Eve was persecuted, and so am I. Aren’t we alike, you and me? Isn’t it just amazing, Lis-bone?” He laughed.

“Michael,” she said, her voice quivering, “will you do something for me?”

He looked up, his face as sad as the hound’s.

“I’m going to ask you to come upstairs with me.”

“No, no, no… We can’t wait. You have to do it. You have to! That’s what I’ve come for.” He was weeping. “It was so terrible and hard. I’ve come so far… Please, it’s time for me to go to sleep.” He nodded at the gun. “I’m so tired.”

“A favor for me. Just for a little while.”

“No, no… They’re all around us. You don’t understand how dangerous it is. I’m so tired of being awake.”

“For me?” she begged.

“I don’t think I can.”

“You’ll be safe there. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

Their eyes met and remained locked for a long moment. Whatever Michael saw in hers, Lis never guessed. “Poor Eve,” he said slowly. Then he nodded. “If I go there, for you”-he looked at the gun-“then you’ll do it and do it quickly?”

“Yes, if you still want me to.”

“I’ll go upstairs for you, Lis-bone.”

“Follow me, Michael. It’s this way.”

She didn’t want to turn her back on him, yet she felt that some fragile fiber of trust-spun from madness perhaps but real to him-existed between them. She wouldn’t risk breaking it. She led the way, making no quick gestures and saying nothing. Climbing the narrow stairs she directed him to one of the spare bedrooms. Because Owen kept confidential legal files here, a strong Medeco lock secured the door. She opened the door and he walked inside. Lis clicked on the light and told Michael to sit in a rocking chair. It had been Mrs. L’Auberget’s and was in fact the chair she’d died in, leaning forward expectantly and squeezing Lis’s hand three times. He went to the chair and sat. She told him kindly, “I’m going to lock the door, Michael. I’ll be back soon. Why don’t you close your eyes and rest?”

He didn’t answer but examined the chair with approval and began to rock. Then he lowered his lids as she’d suggested and laid his head against the teal-green afghan that covered the chair back. The rocking ceased. Lis closed the door silently and locked it and walked back to the greenhouse. She stood in the exact center of the room for a long time before the swarm of emotions surrounded her.