(Un) Sound Mind

by Richard Amico

  Raised wooden sidewalks along First Street formed a thoroughfare between picturesque boutiques and quaint country stores connecting new and old, fixtures and finery for tourists alongside essential commodities for the local folk. A cornucopia of rich odors and aromas assaulted the senses. Antique shops stacked high with distressed furniture and unique treasures wafted the faint scent of mildew onto the street each time a patron walked through the door. The all-too-sweet perfume of potpourri emanated from the Gift Shoppe, preceding one’s arrival at the storefront. A few more steps, however, and shoppers were rewarded with the fragrance of fresh-baked bread and cinnamon rolls from the Love-in Oven, reminding them that breakfast had been hours ago. Small café tables in front of the bakery window invited weary shoppers to recharge with a cappuccino and a sweet roll.

  A man stood on the corner handing out circulars for a performance of The Unsinkable Molly Brown at the Park Dinner Theater tonight at eight. His shoes were dusty and he was unshaven, but he tipped his bowler hat and smiled at each passerby as he anxiously anticipated reaching the bottom of his stack of circulars so that he could call it a day and retreat to the West Haven Saloon.

  Ruth drove down the main street, looking for a familiar supermarket, maybe a Sure Save or a Wegman’s, but found instead a butcher shop advertising fresh-killed chickens and a green grocer boasting heirloom tomatoes and winter squash, each store strategically located at the end of the street, out of the well-traveled tourist route and near the public parking lot.

  The walkways were a river of brightly colored ski parkas and decorative shopping bags, punctuated by the occasional plaid lumberjack coat on bearded men wearing sweat-stained baseball caps with hunting licenses in plastic envelopes pinned to the crown.

  Ruth and Emma spent the next hour strolling past shop windows and browsing through a used-book store. They tasted the “World-Famous Pierogi” at Rutka’s Polish Deli and eventually arrived at Sprinkle’s. While waiting in line before the sidewalk window, Ruth noticed a familiar reflection in the glass. It appeared to be the same silver sedan that had stopped behind them on the road. It was now on the opposite side of the street across from the ice-cream store. Ruth lifted her sunglasses and tried to catch sight of the driver, but the reflection from the window obscured the driver’s features. When she turned to look directly at the car, the driver sped away. She tried to see the license plate number but could only see the first two letters, EP.

  “Did you see that?” Ruth said to Emma, pointing in the direction of the dust cloud left by the retreating car.

  “See what?”

  “Nothing,” Ruth said, shaking her head in an attempt to dislodge the paranoia that seemed to be creeping into her thoughts. Ruth knew how unlikely it was that someone would be following her. She knew it intellectually, but her frayed nerves were unconvinced.

  “What’s going on?” Emma asked. “You look worried.”

  “It’s nothing,” Ruth insisted. “I was just thinking of the chores I need to do while I’m here. Why don’t you go inside and sit, have some ice cream, and I’ll run some errands, make some calls, and come back for you in half an hour.” She gave Emma a twenty-dollar bill, kissed her on the forehead, and marched off to the general store.

  Berger’s market and farm stand was a delightful change from the feigned elegance of the pretentious boutiques. The abundance of fresh fruits and vegetables on display hopefully counteracted the deleterious effects on health that would result from the plethora of deep-fried and sugary baked goods offered in the gourmet food shops and sidewalk cafés. Ruth wasn’t generally a health-food enthusiast, but a desire to provide nutritious food for her growing daughter and a recent encounter with her bathroom scale were having an effect on her grocery choices. She filled her shopping cart with fresh salad greens, sweet potatoes, squash, and brussels sprouts. Ruth paused in front of a shelf lined with rhubarb and pecan pies. Woman does not live by leafy greens alone, she thought, and slid a pecan pie into her cart. She looked left and right to ensure that she wasn’t being watched as she tipped a can of pressurized whipped cream into her basket and rushed to the check-out counter, keeping her head low and avoiding all eye contact.

  Next was a stop at the butcher shop, where rib eye steaks and bacon eclipsed any pretense of dietary concern. Then she was off to the car in the municipal parking lot to secure her booty in a Styrofoam cooler and finally listen to her phone messages.

  The first message was from her answering service. “Sorry to bother you on vacation, Dr. Klein. All patient inquiries have been redirected to Dr. Schultz as you instructed, but you have a few personal messages.” The operator went on to list her messages. The first was from Lieutenant Peirce. It was only seven words: “Sam Peirce, please call and be careful.” How sweet of him to check on me. He probably misses our lively exchanges, she mused with a slight blush. The second message was from Sophia. She simply said, “Somebody rob your office, but don’t worry, they don’t take much, just some files.” Ruth’s cheeks faded from a light blush to pale white. Maybe Sam Peirce’s call wasn’t personal after all; maybe it was a warning. The last message was from Clair at Northwest Realty. She thanked Ruth for promoting the cabin to so many friends. “I had four calls in the last two days about the cabin you’re renting. They all wanted information about the area and the cabin’s location. If you ever want a job in real estate…” Ruth hung up the phone.

  A dark cloud moved in front of the sun. The view through Ruth’s windshield changed from bright and hopeful to dark and despondent. She stared into the parking lot, her vision an unfocused blur as she pondered this new information. Was someone following her? Could the man who chased her through the basement of her office building have actually been Sylvia Radcliffe’s murderer? Did the murderer believe that she had information that could expose him? Was she being followed right now? Ruth’s vision began to clear as her consciousness returned to the present moment. When her eyes finally focused, she was looking at a car parked at the opposite side of the lot. It looked like the same car she had noticed twice before.

  Ruth sprang from her car and strode across the parking lot. She paused. What if someone was in the car? Should she confront him? She marshaled her courage and soldiered on. The parked car was empty. This is insanity, she thought. Get control of yourself. There must be hundreds of silver sedans that look just like this one. It’s a common color and a common style of car. She was about to chastise herself for her ill-considered fear when she had one more thought. She walked to the back of the sedan and looked at the license plate. EP23JL—it started with EP. This was the car that had sped away from the ice-cream shop and probably the same car that was parked behind her on the highway. She turned three hundred and sixty degrees, looking for the driver. She was alone. At least he was no longer following her. She began to walk back to her car, then paused. She looked toward the main street of town. “Emma!”

  Ruth ran across the parking lot and took the two steps to the raised wooden sidewalk in one stride. She bumped the shoulder of a shopper who turned, but Ruth was already at the door of Sprinkle’s before the woman could express her anger.

  Ruth’s eyes scanned the tables, then she rushed to the cashier. She shouted, “Excuse me” as she cut in front of the line of patrons. Leaning on the counter with both hands, Ruth said, “Did you see a young girl in a blue coat leave the store?”

  “Yes, I think so. She was with a man; her father, maybe? They went toward the bookstore. I suppose kids can be a real handful at that age,” he said with a smile.

  “What do you mean?” Ruth said.

  “Nothing really,” the cashier said. “She didn’t want to go, and he practically had to drag her out.”

  Ruth turned and ran out of the store, chanting “Emma, Emma” in a strained, guttural tone.

  Through the window of the bookstore, Ruth could see a man standing with his back to her, his open coat blocking her view of the child in front of him. His hands were on the child’s shoulders, restraining her. R
uth grabbed the door handle and yanked the door open. “Emma!” she shouted.

  “Mom,” came the reply, but it came from the wrong direction, from behind Ruth. She turned to see Emma standing on the sidewalk, holding a small shopping bag. Ruth turned back to the man and the child, who were now staring at her in bewilderment. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought you were someone else.”

  Ruth turned again, held Emma close, and scolded her. “Why did you leave the ice-cream shop? I was afraid…” She paused. “You might have gotten lost.”

  “How could I get lost? The town’s only five blocks long.”

  ***

  Now Ruth had a decision to make. She could pack up her belongings and her daughter and run back to the city, where she could hide among familiar objects and supportive people, or stay and stand up against whoever was following her.

  She now had no doubt that she was being followed. This was not her overactive imagination causing concern. She was not jumping at shadows. An assault on her office was the final proof she needed to convince her of her vulnerability and that the threat was indeed real.

  “Wait one minute, Emma,” Ruth said as she stopped at the rack of travel and weekly event brochures. “I want to see what’s happening in this lovely town this week.”

  Ruth pulled out several pamphlets and circulars advertising local events for the coming week. She also selected a bus schedule covering most of the state and carefully slipped it into her pocket. Now she had two more tasks to perform to complete her plan.

  A few minutes later, before they drove out of town, Ruth stopped in front of Bert’s Sporting Goods store. She told Emma to wait in the car. Ruth locked the doors and looked up and down the street to ensure that the silver car was nowhere in sight. She rushed to the hunting section of the store and bought two boxes of twelve-gauge shotgun shells and a handheld compass. After leaving the check-out counter, she removed the shells from their boxes and distributed them between her jacket pockets and her purse. She made a three-minute cell phone call and returned to the car with the compass in her hand.

  “Maybe this will help me take walks in the woods without getting lost.” She hoped that Emma would believe that the purchase of the compass was the reason for the stop.

  “I’ll be happy if it helps us find our way back to the cabin,” Emma said. “I don’t think the gal in the GPS wants to talk to you anymore.”

  “Very funny,” Ruth said, feeling confident that she had just committed the perfect crime.

  ***

  The sun was low in the late afternoon sky. Ruth sat in the wooden swing on the porch sipping a glass of red wine. The rhythmic creak of the thick ropes supporting the swing was the only sound disturbing the silence. She gently rocked back and forth, then stopped. Ruth noticed that not a leaf on a tree or a blade of grass on the ground was moving. The world had come to a complete stop. It was so quiet. She mused, What if the world has really stopped, and everyone else has disappeared? What if she were the only person left on a silent planet? It was peaceful. She felt warm and safe for the first time today, but suddenly she was lonely.

  In the sky, high overhead, a turkey vulture circled, searching for game or carrion, its wings spread wide and motionless. It banked to the left and lost altitude, then turned right and suddenly rose on a column of warm air. The bird seemed to use no energy at all, its altitude dependent solely on air currents. Its only decision was to turn left or right. If it chose the direction of a thermal, it was rewarded by a boost in altitude, ensuring that it would stay aloft for a little longer. But if it chose wrong—if it chose dead air—it would lose altitude, sending it lower, closer to the ground, shortening its flight, and lessening its chances to find food. Of course it could always take matters into its own hands, or in this case, its wings, and flap to gain altitude, but that would cost precious energy, energy not easily replaced. Life is like the flight of that bird, Ruth thought. You choose a direction, left or right, and hope the wind is kind to you. If you choose correctly you flourish, but if you choose wrong—make a mistake—you must double your efforts or pay the consequences.

  Now Ruth could remain motionless and wait for a kind breeze or lucky turn to provide the thermal that would keep her aloft, or she could take matters into her own hands.

  “Time to flap your wings,” she said aloud and walked into the house.

  ***

  “Why do I have to go home?” Emma asked, looking at her suitcase, half-filled with her clothes, lying on her bed. She watched as Ruth emptied the dresser, carefully packing her belongings. “Mom, why do I have to go home?” she repeated.

  “You have school on Monday. I made arrangements with Sophia to meet you at the bus terminal, and she’s going to stay with you for a few days until I get back.”

  “But you said I could miss a few days of school, and why aren’t you coming back with me?”

  “I changed my mind. You shouldn’t miss school, but I have no patients until Thursday, and I’m going to take advantage of that opportunity to catch up on some paperwork.”

  “So you just want to get rid of me for a few days.”

  “No, honey, not at all. I’ll miss you terribly, but I could use some time to organize my thoughts. I know I haven’t said much about it, but losing a patient has been difficult. Sylvia Radcliffe was in my office once a week for the last three years. Our relationship was one of business rather than personal, but it still feels like I lost a friend. I need a little time to grieve,” Ruth said, hoping she was convincing enough to keep Emma from knowing her real purpose—to send Emma away from any danger from the stalker who was pursuing her, so she could possibly confront him and put an end to her fears for her family’s safety.

  “I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t think about how her death might have affected you.” Emma wrapped her arms around her mother and hugged her close. Slight feelings of guilt began to rise up and invade Ruth’s firm convictions to send Emma home, but she quickly brushed them away in favor of her overpowering maternal instincts. Emma would be safe with Sofia, and Ruth would find an answer to the question of who was harassing her. She might even determine who the murderer was. The police had closed the case, but the murderer was obviously still at large. She needed to act. At first she had pursued the case so that justice would be done for Sylvia, but now it had become personal. Her life and, more importantly, the life of her child may hang in the balance. She would stick with the plan.

  33

  Peirce carefully maneuvered his car out of the city past the crowded strip malls, each sporting multiple check-cashing stores and lottery kiosks, past the rows of dilapidated single-family homes with multiple satellite dish antennas sprouting from almost every window, and past the discount stores selling everything, including the soul of the neighborhood, for only ninety-nine cents.

  He grimaced and pointed his car at the rolling hills and the open skies of the Endless Mountains. He pulled a cigarette from his pack and placed it in his mouth. Almost immediately, he plucked it from his lips and stared at it. This did not fit his mood. He crushed the cigarette between his fingers and held his palm outside the window, grinding the tobacco in his fist and giving up its debris to the wind.

  The suburban neighborhoods soon gave way to sprawling dairy farms, then rolling hills, and finally tracts of forest land. The evening air had turned cool, and Sam raised his collar and rolled up the window. He settled back in his seat and took in a deep breath of air laced with pine scent. Pine scent? Why is the smell stronger with the window closed? He scanned the windshield. Hanging from the rearview mirror was an air freshener Alicia had hung in an effort to sanitize his car the last time she had ridden with him. Peirce ripped the pine-tree-shaped piece of plastic with its artificial chemical scent from the mirror and threw it out the window. He rolled up the window and inhaled deeply a second time. The smell of stale cigarettes and cold coffee slowly began to reassert itself. Now this was his car.

  In the last forty-eight hours since he had interviewed Dr. Gree
n, a lot had changed. He had reopened the Sylvia Radcliffe and Michelle Ackerman murder cases, much to the chagrin of his captain, and was now off to find Ruth Klein, much to the chagrin of his girlfriend. Why? Well, because Dr. Klein might be in danger, and he was a police officer sworn to serve the public. Even he wasn’t sure he believed that one. The truth of the matter was he didn’t know why he was driving to find Ruth Klein. He could have called the local police department and asked them to check on her. He could have sent Holloway or Samuelsson, although Samuelsson was not in his good graces right now. For some reason, a reason for which he was probably not even aware, he wanted to do it himself. For better or worse, he was going north to find Ruth Klein and her daughter.

  Locating Ruth had not been an easy task. If his Spanish had been a little better, he might have avoided some of the pitfalls. He recalled his earlier conversation:

  “Dr. Klein residence,” the woman’s voice said.

  “This is Lieutenant Peirce of the county police department.”

  “Wrong number,” the woman said with a pronounced Latino accent just before she hung up the phone.

  He redialed. The phone rang four times before he heard Ruth’s voice telling him to leave a message, or if this was a patient emergency to call her service number.

  Peirce spoke after the tone. “Please, por favor, I’m trying to locate Dr. Klein. Donde está el Dr. Klein? Es muy importante. No soy con el INS.”

  The housekeeper picked up the phone.

  “So Ruth hires illegal aliens,” he said, only half-covering his phone with his hand.

  “El doctor y señorita Emma no oyen. Ellos van de vacaciones. No esté de vuelta hasta la próxima semana.” The words came in rapid succession.

  “Whoa, wait, wait, my Spanish is not that good,” Peirce said. The population of Spanish-speaking citizens had increased fivefold in his precinct in the last few years, and Sam was struggling to remember anything he could from the three years of Spanish he had taken in high school.