Praying for Sleep (14 page)

On one side of the thirty-five-by-twenty-foot room were the cuttings, rooted in sand, and the seedlings; on the other were the growing plats for mature bushes, and propagation benches. Soil-warming cables snaked under the cutting area, and hoses, trickle-irrigation pipelines and capillary sand benches provided the water. The connected potting area and lath house were floored in concrete; the greenhouse floor itself was gravel, through which wound a serpentine path of slate — also selected by Lis (to replace the original concrete). The slate was deep green-blue and had been picked by Lis as a reminder of a rose yet to be, the L'Auberget hybrid. This was an ambition of hers — to develop a luminescent teal-colored rose, an All-American Rose Selections designation in her name.

The crossbreeding of this flower had a particular appeal because she'd been told it was impossible; fellow rosarians assured her that the elusive color couldn't be bred. What's more, she was bucking the trend. The current strategy among growers was to cultivate for fragrance and disease resistance. But color and form, now traits in disrepute, were what excited Lis Atcheson. Logically she appreciated the difficulty of the crossbreed. But the irony is that by nature rose lovers have deep romantic streaks and aren't easily discouraged. So, working with a number of yellow varieties and pinks and the Blue Moon hybrid tea, Lis spent hours here grafting and budding as if it were merely a matter of time until she found the evasive color.

From literature, Lis had learned the transcendence of the imagination, which she'd come to believe was God's main prize to us, all things else, even love, being more or less honorable mentions. But from flowers, she learned a better lesson — the persistence of beauty: petals bursting, growing falling, and curling into dry, colorful flakes.

Roses were more than animate to her; they were virtually human. "Think about it," she'd tell students of hers invited to the greenhouse for informal Saturday-afternoon horticultural lectures. "The history of roses? They migrated! west to Europe and America, mostly from the Orient. Their culture? They grow in increasingly sophisticated social clusters. And how about religion? Roses've had as bad a time on that subject as we have. They were burned by early Christians because of pagan — excuse the expression — roots. And then what happened? The Pope converted them. Now, ask a Catholic what roses represent — Mary, of course. That's the Mother, by the way, not the prostitute."

Lis's love of flowers began when she was around nine. Skinny and tall, the girl would herd Portia into the huge backyard, where their mother's helper presided. The imported au pair would send the girls on missions to find wildflowers of certain colors, after of course delivering the litany of warnings: the lake, snakes, hornets, bees, abandoned wells, strangers, men with candy, on and on. (The caveats were the product of Andrew L'Auberget; no chubby, carefree Dutch girl could possibly find the world so threatening.)

The speech delivered, paranoia invoked, Jolande would then dole out the assignments. "Leesbonne, a golden flur. Breeng me a gold flur."

Off the children would go.

"Leesbonne, now a red one. A red flur... Be careful of that, how you call it, beehive. Poortia, a red one..."

The girls would charge off into the woods and return with the blossoms. The daughters would then ask the big girl to trim and wash the bouquet and the trio would deliver the works of art to Ruth L'Auberget, who would nod with approval and thank the girls. She would then tie the blossoms into bright arrangements for the rectory office where she spent her afternoons.

This combination of aesthetics and generosity was irresistible to Lis, and she would sit at the dinner table, too timid to speak, but praying that Mother would report to Father about the flowers — or that talkative Portia would blurt the story to him. Impatient with religion, Andrew L'Auberget only managed to tolerate his wife's involvement in St. John's (it was, the liquor merchant was fast to joke, her only vice). Still, he usually dispensed some backhanded praise. "Ah, very good. Good for you, Lisbonne. And Portia too. You were careful of thorns and wasps?"

His face was stern but Lis believed she heard pleasure in his voice. "Yes, Father."

"And don't run through tall grass. Has our Jolande been careful with you? Broken legs can turn gangrenous very easily. Then off they come. Zip! How about the Reverend Dalcott? He going to snatch you up in a bag and turn you into little Episcopalians?"

"Andrew."

"No, Daddy. He has yellow teeth and his shirt smells funny."

"Portia!"

If he was in a good mood, Father might recite some Robert Burns or John Donne. "'O my love's like a red, red rose...'"

Lis harbored a secret belief that the bouquets she'd delivered to her mother had inspired her to build the greenhouse and to start tending roses all year round.

Flowers were what Lis thought about too when her father's mood grew dark and the inevitable willow whip descended on her exposed buttocks. The image of an orange hybrid seemed somehow to anesthetize much of the pain.

Through the mottled windows she now gazed toward the very tree — a black willow — that had sacrificed hundreds of young shoots so that two daughters might grow into proper women. She could see only a vague form, like an image in a dream. It seemed to be just a lighter version of the darkness that filled the yard tonight.

Lis squinted and gazed past the tree. It was then that she saw a curious shape in the water.

What is that? she wondered.

Walking outside, she looked again at a portion of the shoreline a hundred yards from the house. It was a configuration of shapes she'd never noticed. Then she understood — the water had risen so far that it was ganging near the top of the old dam. What she was looking at was a white rowboat that had slipped its moorings and floated to the concrete rim. Half the rocky beach beside the dam was obscured. In thirty years, the water had never been this high... The dam! The thought struck Lis like a slap. She'd forgotten completely about the dam. It was of course the lowest spot on the property. If the lake overflowed, the water would fill the low culvert behind it and flood the yard.

Suddenly from her youth she recalled a sluice gate in the dam, operated by a large wheel. Opening this gate diverted the water to a creek that flowed into the Marsden River a mile or so downstream. She recalled her father's opening the gate once many years ago after a sudden spring thaw. Was it still there? And, if so, did it still work?

Lis walked closer to the house and called, "Portia!"

A second-floor window opened.

"I'm going to the dam."

The young woman nodded and looked up at the sky. "I just heard a bulletin. They're calling it the storm of the decade."

Lis nearly joked that she'd picked a fine night for a visit but thought better of it. Portia eased the window shut and continued her methodical taping. Lis walked cautiously into the culvert that led to the dam and, plunging into darkness, picked her way along the rocky creek bed.

The two Labs suddenly jerked into a frenzy. The trackers simultaneously drew their guns, Heck thumb-cocking his. The men exhaled long as the animal — a raccoon fat on village garbage — jogged away from them, the concentric rings of its tail vanishing into underbrush. The indignant animal reminded Heck of Jill's father, who was a small town mayor.

Heck, lowering the prominent hammer of his old German pistol, downed Emil and waited while Charlie Fennel futilely scolded the Labs and then refreshed their memory with Hrubek's shorts. As he waited Heck gazed around him at the seemingly endless fields. They'd come five miles from the shack where Hrubek had stolen the traps, and the dogs were still scenting on the asphalt. Heck had never pursued an escapee who stuck so persistently to the road. What seemed like blood — sure stupidity now looked pretty smart: by doing just the opposite of what everybody expected, Hrubek was making damn good time. Heck had a vague thought, which lasted merely a second or two, that somehow, they were making a very bad mistake about this fellow. This impression was punctuated by a shiver that dropped from his neck to his tailbone.

Charlie Fennel's dogs were soon back on the trail and the men hurried along the deserted strip of highway under a sky black as a hole. To stem his own uneasiness Heck leaned over and said, "Know what's coming up this week?"

Fennel grunted.

"St. Hubert's Day. And we're going to be celebrating it."

Fennel hawked and spit in a long arc then said, "Who's we?"

"Emil and me. St. Hubert's Day. He's the patron saint of hunters. St. Hubert hounds — that's what he bred —"

"Who?"

"St. Hubert. This is what I'm telling you. He was a monk or something. He bred the dogs that eventually became bloodhounds." Heck nodded at Emil. "That boy goes farther back than I do. Part of St. Hubert's Day is a blessing of the hounds. Aren't you Irish, Charlie? How come you don't know this stuff?"

"Family's from Londonderry."

"You've got those Labs there. We ought to get a priest to bless our dogs. What do you think about that, Charlie? How 'bout over at St. Mary's. Think that priest'd do that for us?" Fennel didn't answer and Heck continued, "You know bloodhounds go back to Mesopotamia?"

"Where the hell's that?"

"Iraq."

"Now that," Fennel said, "was a stupid little war."

"I think we should've kept going, tromp, tromp, tromp, all the way to Baghdad."

"I'll second that." Then Fennel laughed.

Heck, grinning, asked, "What's so funny?"

"You're a crazy man after a crazy man, Trenton."

"Say what you will, I think I'm going to find me a priest and get Emil blessed after this is over."

"If he catches the guy."

"No, I think I'll just do it anyway."

The road down which they now pursued Hrubek was a dark country highway, which threaded through a string of small towns and unincorporated portions of the county. If Hrubek had Boston in mind he was taking the long route. But, Heck concluded, it was also the smarter way to travel. Along these roads there'd be hardly any local police, and the houses and traffic would be sparse.

They followed the dogs, still short-lined because of the traps, only three miles east before Hrubek broke away and turned north, onto a small dirt lane. A hundred feet away they found a filthy roadside diner, which looked bleaker yet because of the sloppily taped X's on the windows.

Thinking that Hrubek might be inside, Fennel sent the Boy around back and he and Heck snuck up to the windows of the streamlined, aluminum-sided restaurant. Cautiously they lifted their heads and found themselves gazing straight into the eyes of the cook, waitress and two diners, who, forewarned by the baying Labradors, were staring out the windows.

Heck and Fennel, feeling somewhat foolish, stepped through the door, holstering their guns.

"A posse," the waitress exclaimed, drops of viscous gravy falling from the tilting plate she held.

But, no, nobody here had seen Hrubek, even though to judge by Emil's scenting he'd passed within feet of the window. Without an explanation, or a farewell, the men and the dogs vanished as quickly as they'd come. Emil picked up the scent once more and led them northeast along the dirt road.

Not two hundred yards from the diner they found the spot where Hrubek had taken to the fields. "Hold up," Heck whispered. They stood beside a small grass-filled path — an access road for mowing tractors. The drive darkened as it passed through a dense stand of trees.

Fennel and Heck tied back the track lines until they were shorter than pet-store leads. They found, however, that they didn't need the animals any longer; not more than fifty yards into the woods they heard Hrubek.

Fennel gripped Heck's arm and they stopped short. The Boy dropped to a crouch. They heard a mad moaning rising from the trees.

Heck was so excited to have found Hrubek that he forgot he was a civilian. He began communicating to Fennel and the Boy with the hand signals law enforcers use when they silently close in on their quarry. Up went his finger to his lips and he pointed toward the source of the sound then motioned Fennel and the Boy forward. Heck bent low to Emil and whispered, "Sit," then, "Down." The dog eased to the ground, obedient but irritated that the game was over for him. Heck loose-tied him to a branch.

"I'll take over from here, you want," Fennel whispered in a casual way but with enough timber to remind Heck who was in charge. Heck was of course willing to yield the role of commander, which was never his in the first place, but no way was he going to miss the hogtying party; he didn't want any argument about the reward money. He nodded toward Fennel and unholstered his Walther.

The Boy, who with his fiery eyes and a big automatic in his fingers didn't look so boyish anymore, circled around to the side, north of the trees, as Fennel had indicated. Heck and Fennel went up the middle of the road. They moved very slowly; they couldn't use their flashlights and the grove was darkly shadowed by the hemlocks, whose branches were dense and lay upon one another like ragged petticoats.

The moaning grew louder. To a man, it chilled their hearts.

When Heck saw the truck — a long semi, parked cockeyed in the shadows — he felt a burst of queasiness, thinking that the moaning was not Hrubek at all but the driver, whom the madman had attacked and gutted. Perhaps he was listening to a sucking chest wound. He and Fennel glanced at each other, exchanging this identical thought in silence, and continued their cautious approach.

Then Heck saw him, an indistinct shape not far away.

Michael Hrubek, so thick around the middle he seemed deformed.

Moaning like a moon-crazed dog.

He lay on the ground, trying to get up. Perhaps he'd fallen and hurt himself, or had been hit by the massive truck.

Maybe he'd heard the Labs and was feigning injury, waiting for his pursuers to get close.

Opposite Heck and Fennel, on the other side of the clearing, the Boy appeared in a crouch. Fennel held up three fingers. The young trooper responded by mimicking it. Then Fennel clicked the safety off his gun and lifted his hand above his head. One finger. Two fingers... Three... The men jumped into the clearing, three dark pistols pointed forward, three long flashlights pumping their dazzling halogen light onto the massive body of their quarry.