With its faint blue-green lights the room seemed far removed from this time and place. It reminded her of a scene from a book she'd read years ago, perhaps the first novel of her childhood. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. It seemed, in her own numb dementia, that they stood not in a rural greenhouse but in a Victorian submarine and that she was an innocent harpooner, watching the mad captain rant while the dark ocean passed over and around them.
Michael talked about cows and Christian Scientists and women who hid behind unfashionable hats. He mourned the loss of a beloved black car. Several times he mentioned a Dr. Anne and, scowling, a Dr. Richard. Was that, she wondered, Kohler?
Then he wheeled toward her. "I wrote you a letter. And you never answered it."
"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.
Another line from Shakespeare slipped into her thoughts. "No beast so fierce but knows pity."
"Oh, my God!" Lis whispered. "My God . . ."
She dropped to her knees and began to sob.
Ten minutes later Lis was wiping Trenton Heck's sweaty forehead. He seemed to be hallucinating and she had no idea if bathing his face helped at all. She squeezed a sponge over his skin and wiped away the effluence in a delicate and superstitious way. She was standing up to get more water when she heard a sound at the door. She walked into the kitchen, wondering why she hadn't heard the sheriff 's cars arrive or seen their lights. But it wasn't the police. Lis cried out and ran to the door to let Owen inside. Gaunt and muddy, he stumbled into the kitchen, his arm bound to his side with his belt.
"You're hurt!" she cried.
They embraced briefly then he turned, gasping, and gazed outside, surveying the yard like a soldier. Pulling his pistol from his pocket he said, "I'm all right. It's just my shoulder. But, Christ, Lis--the deputy! Outside. He's dead!"
"I know. I know. . . . It was horrible! Michael shot him."
Leaning against the doorjamb he gazed into the night. "I had to run all the way from North Street. He snuck past me."
"He's upstairs."
"We've got to get away from the windows. . . . What?"
"He's upstairs," she repeated, stroking her husband's muddy cheek.
Owen stared at his wife. "Hrubek?"
She held up Michael's filthy gun and handed it to him. Owen shifted his gaze from Lis's haggard face to the pistol.
"This is his ? . . . What's going on?" He laughed shortly, then his smile faded as she told him the story.
"He wasn't going to kill you? But why did he come here?"
As she fell against Owen's chest once more, mindful of his shoulder, she said, "His brain's gone completely. He wanted to sacrifice himself for me, I think. I don't really know. I don't think he does either."
"Where's Portia?"
"She's gone for help. She should've been here by now so I guess the car got stuck."
"The roads are mostly out in the north part of town. She'll probably have to walk."
Lis told him about Trenton Heck.
"That's his truck outside, sure. Last I heard he was going to Boyleston."
"Bad luck for him he didn't," she said. "I don't know if he's going to make it. Could you look at him?"
Owen did, examining the unconscious man with expert hands. He knew a lot about wounds from his military service. "He's in shock. He needs plasma or blood. There's nothing I can do for him." He looked around. "Where is he? Hrubek?"
"I locked him in the small bedroom upstairs, the storeroom."
"And he just walked up there?"
"Like a puppy . . . Oh!" Her hand flew to her mouth. Lis went to the closet and set free Trenton Heck's dog. He was not pleased at the confinement but strode out unhurt.
She hugged Owen again then walked into the greenhouse, picking up the newspaper clipping. She read, The BETRAYER hIdeS as the crusher of heADs. i AM to be sacrificed to save POOR EVE
She exhaled in repulsion at the madman's macabre words. "Owen, you should see this." Lis glanced up and saw her husband studying Michael's pistol. He flipped the cylinder open and was counting how many bullets were inside. Then he did something whose purpose she couldn't understand. He pulled on his leather shooting gloves and wiped the gun with the soft cloth.
"Owen, what are you doing? . . . Honey?"
He didn't respond but continued this task methodically.
It was then that Lis realized he still intended to kill Michael Hrubek.
"No, you can't! Oh, no . . ."
Owen didn't look up from the gun. He spun the cylinder slowly so that, she supposed, a bullet was aligned under the hammer. With a loud click the gun snapped shut.
Lis pled, "He wasn't going to hurt me. He came here to protect me. His mind's gone, Owen. It's gone. You can't kill him!"
Owen stood very still for a moment, lost in thought.
"Don't do it! I won't let you. Owen? . . . Oh, God!"
A ragged white flash of light enveloped his hand and all the panes of the greenhouse rattled at once. Lis threw her palm toward her face in a mad effort to deflect the bullet, which narrowly missed her cheekbone and snipped a lock of her tangled hair as it streaked no more than an inch from her left ear.
32
She fell to the floor, toppling a small yellow rose shrub, and lay on the teal slate, her ear ringing, smelling her own burnt hair.
"Are you mad?" she shouted. "Owen, it's me! It's me!"
As he lifted the gun once more, there was a blur of motion, a brown streak. The dog's teeth struck Owen's injured arm just as they had Michael's. But her husband, not numb to the pain, cried out. The pistol flew from his hand and clattered behind him.
Then he was frantically kicking the dog, hammering on its solid shoulder with his good fist. The hound yelped in pain and fled out the lath-house door, which Owen slammed shut.
Lis leapt for the pistol but Owen intercepted her, grabbing her wrist and throwing her to the rocky floor. She rolled, opening patches of skin on her elbow and cheek. She lay for a moment, gasping, too shocked to cry or say a word. As she climbed to her feet, her husband walked slowly toward the pistol.
My husband, she thought.
My own husband! The man I've lain with the majority of nights for the past six years, the man by whom I would've borne children had circumstances been different, the man with whom I've shared so many secrets.
Many secrets, yes.
But not all.
As she ran into the living room, then down the basement stairs, she caught a glimpse of him standing, gun in hand, looking toward her--his quarry--with a piercing, assured stare.
His gaze was cold and for her money the madness in Michael Hrubek's eyes was twice as human as this predatory gaze.
Poor Eve.
No light. None. The cracks in the wall are large enough to admit air. They're large enough to bleed brown rain, which here falls not from the sky but from the saturated earth and stone of the house's foundation. If the time were two hours later, perhaps the uneven wall would admit the diffuse light of dawn. But now there's nothing but darkness.
The scuffling sounds outside the door.
He's coming. Lis lowers her head to her drawn-up knees. The wound on her cheek stings. Her torn elbows too. She makes herself impossibly small, condensing her body, and in doing so exposing wounds she didn't know she had. Her thigh, the ball of her ankle.
A huge kick against the wooden door.
She sobs silently at the jolt, which is like a blow to her chest. It seems to send her flying into the stone wall behind her and her mind reels from the crash. In the hallway outside Owen says nothing. Was the blow one of frustration or was it an attempt to reach her? The door is locked, true, but perhaps he doesn't know it can be locked from the inside. Perhaps he believes the room is empty, perhaps he'll leave. He'll flee in his black Jeep, he'll escape through the night to Canada or Mexico. . . .
But, no, he doesn't--though he seems satisfied that she's not inside this tiny storeroom and moves on elsewhere in the rambling basement to check other rooms and the root cellar. His footsteps fade.
For ten minutes she has huddled here, furious with herself for choosing to hide rather than flee from the house. Halfway to the outside basement door--the one Michael had kicked open--she'd paused, thinking, No, he'll be waiting in the yard. He can outrun me. He'll shoot me in the back. . . . Lis then turned and ran to this old room in the depths of the basement, easing the door shut behind her, locking it with a key only she knows about. A
key she hasn't touched for twenty-five years.
Why, Owen? Why are you doing this? It's as if he's somehow caught a virus from Michael and is raging in a fever of madness.
Another crash, on the wall opposite, as he kicks in another door.
She hears his feet again.
The room's dimensions are no more than six by four and the ceiling is only chest high. It reminds her of the cavern at Indian Leap, the black one, where Michael had whispered that he could smell her. Lis thinks too of the times as a girl when she huddled in this same space; then filled with coal, while Andrew L'Auberget was in the backyard stripping a willow branch. Then she'd hear his footsteps too as he came for his daughter. Lis read Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl a dozen times when she was young and although she understands the futility of concealment she always hid.
But Father found her.
Father hurt her doubly when she'd tried to escape from him.
Still, she made this castle keep as defensible as she might--stockpiling crackers and water and a knife and flinging all but one of the green brass keys to the ancient lock into the lake, hiding the remaining one on a nail inside, above the door.
But the mice got the crackers, the water evaporated, a cousin's child found the knife and took it home with him.
And the key proved irrelevant for when Father said open the door she opened it.
Metal sounds on concrete and rings as it falls. Owen grunts as he retrieves the crowbar. Lis cries silently, and lowers her head. She finds in her hand the clipping--Michael's macabre gift, spookier to her than the skull. As the blows begin, she clutches the newsprint desperately. She hears a grunt of effort, silence for the length of time it takes the metal to traverse the passageway outside then a resounding crash. The oak begins to shatter. Yet her room, so far, is inviolable. It's the old boiler room next door that Owen is assaulting. Of course . . . That room has a head-high window. He'd be thinking that she would logically pick the room that offers an exit. But no--smart Lis, Lis the teacher, Lis the scholar after her father's own heart, has cleverly chosen the room without an escape route.
Another crash, and another. A dozen more. The wood shrieks as nails are extracted. A huge crack. His footsteps recede. He's looked inside and seen that she isn't there and that the window is still covered with dusty plywood.
She hears nothing. Lis realizes that she can see again. A tiny shaft of light bleeds into the room around her through a crack in the thin wall shared with the boiler room. Her eyes grow accustomed to the illumination and she peers out, seeing nothing. She cannot hear her husband and she is left alone in this cell with the spirit of her father, a dozen pounds of ancient anthracite, and the clipping, which she now understand holds the explanation as to why she is about to die.