Dead Sleep (52 page)

Control of my muscles brings to mind another possibility: that of saving myself. After flexing most of my cramped limbs, I decide I can probably get out of the tub. The problem is Wheaton. He's close by, even if I can't see him. Is he close enough to stop me from breaking out of this glass room? Surely he's thought of that. But do I really need to break out to save myself? I was wearing a pistol on my ankle when he overpowered me at the gallery. It must be here somewhere. But before I look for it—or do anything that entails risk—I must know how close he is, and what he will do when he hears noise. Reaching out with my right hand, I turn the hot-water tap and wait.

For twenty or thirty seconds the new water is cold. Then it begins to warm, and blissful heat flows under and around me, bringing blood to my bluish skin. The bathwater can't be that cold, I tell myself. No colder than the temperature of the air, which Wheaton must keep at close to seventy degrees because of his hands.
It doesn't have to be that cold,
my father reminds me.
You lose heat to water thirty times faster than you do to air. Sustained immersion can kill you.
Without regular infusions of hot water, Thalia might already have died of hypothermia.

The faucet continues to run, but Wheaton doesn't come to investigate. When the level approaches the rim of the tub, I shut it off. I want to get up, but a soft wave of whatever has kept my mind hazy resists my intention, and I lie back against the enamel. Sleep wants to envelop me, but I force my eyes open and watch the slowly changing sky. The bathwater cools, then becomes cold. As I lie shivering in the dark, every star above me wheels slowly across the sky. Except one. Bright and stationary, it hovers just above the treetops.

Polaris.

It's a matter of seconds to estimate where the horizon is, guess the angle between that imaginary line and Polaris, and subtract that number from ninety degrees. The answer sets my heart racing.
Thirty degrees.
I'm almost certainly still in New Orleans. If John Kaiser looks hard enough for me, he will find me. This possibility warms me more deeply than hot water could. And yet . . . I can't rely on rescue from outside.

Reaching up with a shaking hand, I turn the hot-water tap again, but this time I don't sit and wait to be warmed. This time I stand on shaky legs and climb out of the tub.

My muscles still aren't quite my own, but they do function. The IV tube in my hand presents a problem, but the IV stand has wheels, and the floor appears to be painted concrete. With careful steps, I drag the stand over to the glass wall of the conservatory. What I find is discouraging. The first four feet of glass above the brick wall supporting the conservatory is encased in a diamond-shaped metal mesh. Smashing the glass with something heavy will get me nowhere. There's a glass door leading outside, but it too has mesh between its metal struts, and a heavy padlock ensures that the door remains closed.

The space my body displaced in the tub is filling quickly. What options do I have? Creep into the house proper and try to slip past Wheaton? Surely he expects this. And the sobs I heard before came from close by, not far away. He may be lying on a sofa in the next room, my pistol in his hand. Or the gun may be nowhere in the house. He probably still has the taser he used on me at the gallery. He may have a dog. Is it worth the risk of looking? When I think of his eyes as he screamed denial of the rapes, that option strikes me as rather like sneaking into a dragon's lair. Do dragons really sleep? If they do, I fear, it's only lightly.

Think,
says my father.
What do you know that he doesn't? What's near to hand that can help you?

What do I know? That I'm more than half addicted to Xanax, which is a cousin of Valium. It's probably a cross-tolerance between those drugs that's made it possible for me to wake and tiptoe around while Wheaton believes me to be asleep. What is near to hand that can help me? I don't see any weapons. Not even paint-brushes. The table from which Wheaton took the hypodermic is bare. The room is as sterile and empty as a prison cell. Which it is.
Not quite empty,
I realize. On the floor behind my end of the tub sits the Igloo ice chest and the grocery bag. Conrad Hoffman's things.

I drag the IV stand toward them.

The bag is half filled with the same junk food John found at Hoffman's apartment. Pop-Tarts. Potato chips. Hostess Twinkies. Beef jerky. I stare at the boxes and bags, sensing important activity deep in my brain, but not quite understanding it. Slowly, the logic makes itself known to me. These aren't weapons. They are defenses.

Reaching into the bag, I quietly open the boxes and remove three shining foil packs of Pop-Tarts and a handful of cellophane-wrapped Twinkies. These I stash between the claw-foot tub and the mirror Wheaton uses to help paint himself into his picture. As I climb back into the tub, I realize I forgot to look at Wheaton's painting-in-progress. Understanding that image might help me.
But not as much as that ice chest,
I think. How long has it been sitting there? How long since I saw Hoffman swirling away in the Mississippi? Moving to the Igloo, I say a silent prayer, then pop open the white fastener and lift the lid. It's dark inside, so I blindly push my hands toward the bottom. They plunge into a rattling Arctic ocean of ice and water, with floating islands that feel like beer bottles. In seconds, pain radiates up my arms.

God bless you, you sick bastard,
I say silently. My heart pounds with new hope, but I can't linger here. Warm water is lapping at my feet. The bathtub is overflowing, and not quietly. But this too is good. The spillover will wipe out the wet traces of my journey around the room, and perhaps convince Wheaton that I'm still in poor control of my faculties. Shutting the Igloo, I shove it a foot closer to the tub, then climb back into the near-scalding water.

I'm reaching for the tap when I hear a noise in the dark. I lay my head back and close my eyes. The water runs on.

“What are you doing?”
bellows a groggy voice.

I reach out and take hold of Thalia's hand beneath the water. Footsteps approach the tub, stop.

Wheaton must be looking down at me.

“Beautiful,”
he says, sending a chill to my core despite the burning water. The tap squeaks, and the faucet stops running. Then something dips into the steaming water, and warm waves lap against my breasts. Wheaton's hand covers my left breast, gently, as though he's reliving some distant memory. I force myself to breathe with a regular rhythm. The hand slides over my heart, feeling the blood beating there, then slips beneath the water. It covers my navel, kneading the little pad of fat there, then slides down between my legs.

A sensation of falling nearly makes me scream, but numbness saves me. It spreads outward from my brain and heart, a numbness of self-preservation, born in the jungle of Honduras, neurochemical armor to help me endure anything in the cause of survival. Wheaton's fingers tremble as they explore, but I do not. I lie still and breathe, in and out, in and out. His hand is not the paw of a brute, but the inquisitive hand of a boy. The fingers entwine in my pubic hair and cling with childlike tenacity. In the silence of the dripping faucet, a long, keening moan of grief cuts me to the quick. Like the cry of an orphaned animal beside its mother, it reverberates through the glass room, terminating in a sob. Then the fingers uncurl, and the hand vanishes.

Footsteps move away, and I hear a clatter in the other room. Then the footsteps return, this time behind my head. My IV bag rattles in the stand. He's changing it.

“Soon,” he hisses. “Tomorrow.”

As he walks away, my wrist begins to burn.
Valium,
I tell myself, even as my eyes try to close.
Not insulin. Insulin doesn't burn.
But just in case, I reach between the tub and the mirror, strip the wrapper from a Twinkie, and gobble it in two bites, dumping protective sugar into my blood as fast as possible. Then I eat another. My dry throat makes it hard to swallow, but after a look at Thalia, I force down a third.

Should I pull the IV catheter out of my vein? If I do, I'll bleed into the tub, maybe for some time. And tomorrow Wheaton will see what I did. I could always say it was an accident. Beneath the water, I squeeze Thalia's hand, wishing with all my heart that she could squeeze back. “We're going to make it, girl,” I whisper. “You wait and see.”

Pull out the tube,
says my father.
Lift your hand out of the water. The vein will clot in the air. . . .

“I can't feel my hand,” I tell him. “I—”

I'm reaching for the IV catheter when my eyes go black.

 

I AWAKEN IN full daylight, but I don't open my eyes. Wheaton will expect me to be unconscious longer. For an hour I lie with my eyes closed, reconstructing my environment from sound alone. Just as yesterday, Wheaton stands behind his easel, painting with sure, rapid strokes. Now and then the easel creaks, and the soft sibilants of his breathing alter with his stance. There's a new urgency to his movements. How long will it take him to finish this painting? How long before he turns me into another Thalia?

I have to slow him down. The longer I lie here alive, the more time John will have to find me. But I must also prepare for the possibility that he may not find me. That Wheaton will finish his work.
First things first,
says my father.
Get him talking.

When the sun shines noticeably brighter through my eyelids, I make a show of coming awake. “How does it look?” I ask.

“As it should,” Wheaton answers in a clipped voice. He clearly doesn't recall last night's conversation with fondness.

Rather than push him, I lie quietly and try not to look at Thalia, who seems several shades paler than she did yesterday.

At length, Wheaton says, “I saw a report on television this morning. If the local anchors aren't lying for the FBI, you told me the truth last night. About the rapes.”

I say nothing.

A quick glance at me as he paints. “Conrad was raping my subjects.”

“Yes.”

“I'd do anything to change that. But I can't. I should have known, I suppose. Conrad always had poor impulse control. That's why he went to prison. But rape is just a symptom of what I told you about yesterday. The plight. If Conrad hadn't done it, someone else would have. In a different way, perhaps. The husband's way. But still. They're all much better off now, your sister included.”

Wheaton steps away from the canvas and studies himself in the mirror. “It's worse for
you
that she's dead, of course, but for
her,
there's no more pain. No more helpless wishing, no more subservience.”

If I think about Jane now, I won't be able to keep it together. “I understand about the plight. I understand the Sleeping Women. But I don't think you're telling me everything.”

His eyes flick to me, then back to the canvas as he resumes painting. “What do you mean?”

“Your feelings about women didn't just come to you out of the blue. They must have been shaped by women you knew.” I have to be careful here. “Maybe the woman you knew best of all.”

Wheaton's brush pauses in midair, then returns to the canvas.

“I know your mother disappeared when you were thirteen or fourteen.”

He stops painting altogether.

“I know what that's like. My father disappeared when I was twelve. In Cambodia. Everyone said he was dead, but I never believed it.”

He's watching me now. He knows I'm telling the truth, and he can't fight the compulsion to know more. “What did you think had happened?” he asks.

“At first I created all sorts of scenarios. He'd been wounded and had amnesia. He was crippled and couldn't get back to me. He was held prisoner by Asian warlords. But as I got older, I realized that probably none of that was true.”

“You accepted that he was dead?”

“No. I came to believe something even more terrible. That he hadn't come back because he didn't
want
to come back. He'd abandoned us. Maybe to be with another woman. Another family. Another little girl that he loved more than me.”

Wheaton is nodding.

“It almost killed me, thinking that. I racked my brain, trying to figure out what I'd done to make him angry enough to stop loving me.”

“It wasn't your fault. He was a man.”

“I know, but last night, I was thinking—dreaming, really—about you. And I saw a woman. I thought she must be your mother. She was holding a boy and trying to explain why she had to go. I tried to ask her why she would leave you—”

Red blotches have appeared on Wheaton's face and neck, the way they used to on my sister's face. He jabs his paintbrush at me like a knife. “She never left me! I was the
only thing that kept her alive.
”

“What do you mean?”

His face goes through tortured contractions, as though he's reliving some horrible moment. Then he dips his brush in the paint and goes back to his canvas, almost as if no conversation ever took place.

And then he begins talking.

27

“I WAS BORN during the war,” Wheaton says, painting with absolute assurance. “Nineteen forty-three. My father was in the Marine Corps. He came home on leave after basic training, and that's when he fathered me. That's what he thought, anyway. He was a hard man, merciless and cold. Mother couldn't explain to me why she married him. She only said, ‘Things look different when you're young.'”

“My mother said the same thing more than once,” I tell him.

“When my father was drafted, she was left alone for the first time since she'd been married. She had two sons, but they were only four and five. It was a liberation. She was free of the cutting voice, the brutal hand, the ruthless insistence of the nights when she protested in vain to the ceiling and the walls, begging God for some reprieve. God had finally answered her prayers. He had sent her the war.”