“Then why don’t we speak English?” the woman said, clearly annoyed at his assumption that she possessed limited language skills. “And I was born in Philadelphia, for your information.”
After that embarrassing moment, and a profuse apology, Sam learned the name and phone number of the real estate broker who had rented the cabin to Ruth.
The broker was halfway through her sales pitch before Sam could explain that he was interested in Ruth, not the cabin, although he did not explain it in exactly those words.
“You’re the fourth person today who has called about that cabin,” she boasted. “Our advertising must be better than I thought.”
That was disturbing, Sam thought. This entire day was one misunderstanding after another. It began this morning as he packed for the trip.
Peirce had placed a blue shirt facedown on his bed and carefully folded the sleeves over to the back of the shirt. He then folded the bottom of the shirt one-third of the way up and folded the sides in thirds over the back. He looked at the oddly shaped parcel he had created, grabbed it by one corner, and flung it into his suitcase. “Screw it,” he said, “I’m sure the hotel will have an iron.” From that point packing had become a matter of tossing the remaining clothes that he had taken from his closet and dresser drawers into the valise. He balled his socks into a tight package, held it over his head, and tossed it in the direction of the bed.
“He shoots, he scores,” Alicia said, standing in the doorway of Sam’s bedroom and watching the socks land in the valise for two points.
Sam, now slightly red-faced, took the remaining socks and underwear in his arms, walked them to the suitcase, and dumped them in. He looked at Alicia for a moment, then hurried to his closet and retrieved his jogging suit and running shoes.
“Are you sure you’ll have time to run while you’re away?” Alicia said.
“Every day—it will be my top priority.”
“You’re such a liar,” she said, “but at least the extra weight of carrying them in your suitcase will give you some exercise.”
Sam kissed her on the forehead, then patted her on the rump as he walked by.
“I should be gone for only a day or two. I just need to make sure that Dr. Klein is safe.”
“Why would—Dr. Klein, is it—not be safe?” Alicia asked. “Who is he, anyway?”
“She—Dr. Klein is a she.” The second the words left Sam’s lips, he knew he was in for a long discussion. He decided, probably in vain, to preempt her objections by explaining his concern.
“Dr. Klein was the psychologist of a recent murder victim,” Sam said as small beads of sweat began to form on his brow. “I have been trying to locate our prime murder suspects, but they seem to all have left town. I’m concerned that the murderer may think…”
Alicia stood with her arms folded across her chest, listening.
“The murderer may think that the victim told Ruth, er, Dr. Klein…”
Alicia looked at Sam through squinting eyes.
“Told Dr. Klein something that might incriminate him,” Sam finished, feeling as though he had just incriminated himself. “Dr. Klein is at a cabin north of here where there is no cell phone service.”
A small crease formed between Alicia’s eyebrows, and she pursed her lips.
“So I’m going there to make sure she’s all right, because no one has heard from her. Not that I usually hear from her. I mean, we speak about the case, because the victim was her patient—”
“You already said that,” Alicia interrupted.
“I did, didn’t I? Well, anyway someone had been stalking her, and when I tried to catch him in her basement, I tried to tackle him, but I tackled her by mistake and…Oh hell, Alicia, there’s nothing going on.” Sam held his arms out with his palms up.
“I never said there was,” Alicia said. She turned and walked out of the bedroom.
Sam took his off-duty automatic from his top dresser drawer, checked that it was unloaded, and placed it in the suitcase along with two boxes of ammunition, two extra fifteen-round magazines, and a pair of handcuffs. “Maybe I should shoot myself right now and get it over quickly,” Sam mumbled to himself as he closed the suitcase and followed Alicia out of the room.
***
Sam adjusted the visor to shield his eyes as he drove into the setting sun. He blinked and raised his eyebrows, trying to stifle a yawn. The coffee in the Styrofoam cup set in the car’s console had been cold for at least half an hour, and his stomach was beginning to make noises that drowned out the sound of the car’s engine. Sam reached into the bag of carrot sticks thoughtfully provided by Alicia and bit off a chunk as though it were the head of the murderer he was pursuing. He looked longingly at a burger joint that flashed by on the opposite side of the highway: “Finger Lick’in Ribs with the best slaw in the Appalachian Mountains.”
Sam turned onto Destiny Road. The farther he traveled, the narrower the road became. He stopped at a fork in the road. A tall sycamore tree stood dead center, its branches pointing in both directions. To the left, an arrow with the words Lake Front Road beckoned. Sam had read the brochure boasting of a sand beach within walking distance of the cabin. He chose the lakefront road. The road continued to narrow. This couldn’t be right. Sam pulled the map from the car’s console and began to unfold it with his right hand. He placed it on the steering wheel and reached up to turn on the courtesy light above the windshield. A small piece of paper on which he had written the directions to the cabin fell out of the map and floated to the floor. Sam reached down to retrieve the paper. A sudden movement on the road ahead of him caused Sam to cut the wheel sharply to the left, sending his car off the narrow road and into a shallow ditch, narrowly missing a large opossum waddling across the road ridden by a full family of offspring.
Sam shifted into reverse and gently pressed the gas pedal to back out of the ditch. The front wheel spun, but the car stayed in place. He slipped the lever into drive and tried to move forward to rock the car out, but again the wheel just spun. After two more tries back and forth, each with more pressure on the gas pedal, and faster spinning of the tires, Sam decided it was futile. Some rescue mission this was turning out to be. He would now need to be rescued. Sam took his AAA card from his wallet and poked his cell phone to bring up the keypad. A message ran across the screen: No service available.
“That’s just perfect,” he said. On the opposite side of the road, the opossum sat with her brood, obviously explaining how no good turn goes unpunished. An object lesson Sam himself was beginning to believe. He shook his fist in the air in her direction. It was time to get out and walk. Well, he did tell Alicia he would exercise while he was away—he hadn’t meant it, though.
Just a few yards farther down the road, Sam parted the fronds of a large wild fern and caught a glimpse of a body of water. He pushed his way through the bushes to the wide sand beach. The sun was sinking fast into the water. The red cast against the clouds was quickly turning to gray, and soon would be black. Sam rushed back to his car and changed into his jogging pants and running shoes. He strapped on his shoulder holster and pulled his sport coat over his shirt. He stuffed two extra ammunition magazines and his handcuffs into his inside pocket and headed back to the beach. The cabin was purported to be within walking distance of Chapman Lake. The real estate broker had said that Chapman Lake was a sixty-five-acre oasis of recreational facilities adjacent to state game lands and the Allegheny National Forest. Sam was obviously on the forest side of the lake, since there were no facilities of any kind in sight. He walked north along the bank, hoping to see a cabin or some other indication of civilization before losing what was left of the light.
34
The path from the parking lot to the cabin seemed longer somehow. Ruth stood very still beside her car, cocked her head, and listened for any unnatural sound or sudden movement. Everything looked so different now that she was alone. The last rays of the sun cast odd shadows on the path. They moved suspiciously with a life of their
own, not at all like low-hanging tree branches simply dancing in the wind. She studied every detail of the surrounding forest, looking for anything abnormal. Any sign that someone might be looming in the bushes. Feeling more vulnerable than she could ever remember, but satisfied that she was probably alone, Ruth hurried, almost ran, to the cabin.
Emma was gone. Together, they had driven to West Haven before noon. Ruth monitored her rearview mirror almost to distraction looking for the silver car that she was sure would be following her. She believed that she had seen it on several occasions laying back, trying not to cause suspicion, yet always, relentlessly following. The bus from Lowell was scheduled to leave for Wilkes-Barre at four o’clock. After a light lunch and much complaining from Emma, Ruth hurried to the bus stop just minutes before departure and settled her daughter into a window seat directly behind the driver. She kissed Emma good-bye and phoned Sophia to confirm Emma’s arrival time at Wilkes-Barre. The bus driver, a jovial man in his fifties, smiled and assured Ruth that he would keep an eye on his most valuable charge. He turned and winked at Emma before he flopped into the driver’s seat, waved at Ruth, and closed the bus door.
Ruth waited to see that no last-minute passengers boarded the bus. Satisfied that her daughter would be safer at home with Sophia than remaining here where some nut was stalking her, Ruth returned to her car. Now that Emma was on her way home, Ruth could get on with the remainder of her plan. She drove back toward the cabin. “There you are, you persistent bastard,” she quipped as she recognized the silver car following at a distance. Although the stalker’s car had been a source of fear and frustration, Ruth was now happy to see it. As long as the silver car was still following her, she knew Emma would be safely away from danger.
An hour later, as she rushed up the stone steps to the cabin, she noticed what appeared to be mud on the porch near the front door. Had the mud been there when they left this morning? Had Emma tracked mud onto the porch? Ruth peeked through the window next to the door. Everything seemed to be the way she left it.
Ruth entered the cabin and immediately retrieved the shotgun from the rack over the fireplace. With shaking hands, she pulled two twelve-gauge shotgun shells from her pocket and fumbled them into the breach. Yesterday, Ruth had hidden the rest of the shells in the sugar tin in the kitchen, but these two had never left her pocket. These two were her insurance against someone breaking in and finding her stash of ammunition. She snapped the action closed, checked that the safety was set, and looked around the room. Traces of the same mud tracked on the porch were present on the rug near the front door. Had it been there all along? Ruth cursed her lack of scrutiny before leaving that morning. Had she simply failed to notice details of the room prior to leaving? Could someone have been in the cabin while she was gone, or was the dirt just the result of her poor housekeeping skills? Probably the latter, but she wasn’t taking any chances. She worked her way through each room, bobbing her head into and out of the doorway before entering, just as she had seen on so many police television shows. She checked the sugar tin. The shells were still there.
Next Ruth checked each of the windows and found that they had no locks. She thought for a minute, then ran to the kitchen and returned with a fistful of forks and two pots. Ruth slightly lifted each of the two living room windows, placed the tips of the fork tines on the windowsill, and closed the window, suspending the forks by the tips of their tines. Next she placed a pot on the floor below the forks at each of the two living room windows and closed the curtains. Her plan was that if someone lifted the window from the outside, the forks would fall into the pot and warn her. I guess watching all those reruns of MacGyver episodes with Emma was worth something after all. And they say television isn’t educational.
Once Ruth was sure that the cabin was clear and safe, and that all windows except the bedroom window were rigged with her makeshift alarm, she shut off all the lights except for one in her bedroom. She pulled down the shade and closed the curtains so that some light shone through the window to the outside, but one could not see in. Now she sat in the darkened living room on the overstuffed tan chair with the shotgun across her lap. The trap was set.
The acrid smell of ash from the burned-out embers in the fireplace caused her to stifle a sneeze. She held her breath until the urge passed. Here she would sit and wait. Here she would make her stand, metaphorically.
Who was stalking her? Her money was on Hyrum Green. She had been over all the facts as she knew them a hundred times and always came to the same conclusion. He was involved in some way with each of the murder victims and had been present in the building when she was chased through the basement of her office building. That wasn’t exactly hard evidence, but it was enough for now. She would wait and see…Wait and see what? Suddenly her throat was dry. The collar of her blouse was too tight. It was hard to breathe. What am I doing?
You’re a psychologist, a woman of science, not a vigilante. Her palms began to sweat. The shotgun was heavy on her lap. She felt slightly dizzy. This was insane. It was time to stop this nonsense and go home.
Ruth placed the shotgun against the wall next to the chair and began to rise. A creaking sound coming from the front porch stopped her in a half-standing, half-crouching position. Frozen in place, she listened. Another creaking sound from the front porch. Someone was definitely outside. Ruth dropped to one knee in front of the chair and reached for the shotgun. Her breath came fast and unevenly. She crawled across the rug, then rose to her feet but kept her head low as she crept into the kitchen. Ruth felt her way along the kitchen counter until she found the large sugar tin next to the stove. Why hadn’t she taken more shotgun shells before? She reached into the tin and grabbed a handful of shells and slipped them into her pocket. Now she crawled to the kitchen door, dragging the gun by its barrel. She reached up to feel around for the doorknob. Ruth tried to turn the knob, but the gun oil from the barrel of the shotgun caused her hand to slip, not giving her purchase on the knob. She reached in her pocket and pulled out her handkerchief. Several rounds of shotgun shells, each coated with sugar granules, spilled onto the floor. Ruth froze, waiting to see if her clumsiness had betrayed her to the prowler. An additional creak from the front porch assured her that he was still out front. Using her handkerchief, Ruth quietly turned the knob and slipped out through the kitchen door. The cool night air striking the perspiration on her neck sent chills down her spine; it was an icy slap on the back that helped focus her wit and resolve. I can do this. The kitchen door exited onto a small deck that connected to the porch at the front of the cabin. Ruth slipped off her shoes and moved toward the porch, hoping the intruder couldn’t hear her teeth chattering or her knees knocking.
On the front porch, a figure of a man was hunched over under the living room window. Ruth turned the corner of the cabin, took two steps, and placed the barrel of the shotgun against the man’s backside. “Don’t move,” she said in as deep a voice as she could muster. In an instant, the man rolled to his left, slapped at the barrel of the shotgun, and knocked it from her hands. It skittered across the decking and came to rest on the stone steps. In almost the same motion, the man drew an automatic handgun from inside his jacket and shouted, “Police, freeze!”
Ruth threw her hands in the air and in a high-pitched voice squeaked, “Don’t shoot!”
“Dr. Klein?” Sam said, quickly lowering his gun as he sat up on the porch.
“Ruth,” she replied, standing over him. “Remember? We’re on a first-name basis. I could have shot you,” she said. “What were you doing on the porch?”
“I was cleaning the mud from my shoes before ringing the doorbell. And don’t worry—you wouldn’t have shot me.”
“You think not? If you hadn’t ripped the gun out of my hands so fast, you would be dead.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’re pretty smug for a man who almost died. I could easily have pulled the trigger. Do you think I haven’t the nerve?”
“You wouldn’t h
ave shot me.”
“Why, because I’m a woman?”
“No.” Sam lifted the shotgun and pointed to the breach. “Because you forgot to release the safety.”
“Oh, well, come inside. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I was wor…trying to locate you to tell you about a break-in at your office. No one had heard from you for days—and by the way, why is that?”
Ruth explained about the lack of cell phone service in the area and that she had not gone into town for the first three days. “You were trying to locate me?” she repeated with a coy smile.
“Yes,” Sam said, avoiding eye contact. “Certain aspects of the Sylvia Radcliffe murder case have changed.” He fidgeted with his gun. “I think we need to have a discussion.”
Ruth burned with excitement. “Come in, come in, and tell me all about it. I’ll make coffee.”
***
Sam stood in the living room while Ruth disappeared into the kitchen. Several magazines were fanned out on the coffee table, including Bipolar Disorder Resource, Human Nature Review, The National Psychologist, and In-Mind, among others. Sam picked up a copy of Psychology Today and thumbed through the first few pages; it was the only magazine he recognized from the newsstand near the precinct. A loud clatter emanated from the kitchen, followed by the rattling of metal pans, the slamming of cabinet doors, and finally the shattering of glass.
“A cold drink will do,” Sam said. “That is, if there are any glasses left when you finish.”
“You’re going to get coffee,” came the voice from the kitchen, “even if you have to drink it from a jelly jar, smartass.”
Sam dropped the magazine back onto the table and chuckled. “I’m sure your coffee will be wonderful.”
Ruth nodded with a satisfied smile as she carefully swept the broken pieces of a glass bowl into a corner. I’ll deal with this later, she thought. The water kettle began to whistle. Ruth spooned twelve tablespoons of coffee into her French press and lifted the kettle from the stove. “Pot holder, pot holder, pot holder,” she rapidly cried as she dropped the kettle back onto the stove, making a loud clanking noise and splashing water onto the burner, extinguishing the flame. “Goddamn it,” she yelled. “Sorry, Sam, I’m going to have to work on my anger-management skills.”
(Un) Sound Mind Page 29