Praying for Sleep by Jeffery Deaver Read Free Book Online Page B

at seven tiny animal skulls, boiled and bleached white as clouds.
    Oh, look there. Look at that!
    Seven was an important number in the cosmology of Michael Hrubek and he now leaned forward, counting them aloud, and enjoying the sound of the numbers in his mouth.
    Seven skulls, seven letters, M-I-C-H-A-E-L.
    Make no mistake, he thought. This is a special night.
    Much of Hrubek's thinking was metaphoric and the image now occurred to him that he was waking up. He liked to sleep. He loved to sleep. Hours and hours in bed. His favorite position was on his side with his knees drawn up as far as his massive legs and thick chest and belly would allow. Most of his waking hours too were a type of sleep — a slippery succession of chaotic dreams, a jumble of disconnected faces and scenes that fished past him, products of both his troubled mind and various medications.
    Awake!
    He bent down and in the dirt at his feet wrote with his stubby finger: i as I am AWakE tonight. AWakE!
    He made his way around the store, noting a sign that said the owner was on vacation. He kicked in the side door and entered. Avoiding a tall black bear, mounted in a rearing position, he made a circuit of the shop. He inhaled deeply and smelled musk and boiled game flesh, his hands shaking with exhilaration. He noticed shelves containing clothing and he rummaged through the piles of shirts and coveralls until he found several items that more or less fit. Then socks, and finally an Irish-tweed cap that he liked very much. He placed it on his head.
    "Very fashionable," he whispered, looking into a mirror.
    Hrubek continued searching until he located a pair of engineer's boots and struggled to pull them on. They were tight but not painful. "John Worker," he muttered, running his hands over his clothes with approval. "John Worker." He poured cleaning fluid onto a rag and scrubbed hard at his face to remove the blue ink from his cheeks and forehead.
    He solemnly placed the seven skulls into a green canvas backpack he found in the shop. Then, keeping a suspicious eye on the rearing bear, Hrubek crossed the floor to the sales counter, where he'd noticed a display of cellophane packs of beef jerky. He ripped them open with his teeth, one after another, and chewed down the salty meat, all eight packages.
    He was about to leave when he glanced down, beneath the counter, and his face broke into a huge grin.
    "A present from Jesus Cry-ist our Weeping Lord."
    The pistol was a long-barreled Colt revolver. Hrubek lifted it to his face and smelled it and rubbed the cold blue metal on his cheek, grinning like a boy who'd just pocketed a ten-dollar bill. He put the gun in his backpack and, once more sizing up the bear, slipped from the door.
    A wedge of light suddenly filled the grass, accompanied by the clatter of an aluminum door. Hrubek stepped quickly into a large open shed behind the shop and pulled the pistol from the backpack.
    A man's voice cut through the night, "You left it out there, you go pick it up. It's rusted, I'll tan your hide, young man."
    The man was speaking from a dingy but brightly lit one-story house from whose chimney drifted wood and trash smoke. It was about thirty yards from the shop.
    A boy, about eight or nine, walked sullenly past the shed. Without looking inside he disappeared behind the shop. A moment later he started back toward the house, holding a long hammer close to his eyes, inspecting it and scratching hopelessly with his thumbnail at dots of rust.
    A noise nearby startled Hrubek. A fat raccoon was in the shed, scuttling over the concrete floor. It hadn't seen him and was nosing obliviously among garbage bags. The boy had heard the scratching of claws on concrete and stopped. Holding the rusted hammer like a club he stepped to the shed door and peered into inky darkness.
    Hrubek's heart began to pulsate violently as he wondered what to do if the boy confronted him. What will I tell him? I know — I will tell him that I am Will-i-am Tell. I