Praying for Sleep

Lis’s love of flowers began when she was around nine. Ski

The speech delivered, paranoia invoked, Jolande would then dole out the assignments. “Leesbo

Off the children would go.

“Leesbo

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 di

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 fu

“Portia!”

If he was in a good mood, Father might recite some Robert Burns or John Do

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 Fe

Charlie Fe

Fe

“ St. Hubert ’s Day. And we’re going to be celebrating it.”

Fe

“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?” Fe

“Where the hell’s that?”

“ Iraq.”

“Now that,” Fe

“I think we should’ve kept going, tromp, tromp, tromp, all the way to Baghdad.”

“I’ll second that.” Then Fe

Heck, gri

“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.