Praying for Sleep

23

You’ve got this thing to do ahead of you…

Owen Atcheson remembered his platoon lieutenant looking steel-eyed and crazed from hits of local funny-dust but sounding calm as a college professor. “You’ve got this thing ahead of you, and you’ve got to go out and meet it…”

Owen and three other Marines more often than not rolled their eyes at this pep talk. But, inspired by it nonetheless, they then clipped on their gear and blackened their faces and disappeared into the jungle to cut the throats of thin soldiers or murder politicians with silenced pistols or rig gelignite and C4 satchel charges.

Owen thought of those times now-as he stood on the ridge of a hill, looking at the antique Cadillac that sat upright, its roof half-staved in and windows spidered with fractures, one parking lamp the only light that had survived the crash. He opened the cylinder of his gun. He’d owned revolvers all his life and, fastidious about safety, had always kept the chamber under the hammer empty. He now loaded a sixth shell into the gun and swung the cylinder closed. He started toward the car. The incline was steep and Owen needed one hand to steady himself as he climbed down to a low hedge.

He felt a stunning exhilaration and told himself that he shouldn’t be enjoying this so much. The thrill diminished when he recalled that Hrubek was armed and saw that there was no way to approach the car under cover. It had crashed through a line of juniper and tumbled for thirty feet into the center of a grassy clearing.

The rain wasn’t heavy and the wind was subdued; his approach would be noisy. And Hrubek-assuming his injuries hadn’t prevented him from doing so-had also had plenty of time to establish a defensive position. Owen considered tactics for a moment then decided not to bother with a cautious approach. He clutched the gun hard, inhaled long then ran at top speed, ready to aim and shoot from a tumbling position. As he sped across the grass, a primitive howl bubbled in his throat and he suppressed the urge to let this grow into the Marines’ battle cry.

He charged the car straight on and slid into the grass like a runner stealing home, ending up behind the rear bumper. The muddy leaves scattered by his run settled around him and he looked about frantically. The rear windshield was less obscured than the others but he still was unable to tell if Hrubek was inside. He crouched, using the trunk as cover, and looked behind the car.

Nothing.

He moved toward the rear door…

Underneath!

Owen dropped to his stomach with a grunt and aimed the gun under the car. A shattered pipe hung like an arm and startled him but Hrubek wasn’t hiding there. He stood and breathed deeply several times then switched his gun to his left hand and yanked the car’s right rear door open.

Empty. The Cadillac held no evidence of Michael Hrubek other than a smell of animallike musk and sweat and fragments of shattered animal skulls-like the one Hrubek had left on the woman’s lap in the house in Cloverton. The keys were in the ignition.

Owen stood and looked around him. The spongy leaves had left no footprints and there was no sign of blood or other trail. Owen stepped behind the Cadillac and turned his back to it as he scanned the vast forest, damp and gray and dark. His heart fell. He knew how hard it was to track on wet leaves and through dark woods. And after an accident this bad Hrubek might be disoriented or stunned and could wander pointlessly in any direction. He might-

The trunk!

Owen cocked the gun and spun on his heels, aiming at the broad dented plain of metal-a perfect hiding place. The trunk was secured by a keyhole button but-since the Caddie was an older car-it did not automatically lock. Owen approached. He touched the cold chrome latch, pushed it in. The mechanism snapped open. He pulled the lid up and leapt back.

The spacious trunk had ample room for someone as large as Michael Hrubek. But it did not in fact contain him.

Owen turned toward the forest and in a crouch ran to the closest opening in the tall fence of brush and trees. In an instant he was swallowed up by the cold darkness around him. He shone his shielded flashlight on the ground in a slow U pattern. After ten minutes he found two of Hrubek’s boot prints. They led deeper into the forest. He smelled pine in the damp air. The psycho might have headed out of the deciduous trees and Owen would find a clear trail in pine needles. He had proceeded only thirty feet when he heard a thud and a snap nearby-a careless footstep, it seemed.

He aimed his pistol toward the sound.

Owen gauged his footsteps perfectly and placed them on foliage-free ground, making no noise as he moved. He crouched, pistol in front of him, and stepped onto the bed of fragrant needles.

The man was sitting on a fallen tree trunk and massaging his outstretched leg, as if taking a break on a Sunday-afternoon hike.

“Looks like we just missed him,” the lanky man in a New York Mets cap said to Owen, looking up without a trace of surprise in his face. “So you’re the other bounty hunter. Guess we got a few things to talk about.”

The woman was thirty-six years old and had lived in this prim little bungalow all her life, the past six of those years, after her mother’s death, alone. She hadn’t seen her father since the day the old man got his other daughter pregnant, was arrested for it and taken away. One week after the trial the sister too moved away.

The woman’s life consisted of filling cartons with electronic circuit boards that did something she had no desire to understand, of lunch with one or two fellow workers, sewing, and-for entertainment-church and the newspaper on the day of rest, and television on the other six.

The house was an island of caution and simplicity in a grassy clearing carved out of what had been one of the oldest forests in the Northeast. The half acre of grass was almost a perfect circle and was marred only by a rusted hull of a pickup that would never go anywhere under its own power and a doorless refrigerator her father had been meaning to cart to the dump one Saturday morning ten years ago when he chose instead to pay a visit to his daughter’s bedroom.

Blonde, thin and fragile, the woman had a plain face and a good figure though on the rare occasions when she and a few girlfriends went to the rocky beach at Indian Leap or the riverside at Klamath Falls, she would wear a high-necked swimsuit that she’d bought mail-order so she wouldn’t have to try it on in a store. She dated some-mostly men she met at church-though she rarely enjoyed the outings and had recently started to think of herself, with some comfort, as a spinster.

Tonight she’d just finished preparing a bedtime snack of Jell-O with mandarin oranges and a cup of hot milk, when she heard the noise in the yard. She walked to the window and saw nothing other than blowing leaves and rain then returned to the maple dining table.

She sat down, said grace and put her napkin in her lap then lifted a spoonful of Jell-O as she opened TV Guide.

The knocking on the front door seemed to shake the whole house. The spoon fell to the table and the gelatin-cube wobbled off her lap then escaped onto the floor. She stood abruptly and shouted, “Yes, who is it?”

“I’m hurt. I had an accident. Can you help me?”

It was a man’s voice.

She hesitated, walked to the front door, hesitated again then opened it as far as the chain allowed. The big fellow was bent over, clutching his arm. He seemed like a working man.

“Who are you?”

“I was driving by and my car, she rolled over and over. Oh, I’m hurt. Please let me in.”

No way on God’s green earth, thank you very much. “I’ll call an ambulance, you wait right there.”

The woman closed the door and dead-bolted it then went to the table that held the rotary-dial phone. She picked it up. She banged the button down several times and when the silence continued said, “Oh, dear.”

It was then that she realized the sound she’d heard a few moments before was coming from the place where the phone line ran into the house. This thought stayed with her only a moment though because Michael Hrubek had grown tired of waiting outside and kicked open the door. Huge and wet, he walked into the living room and said, “Nice try. But your phone, it doesn’t work. I could’ve told you that.”

Standing beneath a cluster of thick pine trees, which offered some shelter from the streaming rain, Owen asked how Trenton Heck happened to find the Cadillac.

“I followed his track to Cloverton. That’s where I picked up your prints and tire tread. I saw you headed west. Then I saw the Jeep parked up there and figured it might belong to you. My dog picked up Hrubek’s scent right away beside the Caddie.”

“Did the detective have any more news?”

“How’s that?”

“I don’t recall his name.” Owen patted his pockets for the card he had been given. “The detective in Cloverton. At the house where he killed that woman?”

“What?” Heck blurted.

“You didn’t know? Didn’t you stop at the house?”

“I didn’t see a house. I hightailed it west as soon as I saw your prints.”

To a troubled Trenton Heck, Owen explained about the killing, the terrible butchery in Cloverton. He then told him about the antique cars stowed in a barn. “I figured he’d try to lead us off track with that motorcycle. He drove it south a few hundred yards and dumped it in a marsh somewhere to fool everybody, I’d guess. Then he took the Cadillac and came here. That man is too damn smart.”

Heck asked, “What’s your interest in all this?”

Owen stooped down and retied his boots, which were muddy and scuffed but looked as expensive as Heck had guessed they’d be. The tall man stood and said, “Was my friend he killed at Indian Leap. And my wife saw him do it.”

Heck nodded, thinking that this put a whole new spin on the evening. “Tell you what, let me get my dog. He stays and keeps quiet when he’s told but mostly it addles him.” He walked off into the woods, glancing at the signposts of bushes and trees for direction.

“You’re quiet when you move,” Owen said, impressed. “You hunt?”

“A bit.” Heck chuckled.

They found Emil sitting nervously, shifting weight from paw to paw. He calmed as soon as he saw his master.

Owen asked, “Purebred blood?”

“Edouard Montague of Longstreet the Third. He’s as pure as they come.”

“Quite a name.”

“That’s what he came with but it wouldn’t do of course, not around here. So I call him Emil and he answers to it. If he ever mates a pure bitch I’ll have to put his full name on the papers but till then it’s our secret.”

Walking back to the clearing beside Heck, Owen asked, “How’d you follow the scent if he was on a bicycle?”

“That’s nothing for Emil. Hell, he’s gone through a foot of snow in a blizzard. So you think maybe he’s after your wife?”

“I don’t really know. But it’s too dangerous to leave in the hands of cops who don’t know what they’re doing.”

This rankled Heck and he said, “You got your state troopers on the case, you know.”

“Well, a lot of mistakes’ve been made, I should tell you.” Owen glanced at Heck’s pistol. “You mentioned a bounty. You’re a professional tracker?”

“I hire out my dog, yep.”

“How much’s the reward?”

Hot-faced, eyes fixed on the dark forest, Heck said, “Ten thousand dollars.” He spoke emphatically, as if making clear to Owen that even if he was just a hired hand he wasn’t coming cheap.

“Well then,” Owen said, “let’s go catch this psycho and make you some money. What do you say?”

“Yessir.”

Heck roused Emil with Hrubek’s scent and off they went through the woods. The track was easy to follow now, with abundant ground scent in the moist forest. The dog’s excitement and the uncanny atmosphere of the woods at night urged them forward in a kind of dazed ecstasy, and they could do nothing but give in to this lust. They crashed through the brush. Hrubek could’ve heard them coming from a hundred yards away but there was nothing to be done about it. They couldn’t have both stealth and speed, and they chose the latter.

Michael watched her carefully, irritated that she was crying so much. It made him very anxious. The blond woman didn’t speak. All the points of her face-her nose and chin and cheekbones-were red from the silent tears. She quivered and shredded a paper napkin between her fingers while Michael paced. “I had to take down your telephone. Stop that crying. The line’s sure to be tapped anyway.”

“What,” she sobbed, “are you going to do to me?”

He walked through the living room, his huge muddy feet pounding on the boards. “This is a nice place. Stop crying! I like your eyes. You don’t have masks on them. Where did you get it? The house, I’m speaking of.”

She glanced at the small cap on his head. “What are you-?” He repeated his question sharply and she stammered, “My mama died and she left it to me. I’ve got a sister. It’s half hers.” As if he intended to steal it, she added, “We own it free and clear.”

Michael lifted the Irish cap by the brim, courteously tipping it to her. He rubbed his hand over his smooth head. In the bright light a residue of the blue ink was still visible. He saw her staring at the cap as he replaced it. He smiled. “Fashionable, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry?”

He frowned. “My hat. Fashionable. Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she exclaimed. “Very. Extremely.”

“My car rolled over and over and over. She was a good car while she lasted.” He walked closer and examined her body. He thought it was strange that although she was a woman she didn’t frighten him. Maybe because she was so frail. He could lift her with one hand and could snap her neck as easily as he had the raccoon’s earlier in the evening. What’s that smell? Oh, it’s woman. The smell of woman. This brought back an indistinct and troubling memory. He felt darkness around him, claustrophobia, fear. Rocks and water. Bad people. What was it? His anxiety notched up a few degrees. He also found he had a fierce erection. He sat down so that she wouldn’t notice.

The wind slammed against the windows and the sound of the rain grew louder. The clatter of muskets, he thought. Lead balls cracking apart a thousand heads… He covered his ears at this unnerving sound. After a moment he realized that she was staring at him.

“People are after me,” he said.

“You’re a convict?” she whispered. “You escaped from the prison over in Hamlin?”

“Nice try. Don’t expect to get anything out of me.

You know too much as it is.”

She shivered as he leaned forward and stroked her fine hair. “That’s nice,” he muttered. “And you’re not wearing a fucking hat. Good… Good.”

“Don’t hurt me, please. I’ll give you money. Anything…”

“Give me a penny.”

“I have some savings. About three thousand but it’s in the bank. You could meet me there at nine tomorrow. You’re welcome to-”

Michael roared, “A penny!”

She dug frantically into her purse. He looked over her shoulder. “You don’t have a microphone in there? A panic button or anything?”

She looked mystified then whispered, “No. I’m getting you the penny like you asked.”

Guilty, Michael said, “Well, you can’t be too careful.”

He held out his massive hands and she dropped the coin into his palm. He held it up behind her head. “What seven-letter word is on the penny?”

“I don’t know.”

“Guess,” he said petulantly.

She wrung her hands together. “E Pluribus Unum. In God We Trust. Legal Tender. No. United States. Oh, God, I can’t think!” Then, sotto voce, she began murmuring the Lord’s Prayer.

“It’s right behind seven-letter Abraham Lincoln.” Without looking at the coin he said, “The word is right behind him, seven letters, like the barrel of a gun pointed at his head.”

He poked her scalp with a blunt finger. She closed her eyes and whispered, “I don’t know.”

Michael said, “ ‘Liberty.’ ” He dropped the penny on the floor. “I’m pretty hungry. What’s to eat?”

She stopped crying. “You’re hungry?” She gazed at the kitchen. “I have some roast beef, some vegetarian chili… You’re welcome to it.”

He walked to the table and sat down, easing into the chair. He delicately opened a paper napkin. It covered only a part of his huge lap.

She asked, “Can I stand up?”

“How can you get me dinner if you don’t stand up?”

She hurtled into the kitchen and busied herself preparing a plate while Michael sang, “ ‘For I love the bonnie blue gal who gave her heart to me.’ ” He played with the pepper mill. “ ‘Her arms, her arms, are where I want to be!…’ ”

She returned, setting a tray in front of him. Michael roared, “ ‘For I love the bonnie blue gal who gave-’ ” He stopped abruptly, picked up the fork and cut a piece off the beef. This, together with a portion of Jell-O, he put on the pink saucer and placed it in front of her.

She glanced at the food then looked inquiringly at him.

“I want you to eat that!” he said.

“I’ve already… Oh, you think it’s poison.”

“I don’t think it’s poison,” he sneered. “I don’t think there’s a posse outside that window. I don’t think you’re a Pinkerton agent. But you can’t be too careful. Now come on. Quit being a shit.”

She ate. Then she smiled and went blank-faced again. He studied her for a moment and set his fork down. “Do you have some milk?”

“Milk? I have low-fat is all. Is that all right?”

“Some milk!” he blared, and she jumped to get it. When she returned he’d already started to eat. He drank the glass down, taking with it a mouthful of food. “I used to work in a dairy.”

“Well, yes.” She nodded politely. “That must be a nice place to work.”

“It was very nice. Dr. Richard got me the job.”

“Who is he?”

“He was my father.”

“Your father was a doctor?”

“Well,” he scoffed, “I don’t mean a father like that.”

“No,” she agreed quickly, seeing the darkness fall over his face. He stopped eating. She told him she liked his tweed cap. He touched it and smiled. “I like it too. I have hair but I cut it off.”

“Why did you do that?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“No, don’t tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“If I don’t want to, I won’t. You don’t have to give me permission.”

“I wasn’t giving you permission. I didn’t mean to sound like I was. You can do whatever you want.”

“Don’t I know it.” Michael cleaned his plate.

“Would you like some more?”

“Milk. I’d like more milk.” When she was in the kitchen he added, “Please.”

As he took the tall glass from her he intoned in an FM disc jockey’s voice, “A wholesome snack.”

She barked a laugh and he smiled. As he poured the milk down she asked, “What are you doing?”

“I’m drinking milk,” he answered with exasperation.

“No. I mean, what are you doing out tonight? There’s supposed to be a storm like we haven’t seen in a donkey’s age.”

“What’s a donkey’s age?” He squinted.

She stared at him with a vacant face. “Uhm, now that you ask, I don’t exactly know. It means for a long time.”

“Is it like an expression? Is it like a cliché?”

“I guess so.”

He stared down, his eyes as empty and filmy as the glass in his hand. “Did you know that ‘anger’ is fivesixths of ‘danger’?”

“No, I didn’t. But it surely is. How about that?”

“So there.”

She broke the very dense silence by asking, “What did you do in the dairy?”

Michael’s erection had not gone away. His penis hurt and this was beginning to anger him. He reached into his pocket and squeezed himself then stood and walked to the window. He said, “What’s the biggest town near here that has a train station?”

“Well, Boyleston, I suppose. It’s south about forty, fifty miles.”

“How would I get there?”

“Go west to 315. It’ll take you right there. That becomes Hubert Street and it goes right past the train station. Amtrak.”

“In no time at all?”

“No time at all,” she agreed. “Why are you going there?”

“I told you,” he snapped. “I can’t say!”

Her hands went into her lap.

Michael began rummaging through his backpack. “I’m sorry, I’m very sorry,” he said to her. But he uttered these words, then repeated them, with such deep longing that it was clear he was apologizing not for being curt but rather for something else-something he was about to do, something far graver than bad manners. He sat down beside her, his thigh pressing hard against hers, and as she cried, he set a small white animal skull in her lap and, very gently, began stroking her hair.

Under clouds so fast and turbulent they seemed like special effects from a science-fiction movie, Portia L’Auberget inhaled the scents of decaying leaves and the musky lake. Several feet away her sister lifted the shovel and dropped a huge pile of gravel around the front wheels of the stranded car.

The young woman flexed her hands. They stung and she supposed the skin was starting to blister from the wet gloves. Her muscles were on fire. Her head ached from the pounding rain.

And she was troubled by something else, a vague thought-something other than the storm. At first she wondered if it might be the escape. Yet she’d never really believed that someone like Michael Hrubek could make it all the way to Ridgeton from the mental hospital, certainly not on a night like this.

No, some nebulous memory kept rising up disturbingly then vanishing. It seemed that it had something to do with this portion of the yard. She was picturing… what was it? Plants? Had there been a garden here of some sort? Ah, yes. It was here. The old vegetable garden.

Then she remembered Tom Wheeler.

How old had they been? Twelve or thirteen probably, both of them. One fall afternoon-maybe November, like tonight-the skinny red-haired boy had shown up in the yard. Portia strolled outside and they sat on the back steps. She managed simultaneously to both ignore and converse with him, teasing mercilessly. Finally he suggested that they go to the state park. “Why?” she asked. “I dunno,” he responded. “Hang out, you know. Got the new Jefferson Airplane.” He nodded lethargically at an eight-track-tape player at his feet. She told him no, she didn’t want to, but a moment later she disappeared into the house and returned with a blanket.

He started for the state park.

“Uh-uh,” Portia announced. “This way.”

And led him to the vegetable garden. Here she spread the blanket in partial view of the house and lay down, kicking off her Keds and stretching sumptuously. But somebody might see, he protested. Somebody could be watching right now! She placed his hand on her breast and he stopped worrying about voyeurs. Portia lay on her back, surrounded by slug-chewed pumpkins and short blond cornstalks. Tommy beside her, covering her hot mouth with his; she had to breathe for long stretches through her nose. She now recalled smelling this same scent of wet, late fall. Drowsy flies strafed them. Finally, confusing him by not protesting, she allowed his pale, freckled hand to pass the elastic barrier. He glanced at the windows of the house then jabbed with a shaking finger, leaving inside her a glow of pain and on her bare hip a large wet spot that matched the one spreading across the front of his dungarees.

They lay awkwardly, side by side, for a few minutes then he suddenly whispered, “I think there’s somebody there.”

Though he’d said that only to escape and he rose quickly and vanished down the driveway. Hearing the resonant guitar licks fade, Portia grew dizzy as she watched the thick clouds pass overhead and wondered about the mysteries of bodies. She spent a long time unsuccessfully trying to convince herself to feel bad that he’d fled.

Portia now realized, with a twist in her belly, that it was not this memory of speedy Tommy Wheeler at all that was so troubling. It was Indian Leap.

She had almost not accompanied her sister and brother-in-law on the picnic. She had no interest in the out-of-doors, no interest in state parks-especially the park to which she’d been dragged by teachers on tedious field trips and in which she later spent hours gazing at treetops, as she lay beneath boyfriends, or friends of boyfriends, or sometimes strangers.

No, it was essentially a decision by default. She was fed up with the quiet anxiety of solo life in Manhattan: The dinners of turkey sandwiches and coleslaw. The companionship of rented movies. The tired come-ons in bars and at parties, delivered as if the men actually thought she hadn’t heard it all a thousand times before. Socializing with lean, ponytailed girlfriends who’d discard you in an instant if doing so moved them an inch closer to a Better Job or an Available Man.

So, on that May 1, she’d reluctantly packed bagels and lox and cream cheese and magazines and bikini and sunscreen. She endured the surly rent-a-car clerk, she endured the traffic, she endured the tense company of the poor, shy Claire. She suffered through all the stress of a day in the country. Yet there was one aspect of the trip that didn’t require enduring. Robert Gillespie, Portia thought at first, was hardly a catch. As she sat in the back of his 4x4 with Lis and Claire, en route to Indian Leap, she reviewed his ledger and came up mostly with debits: only marginally cute, fifteen pounds overweight, too smooth, too pompous, too talkative, a wife who was a complete cipher.

There was, Portia realized, no logical basis for finding him irresistible. But irresistible he was. While Lis had dozed in the back of the truck and while dull Dorothy liberally applied her oh-puh-leaze red nail polish, Robert deluged Portia with questions. Where did she live, did she like the city, did she know this or that restaurant, did she like her job? It was all a come-on. Of course it was. But still… And his liquid eyes danced with excitement as they talked. Portia recalled thinking helplessly, Oh, it’s true: seduce my mind and my body will follow.

By the time they arrived at the park, Portia L’Auberget was his for the asking.

As they walked along the path from the parking lot to the car, he glanced at her running shoes and discreetly asked-in a way that was both intimate and lighthearted-if they might take a run together.

She responded, “Maybe.”

He took this to mean yes. “Let me leave before you,” he whispered. “Then I’ll meet you near the old cave. Give me ten minutes. Then follow me.”

“Maybe.”

When they got to the beach she appraised her power over him and decided not to abdicate a single bit of it. She did a few fast stretches then jogged away first, blatantly ignoring him. She ran a half mile to the secluded gully he’d mentioned. Past the cave was a stand of pine trees, beneath which was an inviting nest of soft needles, some green, some ruddy. Portia sat on a nearby rock, wondering if he’d join her. Maybe he’d retaliate for her defiance by remaining with his wife and Lis. She’d certainly have more respect for him if he did. Yet Portia L’Auberget had no particular desire, or need, to respect men, especially men like Robert Gillespie, and decided he fucking well better show; she’d make his day miserable if he didn’t. She examined the small clearing, which was gloomy and shadowed by the steep walls of pale rock rising on either side of the trees. Overhead the sky had turned heavily overcast. Much less romantic, she reflected, than a Club Med beach in Curaçao or Nassau. On the other hand there were no condoms littering the ground here.

She scooted from the rock to the needle bed, separated from sight of the clearing by a tall line of bushes and young hemlocks. A half hour passed, then forty minutes, and finally Robert came jogging toward her. He caught his breath and earned many points by not saying a word to Portia about disregarding his instructions. He was studying his chest, pouting.

She laughed. “What?”

“My wife says I’m getting tits.” Portia pulled off her T-shirt and sports bra. “Let’s compare.”

They rolled back under the pine trees. Robert kissed her firmly, stroking her bare nipples with the backs of his hands. He closed his fingers around hers and placed them on her breasts. She began fondling herself while his tongue slid down to her navel then continued to her thighs and knees. He remained there, teasing, until Portia finally seized his head in both hands and directed it firmly between her legs. Her thighs rose as her head pressed back hard into the pine bed, needles fixing themselves in her sweat-damp hair. Staring through half-closed lids at the speeding clouds she gasped for breath. He rolled on top of her, and their mouths met hard, brutally. He had just entwined her legs around his waist and was thrusting into her savagely when a branch snapped near their heads.

Claire walked out of a stand of trees and stopped, frozen, six feet from them. Her hand rose to her mouth in shock.

“Oh, my God,” Portia shouted.

“Claire, honey…” Robert began, as he rolled to his knees.

Claire, speechless, stared at his groin. Portia remembered thinking, My God, she’s eighteen. This can’t be her first hard-on.

It took a moment for Robert to recover some wits and he looked frantically for his shirt or shorts. As the girl’s eyes remained fixed on him, Portia watched the young blonde. This curious à trois voyeurism aroused her all the more. Robert grabbed his shirt and wrapped the knit garment about his waist, abashed and grinning. Portia didn’t move. Then Claire choked a sob and turned, running past the cave and back up the path.

“Oh, shit,” Robert muttered.

“Don’t worry.”

“What?”

“Oh, don’t take it so seriously. Every teenager gets a shock at some point. I’ll talk to her.”

“She’s just a kid.”

“Forget her,” Portia said offhandedly, then whispered, “Come on over here.”

“She’s going-”

“She’s not going to say anything. Hmm, what’s that? You’re still interested. I can tell.”

“Jesus, what if she tells Lis?”

“Come on,” she urged breathlessly. “Don’t stop now. Fuck me!”

“I think we ought to get back.”

Portia dropped to her knees and pulled his shirt away, taking him deep into her mouth.

“No,” Robert whispered.

He was standing, head back, eyes closed, shuddering uncontrollably and gasping when Lis stepped into the clearing.

Claire must have run into her almost immediately and Lis had either learned, or deduced, what had happened. She stood above the half-naked couple and stared down at them. “Portia!” she raged. “How could you?” Her expression of horror matched Robert’s perfectly.

The young woman stood and wiped her face with her bra. She turned to face her sister and with detachment watched Lis’s throat grow remarkably red as the tendons rose and her jaw quivered. Robert pulled up his running shorts, looking around again for his shirt. He seemed incapable of speaking. Portia refused to act like a caught schoolgirl. “How could you?” Lis gripped her arm but Portia stepped away abruptly. Meeting her sister’s furious gaze she dressed slowly then, saying nothing, left Lis and Robert in the clearing.

Portia walked back to the beach, where Dorothy was starting to pack up; the temperature had dropped and it was clearly going to rain. She looked at Portia and seemed to sense something was wrong but said nothing. The wind picked up and the two women hurried to gather up the picnic baskets and blankets, carting them to the truck. They made one more trip back to the beach, looking for their companions. Then the downpour began.

Moments later sirens filled the park and police and medics arrived. It was in a rain-drenched intersection of two canyons that Portia met her sister, red-eyed and muddy and disheveled, looking like a madwoman, being led by two tall rangers out of a flooded arroyo.

Portia had stepped toward her. “Lis! What-?”

The slap was oddly quiet but so powerful it brought Portia down on one knee. She cried out in pain and shock. Neither woman moved, and Lis’s hand remained frozen in the air as they stared at each other for a long moment. A shocked ranger helped Portia to her feet and explained about the deaths.

“Oh, no!” Portia cried.

“Oh, no!” Lis mimicked with bitter scorn then stepped forward, pushed the ranger aside and put her mouth close to her sister’s ear. In a rasping whisper she said, “You killed that girl, you fucking whore.”

Portia faced her sister. Her eyes grew as cold as the wet rocks around them. “Goodbye, Lis.”

And goodbye it had been. Apart from a few brief, stilted phone conversations, those words had been virtually the last communication between the sisters until tonight.

Indian Leap. It was the first thing in Portia’s mind when Lis had invited her here this evening-just as it had reared in her thoughts when the subject of the nursery was raised, and, for that matter, every time Portia had thought of moving back to Ridgeton, which-though she’d never confess it to Lis-she’d considered frequently in the past few years.

Indian Leap…

Oh, Lis, Portia thought, don’t you see? That’s what dooms the L’Auberget sisters, and always will. Not the tragedy, not the deaths, not the bitter words or the months of silence afterwards, but the past that led us to that pine bed, the past that’s certain to keep leading us to places just as terrible again and again and again.

The past, with all its spirits of the dead.

Portia now looked at her sister, ten feet away, as Lis put aside the shovel and waded toward the front seat of the car.

The sisters’ eyes met.

Lis frowned, troubled by Portia’s expression. “What is it?” she asked.

But just then a low whistle squealed from the car’s grille. The engine choked, and kicked hard several times as the fan blade slapped water. Then with a shudder it died, leaving the night filled only with the sounds of the wind, the rain and the lilting music of a clever baroque composer.