The Sleeper Read online

  Also by Christopher Dickey

  Summer of Deliverance: A Memoir of Father and Son

  Innocent Blood: A Novel

  Expats: Travels in Arabia, from Tripoli to Tehran

  With the Contras: A Reporter in the Wilds of Nicaragua

  SIMON & SCHUSTER

  Rockefeller Center

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2004 by Christopher Dickey

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Dickey, Christopher.

  The sleeper: a novel/Christopher Dickey.

  p. cm.

  1. Terrorism—Fiction. I. Title

  PS3554.I318S57 2004

  813’.54—dc22 2004049153

  ISBN-10: 0-7432-7168-8

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-7168-4

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  For Carol

  Who is home

  There is a land of the living and a land of the dead, and the bridge is love. The only survival, the only meaning.

  —THORNTON WILDER

  Kansas

  September 11–12, 2001

  Chapter 1

  Sometimes, just to get my bearings, I think back on the sheer ordinariness of that morning in September. Betsy left before light to start her shift at the Jump Start Restaurant over on 70. I watched her moving through the bedroom, a familiar shadow in the familiar dark. She didn’t need to turn on any lights to know where she was and didn’t want to because she didn’t want to wake me. My eyes were open, as they always were whenever she stirred, but my head was heavy in the pillow and I was as still as a stone in a churchyard. She leaned over and kissed me so lightly that I wasn’t sure if I felt her lips or her breath, and she whispered to me, “Kurt, darling, don’t let Miriam sleep too late.” She stood up for a second, then leaned back down. “Love you, Baby,” she said, and she was gone.

  The first dim glow of dawn crept into the room about an hour later, and I watched the windows take shape as shadows on the opposite wall. But still, I didn’t move. There was no work for me today, and I no longer had the energy or the will, or saw the purpose, of saying prayers. The idea passed through my mind, as ideas do in the early morning, that love had taken the place of faith. And if that was so, then so be it.

  Miriam was in her room, too big for her baby bed now. Her Disney Pocahontas nightgown was all scrunched up around her, and her hair was damp. I like for us to sleep with the windows open and the night air moving through the screens. But last night was too hot for that, I thought. Too hot. And she was so peaceful in the dawn cool. She could sleep as long as she wanted. My baby here in my house in my old hometown in Kansas. Nobody and nothing was going to disturb her, not while Daddy was around.

  The refrigerator door made a little noise when it opened. I drank the milk out of the carton, then poured myself some of the coffee that Betsy had brewed. The little countertop television was turned on without the sound. She’d just watched it for the time and the weather maps. She didn’t care what anybody on it had to say. And now I watched it, too, silently. Smiling faces. Everyone so happy in the morning. So happy. I put a couple of Eggos in the old toaster. The smell of them warming filled the kitchen.

  The faces on the television weren’t smiling now. Katie Couric looked like something had gone really wrong with her day. And Matt, too. I’d never seen him so serious, unless it was when they were talking about colon cancer.

  That’s how ordinary the morning seemed. With the sound turned off, just watching their lips move, I thought they were talking about cancer. Or anorexia. Or maybe the death of somebody who worked at the network. And then they showed the New York skyline, and the World Trade Center towers. One of them was burning. Smoke was pouring out of it in every direction, worse than one of those hotel fires in Vegas, billowing up the sides of the building in gray waves of soot. A shape passed through the corner of the frame, and the second tower exploded.

  It must have been thirty minutes later, maybe an hour, when Miriam came into the kitchen. She was headed for the refrigerator. She looked at the TV and paid it no attention. She pulled the milk carton off the shelf. She looked at me. She waited for me to say no, and when I didn’t, she drank out of the carton, spilling a little on each side of her face. She put the milk back, clumsy and dainty at the same time, and she dragged her chair over to the counter, and climbed up to get a paper towel so she could wipe her face, then wipe up the floor, like Mommy taught her. In case I didn’t notice, she held up the paper towel for me to see before she put it in the trash under the sink.

  I remember all that now, but it was as if I didn’t see Miriam when she was there in front of me. The first Trade Center tower had collapsed, and now the second one was coming down. Thousands would be dead. Maybe tens of thousands.

  “Do you want to watch cartoons?” I said.

  “Uh-hunh.”

  I surfed through the channels, but every one of them was showing the collapse of the towers. Finally I reached the Cartoon Network. “There you go, Sugar. Top Cat. I’m going to go out to the garage for a few minutes.”

  “Daddy?”

  “What, Sugar?”

  “Can I turn on the sound?”

  “Loud as you want,” I said. “Loud as you want.”

  The garage was my workshop. I had my bench and saws in there, and a lot of wood and veneer for the kitchens I install. Against one wall sat a big old lift-top freezer that looked like it might once have held Cokes and Yoo-Hoos in some out-of-the-way general store, which it had, but now there were metal straps on the top and the sides that were held together by a big padlock. If anybody asked, I told them that was so Miriam didn’t think about playing in there, and everybody understood that.

  I found the key where I had left it, under the bottom tray in my toolbox, and slipped it into the lock. It didn’t budge. I turned it harder and felt the metal of the key start to give. Gentler now, I shook it in the lock, slid it a little out, a little in, the key quivering in my grip until the mechanism gave a click, and turned, and the lock sprung open. I felt a rush of satisfaction. “Still got a touch,” I said out loud, and a low moan followed my voice out of my lungs until I was breathless.

  Folks who go to the Jump Start for coffee in the morning feel kind of possessive about it, like only Westfielders would go there. It’s not a franchise, not part of a chain. It’s just part of our town. On days when I was working, I’d take Miriam over and drop her off about eight, just as the last customers were pulling out of the lot. But this morning, even at nine-thirty when we got there, the lot was full, and there was a crowd inside staring at the little television on the bracket above the counter.

  “Oh, my Sugar! My Darling,” said Betsy. I had Miriam in my arms and my wife threw her arms around both of us, stretching to pull us toward her like a woman who thought she’d lost her family forever. Tears were pouring down her cheeks. “This is the most horrible thing I ever imagined.”

  “It’s like Judgment Day,” I said.

  “I hear you, Brother,” came a voice that I didn’t think I knew from among the television watchers.

  “It’s like Judgment Day for some people,” I told Betsy, lowering my voice and passing our daughter over into her arms. “But not for us.” Betsy rubbed her eyes. “You mind if I get
a couple of Cokes out of the back?” I said.

  “You have no shame,” she said.

  “I’m just thirsty.”

  “Well I don’t want to know about it.”

  “I’ll put them in here,” I said, holding up my battered old JanSport daypack.

  The freezer in the Jump Start is a big one. You can’t exactly walk into it, but to get to some of the rear shelves you have to kind of squeeze in. The back corners of it, I’m sure, haven’t been seen by any employee, much less any health inspector, since Kansas was Indian Territory. I pulled what looked like a small, red fire extinguisher bottle with no nozzle out of my pack and pushed it to the very back of the very top shelf, then shoved a bag of ice in front of it.

  “You get what you wanted?” Betsy asked me when I came back out.

  “Is a six-pack too much to take?”

  “Baby, nobody’s going to notice nothing like that missing today. And not for a long time to come.”

  On the morning of September 12, at a little after two, when even the neighbor’s dog would usually be asleep, I heard the knock on the door that I’d been waiting for, heavy and insistent. Betsy shouted out in her dream, not sure if she’d heard the sound or imagined it.

  “Don’t you worry,” I told her. “It’s somebody I was expecting. I just thought they’d show up at a more civilized hour.”

  “Not some of your damn army buddies.”

  “Sort of,” I said. “You get some sleep. I’ll try to keep the noise down.”

  “You better not wake Miriam.”

  “Shhhhh,” I said.

  “Shhhh, yourself.”

  There were two men at the door, both of them wearing loosened ties and white shirts that looked slept in.

  “Kurt Kurtovic?” said the older of the two, holding up his FBI credential.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  “Did you know a David Bigler?”

  “My brother-in-law.”

  “He was killed in 1993.”

  I looked at these two under the porch light, one with his hair cut high and tight like a retired drill sergeant, the other younger and Mormonish, a missionary for the law. The moths and gnats hovered in the glare just above their heads.

  “That’s right—1993. God, that seems like—that is a long time ago. Got into some sort of trouble in Atlanta. I’ve asked Selma—you know, my sister, his wife—about it a million times, but she doesn’t tell me anything. Why don’t you ask Selma about it?”

  “She said we should come talk to you.”

  I laughed. “Did she give you guys any coffee? I’ll bet she didn’t. Come on in.”

  The pot was already brewing. My Betsy must have started it, then gone back to the bedroom.

  “You’re not surprised to see us,” said High-and-Tight.

  “I’m glad to see you. After what happened this morning, I hope you pulled every card on every weird-ass case, every unsolved mystery—every X-file you’ve got. Dave fits all those categories as far as I can tell.”

  “What do you remember about the way he died?” asked the Missionary.

  “Hell, I don’t know. He and Duke Bolide, who used to work up at the cemetery, they got involved with some kind of crazy religious cult. I mean, even crazier than the ones we usually get around here. They went down to Atlanta. There was a shoot-up? Was that it? I don’t remember. But Dave wound up dead in that big CNN building, and some Arab guy got hung from the rafters there. Did they ever find Duke? We’d have heard if they did, I guess.”

  The Feds didn’t say anything.

  “Is that about the way you’ve got it?”

  “It’s the ‘Arab guy’ we’d like to know more about,” said High-and-Tight.

  “Can’t help you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Can’t—and would like to. But I don’t even know the name of the Arab guy. Was he an Arab guy?”

  Chapter 2

  I don’t do my ten-mile run as much as I used to. But that morning after the agents left I thought there was nothing else I could do. I put on my old technical boots, laced them tight around my ankles, and set out for Crookleg Creek. In the first hint of dawn light, the trail was hard to see, and there were times when I had to run in the shallow edges of the water, half leaping from rock to rock. I bellied under fencing, vaulted posts. The sweat came fast, and with it the total concentration on breath, on the pain, on the path, on the nothingness that I was looking for until, three quarters of an hour later, the sun was a red dome on a horizon of tall green corn and the creek was just a trickle coming from a stand of cottonwoods in sight of the Route 70–Route 105 crossroad.

  My lungs were burning like a furnace. I felt good. Real good. I entered the long shadow of the trees and followed the darkness in among them, tearing through thin branches of thorns that crossed the trail like tripwires. Near the center of the trees was a pile of rocks that hid the shallow source of the creek. Around them was a small clearing. A lot of trash was lying around, and it wasn’t the kind of stuff you wanted to look at too closely. Beer cans, KFC containers, used rubbers. The rocks were scratched and battered and painted with names of high school students and Satanic rock bands. Some of the names I’d heard of, many I hadn’t.

  But it was the form of the rocks, not what was on them or around them, that interested me. I wondered if they’d been put here by men, and I believed they were, probably by Osage or Kaw. There was no way to be sure, because there was nothing written about this place in any of the books at the library, and everyone just called it “the Rocks” or “Jeffers’ Rocks,” because that was the family name of the people who used to own the land.

  Ever since I was at Fort Benning, I’d been on the lookout for places like this, where a few men have come together to build with their own hands a house for their gods. There was a place like that on a back road at Benning, a rough one-room clapboard church with a sagging roof and flaking whitewash and torn plastic bags where the glass in the windows ought to be. There were two rough benches, and a table cobbled together from spare lumber, which would have been the altar, and behind that a cross that was nothing more, or less, than two boards nailed together on the wall. When I looked at it, I could see the hands of the men who’d made it, rough and cracked, with seams of raw pink in the black knuckles and torn calluses across the lightness of the palms as they gripped the splintering oak and drove home the nails.

  There must be a time, I thought, when you’re building the house of God, and you feel His presence.

  That was what I had looked for in the pureness of faith and surrender to the One God, but I’d been wrong. I’d deceived myself into thinking man could kill for the sake of his God—and secretly I’d believed I could share in the power of that God. It took me a long time to realize that killing like that is for the sake of killing, nothing more. It is the builders who find their way to Paradise, if there is a Paradise.

  The men who put these stones around this spring at Jeffers’ Rocks, did they feel the presence of their gods? Did they leave their own spirits, and the spirits they summoned, somewhere hidden in these litter-filled crevices?

  I couldn’t know. Maybe they weren’t Indians at all. Maybe they were just homesteaders piling the stones that broke their plows. But it seemed to me there was a shape, an order, a purpose to the way the rocks were laid that went beyond that. There was something here, and one day at the end of a long hard run, I thought I would see it. Or feel it.

  How do you make a home for God? I asked myself.

  I headed back toward our house.

  How do you make a home for yourself? What is the spirit that makes it happen—that makes one place comfort your soul, and another not?

  I fell into an easy stride, somewhere between pain and meditation.

  Betsy was the spirit that made our home. She’s “just a little slip of a thing—a tadpole,” her stepdad, Deputy Sheriff Bud Nichols, used to say, “but she’s got more guts than a burglar.” That wasn’t quite right, I th
ought, but it was close. She sure wasn’t tall. I was more than a foot bigger than she was. When we first started going out, one night I lifted her off the ground to kiss her good night and she froze in my arms. “That make you feel good?” she asked me, and I never did it again.

  How tough was Betsy? I guess that depended on who you were. She was protective about her body. She wasn’t easy to touch at first. And she was real protective about anybody else she loved because she didn’t have that much loving herself as a kid. She never knew her father at all, and her mother brought her up alone the first eight years of her life, until Deputy Nichols, as he used to say, made an honest woman of her.

  The deputy wished Betsy was a boy, and he wished Betsy was his own, and she didn’t want to be either. She went kind of wild when she was fifteen, sixteen, I guess. A lot of boys, a lot of drinking, a lot of fuck-yous to the deputy. Then her mom died of breast cancer, and Betsy moved out of the house.

  When I met her after my wars, in 1993, she was twenty-two and on her own and every bit a woman. She came up behind me in the Wal-Mart book section and the first thing she ever said to me was, “You gonna read one of those?” She was wearing shorts and flip-flops and a T-shirt that was a size too small, and the way she smiled I figured she was laughing at me inside.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “’Cause you been looking at the backs of those books so long, I wonder if you can read at all.”

  Not a great introduction, but things got better after that. I asked her out, and we dated about three months, and broke up about five times, before I asked her to marry me.

  “Why?” she asked when I popped the question.

  “To make a life,” I said. And I guess it was the right answer, because that’s what we’d been doing, or trying to do, ever since.

  “What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.” I said the words out loud as I picked up the pace on that long run back to my wife and my baby and my home.