Praying for Sleep

by Jeffery Deaver

been surprised to find that they’d been on the road for days or weeks. At last he heard the squeal of bad brakes and was jostled by an abrupt turn. Then they were on a good road, a state road, and accelerating quickly. He rubbed his face across a satiny label sewn inside the bag. He couldn’t see the label in the darkness but he remembered the words elegantly stitched in black thread on yellow cloth. Union Rubber Products Trenton, NJ 08606 MADE IN USA He caressed this label

though one that was not only hairless but blue, for much of his head was dyed that color. Finally able to look about he was disappointed to find that this wasn’t a real hearse at all but merely a station wagon and it wasn’t even black but tan. The back windows weren’t shaded and he could see ghostly forms of trees, signs, power towers and barns as the wagon sped past—his view distorted by the misty darkness of the

crashed and shattered bodies. The jumpers and the drowners and the wrist slitters. He believed that these souls hated him, that they knew he was an impostor. They wanted to seal him up alive, forever, in this tight rubber bag. And with these thoughts came the evening’s first burst of real panic—raw, liquid, cold. He tried to relax by using the breathing exercises he’d been taught but it was too late. Sweat popped out on his skin, tears formed