Praying for Sleep

thing she prayed for strength to do but never believed herself capable of until this instant—she turns, picks up the kitchen knife from the table behind her and swings the blade at him with all her strength.
    She’s aimed for his neck but instead hits his cheek. His head bounces back from the impact of the metal. The gun flies from his hand. He blinks in shock.
    Blood appears instantly, sheets of blood covering his head like a crimson veil.
    For an instant they stand motionless, staring at each other, their thoughts as frozen as their bodies. Neither breathes.
    Then with the howl of a combat soldier Owen leaps for her. She falls to the ground, dropping the knife, holding her hands over her face to ward off his maniacal pummeling. She takes a stunning strike on her jaw. Her vision crinkles momentarily to black. She drives her fist into his left shoulder. His cries are like an animal’s as he leans away, clutching the tormented joint.
    But he recovers quickly and renews the assault, his fury overpowering her. She’s no match for his strength or weight, even with the wound on his face and a damaged arm. Soon she’s on her back, her shoulders and neck lacerated by bits of gravel. His hand is on her throat, squeezing hard. The lights of the greenhouse, blue and green, dim lights all, grow dimmer as her lungs beg for oxygen they can’t have. Her hands flail toward his hugely bloody face. They strike only air then fall to the ground. A dust of blackness fills her eyes. She says something to him, words he cannot possibly hear, words she herself does not understand.
    In her last moment of consciousness a small shadow forms at some distant focal point—part of her brain dying, she thinks. This shadow grows from a tiny mass to an encompassing darkness that hangs in the air, a wad of black storm cloud. Then the glass roof directly above the struggling couple disintegrates into a million shards, and bits of wood and glass envelop the hurtling shadow like bubbles of air following a high diver into water.
    The massive body lands sideways, unbalanced, half on Owen, half on a tall Imperial rose tree, whose thorns dig deep parallel scratches like musical-staff lines along Michael’s cheek and arm. He sobs in panic from the twenty-foot leap—a terror that for anyone would be overwhelming and for him must be beyond comprehension.
    A long boomerang of glass slits Lis’s neck. She rolls sideways away from the straggling men and huddles, covering the wound with a shaking hand.
    Through the gaping hole in the glass roof a light mist falls and a few swirling leaves descend. Bulbs shatter under the cold moisture from the sky and the room is suddenly immersed in blue darkness. Then a sound fills the air, a sound that Lis believes at first is the rejuvenated storm. But, no, she realizes that it’s the howling of a human voice inflected with madness—though whether it’s Michael’s or Owen’s or perhaps even her own, Lis Atcheson will never know.
     
    Here, in this storm-tossed yard, the vigilant and serious sheriff ’s deputies dispersed doggedly, combing the house and grounds.
    Here the medics, directed first to pale Trenton Heck, took his vital signs and determined that he hadn’t lost a critical quantity of blood. Here the same medics stitched and dressed Lis’s own sliced neck, a dramatic but unserious wound, whose scar would be with her, she guessed, for the rest of her days.
    And here Portia was flying into her sister’s arms. Embracing her hard, Lis smelled shampoo and sweat and felt one of the young woman’s silver hoop earrings tap against her lips. They hugged for a full minute and when Lis stepped away it was the younger of the two sisters who was crying.
    A mud-spattered state-police car arrived, its rooftop speaker already turned to the receiving channel and stuttering with broadcasts, all of which were related to the cleanup efforts following the storm. A tall, gray-haired man stepped out of the car. Lis thought he resembled a cowboy.
    “Mrs. Atcheson?” he called.
    She caught his eye and he started for her but then paused halfway through the muddy yard to gaze with undisguised surprise, then concern, at Trenton Heck, lying on a gurney. He was barely conscious. The two men said a few words to each other before the medics carted the lanky tracker off to an ambulance.
    Don Haversham approached her and asked if she felt like answering a few questions.
    “I suppose.”
    As they were talking, a doctor emerged