Praying for Sleep (30 page)

"No. I don't. I'm sorry."

"And afterwards?"

"After the trial?" Lis sipped the strong coffee. "Well, I took a trip to hell."

After the publicity faded and Hrubek was committed in Marsden, Lis resumed the life she'd led before the tragedy, first her routine seemed largely unchanged — teaching school, spending Sundays at the country club with Owen, visiting friends, tending the garden. She was perhaps the last person to notice that her life was unraveling. Occasionally she'd skip a shower.

She'd forget the names of guests attending her own cocktail parties. She might happen to glance down as she walked through the corridors of the school and find that she was wearing mismatched shoes. She'd teach Dryden instead of the scheduled Pope and berate students for failing to read material she'd never assigned. Sometimes in lectures and in conversations she found herself gazing at embarrassed, perplexed faces and could only wonder what on earth she'd uttered.

"It was as if I was sleepwalking." She withdrew into her greenhouse and mourned. Owen, patient initially, grew tired of Lis's torpor and absentmindedness and they began to fight. He spent more on business trips. She stayed home more and more frequently, venturing outside only for her classes. Her sleep problems grew worse: it was not unusual for her to remain awake for twenty-four hours straight.

Adding to Lis's difficulty was Dorothy, who stepped as brusquely into widowhood as she slipped into the front seat her Mercedes SL. She was gaunt and pale and didn't smile for two months. Yet she functioned, and functioned quite well. Owen several times held her out as an example of someone who took tragedy in stride. "Well, I'm not like her, Owen. I never have been. I'm sorry." When Dorothy sold her house and moved to the Jersey shore in July, it was not she but Lis who cried during their farewell lunch.

Lis's life became school and her greenhouse, where she would snip plants and wander like a lost child over the slate path, her face occasionally damp as the leaves of a plantain lily.

But gradually she improved. She took Prozac for a time, which made her jaw quiver and fingers tremble and infused her dreams with spectacular effects. It also aggravated the insomnia. She switched to Pamelor, which was gentler.

And then, one day, she simply stopped taking the pills and hung up her housecoat.

"I can't tell you what happened. Or when exactly. But I suddenly just knew it was time to get on with my life. And I did."

"I'd had some clues that Michael's delusion involved American history," Kohler told her. "Particularly the Civil War... '
Sic semper tyrannis
' — that's what Booth shouted after he shot Lincoln."

"'Thus ever to tyrants.'" Lis the schoolteacher add "It's also the state motto of Virginia."

"And the April 14 reference. The assassination."

"What does Lincoln have to do with anything?"

Kohler shook his head. "Michael's been very reluctant to talk to me about his delusions. Only hints, cryptic phrases. He didn't trust me."

"Even you, his doctor?"

"Especially me, his doctor. That's the nature of his illness, He's paranoid. He's always accusing me of trying to get information out of him for the FBI or Secret Service. He has a core delusion but I can't get to the bottom of it. I suppose it centers on the Civil War, Lincoln's death, conspirators. Or some event he associates with the assassination. I don't know."

"Why's his delusion so important?"

"Because it's central to his illness. It explains to why every day is so unbearably hard. A schizophrenic's life," Kohler lectured, "is a search for meaning." And whose isn't? Lis wondered. "It's a very controversial matter right now," the doctor said, adding that he himself was considered a bit of a renegade. She thought he was a little too smug with this characterization of himself. "Schizophrenia is a physical illness. Just like cancer or appendicitis. You have to treat it with drugs. No one disputes that. But I differ from most of my colleagues in thinking that you can also treat schizophrenic patients very effectively with psychotherapy."

"I can't really imagine Hrubek lying on a couch talking about his childhood."

"Neither could Freud. He said schizophrenic patients shouldn't be treated with psychoanalysis. Most psychiatrists agree. The current treatment is to get them on brain candy — that's how the cynics among us refer to their medication — and force them to accept reality, teach them to order in restaurants and do their own laundry then turn them loose. And it's true — extended analysis, with the patient on the couch, that's wrong for people like Michael. But certain types of psychotherapy work very well. Seriously ill patients can learn to function at a very high level. "Most psychiatrists think that schizophrenic patients ramble incoherently, that their delusions are meaningless. I think that almost everything they say is meaningful. The more we try to translate their words into our way of thinking, yes, the more pointless those words are. But if we try to grasp their metaphoric meaning, then doors open up. Take a Napoleon, okay?

That's the popular image of a schizophrenic. I won't try to convince a patient that he isn't Napoleon. And I wouldn't just pat him on the head and say, "Bonjour," when I pass him in the hall. I'd try to find out why he thinks he's the emperor of France. Nine times out of ten there's a reason. And once I know that, I can start to unlock doors. I've had remarkable results with patients — and some of them are a lot sicker than Michael." He added bitterly, "I was just getting inside him, I was almost there... When this happened."

"You make him sound innocent."

"He
is
innocent. That's the perfect word for him."

She thought angrily, Oh, isn't the good doctor used to people buying his bill of goods? The malleable patients who nod their damaged heads and shuffle off to obey. The sorrowful families pecking through his pompous words for comfort like birds for seed. Young, terrified interns and nurses. "How on earth," she asked, "can you romanticize' him? He's just a set of muscles free to do whatever he wants. He's a machine run amok."

"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 off 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 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 and walked toward the kitchen. When they approached back door, he asked, "One thing I'm still curious about. Why would he associate you with betrayal? 'The Eve 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 east of town. Why?"

"Just curious."

She waited for an explanation but none came and it was 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 helpful? And what had he not told her?

Outside, walking to his car, they both looked up at the dark 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? They 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 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, bolstering 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 911? 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."

3

THE SPIRITS OF THE DEAD

19

"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 chaplain'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, 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 plain-detective said. "Check out the house. All the rooms."

"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 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 police were doing to capture the escapee, who appeared to have a grudge against his wife. As he spoke he realize that the story was outlandish and he was neither surprised nor offended when the officer asked, "Could I see some ID, please?"

Owen handed over his driver's license and his attorney's registration card.

"You don't mind if we confirm this?"

"Not at all."

The detective picked up the phone and called his office. A moment later he nodded and hung up. He walked back to Owen and returned the ID. "Are you armed, sir?"

"Yes."

"I assume you have a firearm permit, Mr. Atcheson?"

"I do, yes. And four years of combat experience." He said this because the detective was about his age and had a serenity in the face of butchery like this that comes from only one thing — surviving firefights. The detective squinted a bit of reluctant camaraderie into his face.