Praying for Sleep (41 page)

Dr. Richard scooted off the Taurus. Michael glanced at him but his eyes were drawn irresistibly to the radiant sign revolving above their heads.

Michael ignored the middle portion of the sign, noting only that the word MERCURY was bloody red. What he stared at were the two words in blue, Union-soldier blue: On the top, FORD. On the bottom, LINCOLN.

"That's where you killed him, isn't it, Michael? The theater?"

This is surely a miracle. Oh, God in your infinite brilliance...

"Ford... Lincoln... Ford's Theater... Yessir, I sure did. Make no mistake. I snuck into the presidential box at ten-thirty on April 14, the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and sixty-five. It was Good Friday. I came up behind him and put a bullet into his head. The President didn't die right away but lingered until the next day. He linnnnn-gered."

"You yelled, 'Sic semper tyrannis.'"

"They've been after me ever since." Michael looked at his doctor. No, he was no impostor. It was truly Dr. Richard. You look tired, doctor, Michael thought. I'm awake and you're asleep. What do you make of that? He gazed up at the sign again.

"I want to help you."

Michael chuckled.

"I'd like you to come back with me to the hospital."

"That's nuts, Dr. Richard. I just left there. Why would I want to go back?"

"Because you'll be safe. There are people looking for you, people who want to hurt you."

Michael snapped, "I've been telling you that for months."

"That's true, you have." The doctor laughed.

Michael took the pistol from his pocket. Dr. Richard's eyes flicked down momentarily but returned immediately to his patient's. "Michael, I've done a lot for you. I got you the job on the farm. You like that job, don't you? You like to work with the cows, I know you do."

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 linnnger on earth a while?"

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!"

"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 telegraph 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."

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 soldiers. 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 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."

"It's not like a Cadillac," he sneered.

"Look over there," the doctor said casually. "At that row of cars. All those Lincolns. Row after row of Lincolns."

"That's interesting, Dr. Richard," Michael said agreeably, studying not the cars but his doctor's face. "But what's more interesting is why you've been hiding your hand behind you all night, you fucker!"

"God, no!" The doctor's left cross thudded harmlessly into the huge chest, as Michael ripped the syringe from the narrow fingers.

"What've we got here"? This is shiny, oh, this is pretty. You've got a present for me? Oh, I know all about you! You came out all by yourself to stick me in the back and turn me over to the conspirators. So nobody'd know about me, nobody'd know about Dr. Richard's little secret who ran away. Don't tell the world until you're ready. Right? Stick me in the back then stick me in a crash bag, you fucker?"

"No! Don't do this!"

Michael leaned forward. "
Oh, you...
" he whispered, and moved the long needle with its razor-sharp beveled edge even with the doctor's eyes. It moved closer and closer, passing inches from his face as the man's thin muscles struggled uselessly against Michael's overwhelming strength. "Please, no!"

The needle turned directly toward the doctor and started toward his chest. "No!"

Then, with a skill that came from years of careful observation, Michael eased the needle deep into the doctor's skin and injected the drug.

From Dr. Richard's lips came a mournful wail, which seemed not to be a cry of pain but appeared to come rather from a deeper sort of anguish — the sound perhaps of a man realizing that the last image in his thoughts as he died would be the look of betrayal upon the face of someone that he had, in a way, loved.

"How far away was he?" Portia asked.

"Fredericks. It's only eight or nine miles from here. But the roads're bound to be terrible."

They had changed clothes and shared the hair dryer. Lis stood in the kitchen window and saw, through the rain, a dot of light reflecting on the lake, a mile away. The house of their closest neighbor — a couple Owen and Lis knew casually. They were young, married only six months.

The woman was very much a hausfrau and on several occasions had talked to Lis breathlessly and with queasy candor about wifedom. She asked many questions and watched with squinting eyes, her elbows on a vinyl placemat, as Lis awkwardly dished out advice about relationships. For heaven's sake, Lis thought, how would I know if you should have sex with your husband even if you've got the flu? As if there were rules about such things.

"You're all packed?" Portia asked.

"Packed? Nightgown, toothbrush, underwear. It'll be about a six-hour stay. God, what I want is a hot bath. They might even catch him before Owen gets here. Hey, I need a drink. Brandy?"

"Tastes like soap."

"Acquired taste, granted. Grand Marnier?"

"More my style."

Lis poured two glasses and wandered into the doorway of the greenhouse.

"We make a good dam. It's still holding."

A huge burst of wind shook the windows. It howled through the open vents, loud enough to obscure conversation. The leafless trees whipped back and forth and white-caps broke on the surface of the lake. Lis said that she'd never seen the water this turbulent. A huge streak of lightning split the sky to the west and the floor seemed to drop beneath their feet when the thunder rolled over the house.

"Let's retreat. To the living room?"

Lis was happy to agree.

They sat in silence for a moment. Lis avoided her sister's eyes and glanced instead at a cluster of photographs on the end table. Pictures from their childhoods: Portia, sassy and sexy. Lis, studious and vigilant and, well, plain. Tall, stern Andrew, complete with anachronistic mustache and ubiquitous white shirt. And gracious Mother with her uplifted matriarchal jaw, her eyes commanding everyone except her husband, in whose presence she was timid.

"Portia," Lis said slowly, eyes now on the frames, not the photographs, "I'd like to talk to you about something."

Her sister looked toward her. "The nursery business?"

"No," Lis finally answered. "It's about Indian Leap. What happened there. Between us, I mean. Not the murder. You don't want to talk about it, I know. But will you just listen to what I have to say?"

Portia was silent. She licked the sweet liquor from the rim of her glass and waited.

Lis sighed. "I never wanted to see you again after that day."

"You must've figured that was how I felt too. Since we haven't seen each other."

"I've felt so guilty."

"I don't want an apology."

"Hitting you, saying the things I said... I was out of control. I've never been that way before. Never in my life. I was everything I always prayed I'd never be."

"You had a good teacher." Portia tapped the photo of their father. "Got your right hook from him, it felt like."

Lis didn't smile; she felt ill with shame and anger. She looked now for signs of forgiveness, softening. But Portia merely sat hugging her glass and staring — almost bored, it seemed — into the greenhouse. The eerie moaning of the wind continued.