Praying for Sleep

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 place mat, 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 whitecaps 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