“Let it go, Sam,” Ruth said, giving Sam a stern look. “Franklin, what made you think I was in danger?” Sam folded his arms and stared at Franklin, waiting for an answer.
“Can I tell you in private?” Franklin asked. “I’m afraid that anything I say right now might get me arrested—or shot.”
Sam threw his hands in the air. “If you have any evidence of anyone trying to—”
“Sam,” Ruth interrupted, “I’m his doctor; if he wants to speak to me in private, he should have that opportunity. Now it’s very late, Franklin—do you have a place to stay for the night?”
“Well…” Franklin began.
“OK, then,” Ruth said. “We’ll all stay here for tonight, and in the morning Franklin and I will have a therapy session before we leave for home. We have two bedrooms. Sam and I will each take one, and there is a folding bed we can open in the living room for you, Franklin.”
Sam’s stare was somewhere between utter disappointment and rage. Then he took a deep breath. “Franklin will take the second bedroom; I’ll sleep out here to ensure that everyone is safe.”
“Thank you, Sam,” Ruth said. “I’m sorry, but it’s been a long day. I think we’re all very tired and should get some sleep.” Ruth smiled a faint smile and disappeared into her bedroom.
Franklin opened the door to the second bedroom and said, “Thank you, Lieutenant, for letting me stay.”
Sam Peirce nodded. “Stay in your room until tomorrow.”
Franklin was about to ask why when the lieutenant looked directly into his eyes and gently tapped the Sig Sauer automatic, now tucked in his belt.
“Right,” Franklin said and closed the door.
36
Now it was Ruth who had difficulty sleeping. Every time she closed her eyes, Sam’s face would appear, his rugged, handsome face with his strong angular jaw and cleft chin. When they first met, she had seen him as an overweight, doughnut-eating caricature of a police officer, but last night he was different. The changes that had taken place in the last few months must have happened slowly, evading her eye. For one thing, he seemed happier—that is, when he wasn’t threatening to shoot someone. And his body had changed as well. She hadn’t noticed the difference until last night when she helped pull his sweatshirt off over his head. His shoulders were broad and his stomach was hard and flat. When did he lose all that weight? she wondered. Could he have changed, lost that weight, because of me?
Ruth closed her eyes and reflected on their time in front of the fire. It had been so long since she had been that close to a man’s naked chest. Without thinking, she had reached out and touched him. Her impulse had been to pull her hand away as soon as he looked at it, to pretend it was an accident, a careless slip, but he had placed his hand over hers and pressed it against his skin. She knew she should have pulled away, but she hadn’t wanted to. She had felt the warmth travel from his chest through her hand and spread to the core of her body. When he laid her down and leaned over her, supporting himself on his elbows to lessen his weight on her, she had relaxed her legs to let his knees rest on the carpet between them. She closed her eyes and savored the memory of his bare chest pressing against her breasts.
Last evening she was sure she was ready. Five years without a man was a long time. It was unreasonable to think that she should have resisted. Why deny herself this one night of pleasure, one moment of fantasy in an all-too-real world? Then his hand had moved down her side until it slipped just an inch or two beneath the waistband of her slacks. His fingers and palm were slightly rough, but warm, as he caressed her. She had closed her eyes and felt a flush that began at his hand and slowly grew until it encompassed her entire body.
She had been sure it was going to happen. She wanted it to happen, but instead of lying back, giving herself to him unconditionally, she had stiffened; she was frightened. She grasped his hand and held it. He pressed his forehead to hers and lowered his lips to her neck. His two-day growth of beard brushed her face, and his breath warmed her neck. She was consumed by both passion and fear.
Maybe it was his beard, maybe it was nervousness or a feeling of insecurity because she hadn’t done this in so long, but she had begun to panic—she panicked, and she began to laugh. Sam had looked up and questioned her laughter with a stare.
“I’m sorry. I was just thinking of something funny,” she whispered, hoping she hadn’t spoiled the moment.
“What?” he asked.
“No, I can’t,” Ruth had said, hoping he wouldn’t pursue the point.
“Yes, you can—what is it?”
Now Ruth needed to come up with something funny that would still maintain the erotic mood. But what?
“It was nothing,” she had said. “I was just wondering if you were really glad to be with me or…”
“Or what?” Sam asked, perplexed.
“Or if that was a gun in your pocket.” The line from an old Mae West movie had come to her at the last minute, and she blurted it out, hoping the joke might ease the tension. She had waited as Sam looked her in the eye. Oh God, she had thought. He’s going to think I’m nuts. But he hadn’t.
She wondered what the rest of the night would have been like if Franklin hadn’t busted in and broken the spell. His intrusion had been embarrassing for her and probably frustrating for Sam. She wasn’t sure how far they would have gone. She had felt sheltered and impervious to harm when she was in his arms, but she was frightened by him as well.
Again she closed her eyes to try to sleep, and again she saw Sam’s face. This time he was smiling. A smile that seemed to radiate warmth and caring yet also contained an air of recklessness and daring that concerned her. Was he too confident? Was she too easy? Ruth buried her face in her pillow and tried to pretend that she and Sam had only spoken last night, and never touched. What did she know about this man, other than the fact that they could barely say ten words to each other without a pejorative outcome? He was strong and dedicated, or was he just headstrong and enthusiastic? Were they really interested in each other, or were they both just caught up in the tension and excitement of this murder case? Ruth wondered if her attraction to Sam wasn’t transference of emotion. An escape from the pain of losing a patient to a gruesome death coupled with the appreciation and excitement generated by the prospect of Sam solving the murder. Or was it just the fact that Sam was the first man that had gotten under her skin since her divorce? Was she really attracted to him, or had the celibacy of the last five years finally caught up with her? Her body wanted this man. She hungered for the feel of his touch, the warmth of his skin against hers, but her mind told her that this relationship was going to be a problem. Things were moving too fast. And what of Emma—she had never even met Sam Peirce. No, she would have to slam on the brakes. They would have to wait until the case was over and the passion of the moment had passed, for a time when their lives were more settled and decisions could be made based on true emotion rather than just physical desire.
When she lifted her head, the room was aglow with sunlight. Had she slept, or had morning crept into her room while she agonized over flashbacks of the previous night? No matter, this was going to be a difficult day, and lying here in bed, warm and comfortable as it may be, would not help her find the solution to her problems.
***
A shaft of sunlight peeked through the heavy drapes of the semidark living room and fell across Sam Peirce’s face. He sat up and ran his hand over the stubble of beard on his cheek, then combed his fingers through his hair. The cot on which he had spent the night was low to the floor, making standing a more arduous task than he had bargained for. A nagging ache in his lower back kept him from standing straight. He slowly massaged the offending area to unwind the muscle cramps that more than hinted at many years of abusing his body.
“Coffee?” Ruth called from just outside the kitchen door.
“About a gallon,” Sam said, taking his gun from under the pillow and placing it back in the holster hanging from the rocking chair.
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He walked across the room, straightening his posture and adding buoyancy to each step as he approached Ruth. He placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned toward her. Ruth held the tray of coffee between them and turned, breaking his hold, and placed the coffee on the table.
“Is it something I did?” he asked.
Before Ruth could answer, the door to the second bedroom squeaked open several inches. A clenched hand passed through the narrow opening and knocked on the doorframe. “Is it all right to come out?” Franklin asked.
“No!” shouted Lieutenant Peirce.
“Yes!” countered Ruth, flashing Sam a disapproving stare. “We’ll talk later,” she whispered.
Franklin entered the room, leaning heavily on his cane. Morning seemed to be a difficult time for everyone.
Franklin hung his cane on the back of his chair and unfolded his napkin. Sam watched with increasing concern as Franklin performed his morning ritual. He prepared the silverware next to his plate by carefully polishing his fork and spoon with his napkin before setting them down precisely parallel to each other on the table. He moved his coffee cup from the four o’clock to the two o’clock position, measured a three-finger-width distance from the end of the table and adjusted his plate. He smiled and nodded to Sam. Sam leaned over and whispered, “Don’t get too excited. I don’t think she’s much of a cook.”
“I can hear you,” came a reply from the kitchen.
“So, have any dreams lately?” Sam asked, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
“Sam, be nice,” echoed from the kitchen over the sound of a blender.
“How does she do that?” Sam asked.
Within minutes Ruth reappeared, carrying two frying pans. One contained a runny cheese frittata, and the second was filled with strips resembling tree bark. Sam was prepared to give Franklin five-to-one odds that the charred, oil-soaked, shriveled substance had started its journey to the table as bacon.
All three ate in silence. Ruth and Sam occasionally looked at each other and immediately returned their gaze to their plates of food. Franklin, feeling increasingly uncomfortable as the interloper, spoke first.
“I was surprised to see you here last night, Lieutenant. You must have used your siren and raced all the way to arrive ahead of me. I left within a half hour of your visit to my house.”
Sam looked confused. “Franklin, I visited you on Saturday. I drove up here on Sunday. I didn’t leave for almost twenty-four hours after I saw you.”
“But that’s impossible. I left Saturday afternoon and got here last night, Saturday night.”
“Franklin, today is Monday,” Ruth said, looking at Franklin and then at Sam.
Franklin stared at his plate, then closed his eyes. “Dr. Klein, I think we need to talk.”
“You think?” Sam said, laughing. Ruth stared at Sam. A stare that clearly communicated the message: Stop being an ass.
“Why don’t the two of you talk while I look at the tires on your car?” Sam said to protect his pride. “Maybe they weren’t slashed. Maybe someone just let the air out.”
“I have an air pump in the trunk of my car.” Franklin reached into his pocket for his car keys and passed them to Sam.
“You know, you could have told me about the pump last night,” Sam said, sliding his chair back from the table. He looked at the half-full plate of food. “I’ll go now and see if I can get us out of here soon.”
“You had better,” Ruth replied. “If you don’t, I’ll cook lunch.”
***
Ruth reached into her briefcase and extracted her notepad. She closed the shades to sequester them from the outside world, took a deep breath, and sat in the wooden rocking chair, pen in hand. It was time for another session with Franklin.
Ruth was beginning to feel that Franklin’s problems were almost too numerous to count, but she decided to deal with the major issues first, issues that would prevent Franklin from living a normal life. He complained of a sleep disorder. That would be the logical place to start. Sleep deprivation could be the root cause of several of his other symptoms: delusions, anxiety, hallucinations, and lost time. All of which he seemed to have presented recently.
Ruth wrote Focus on her notepad in an attempt to concentrate on Franklin’s issues. She was still rattled by his interruption last night. She and Sam had been caught in a compromising position. How does a patient trust and look for advice from his doctor after watching her grab at her clothing to cover her naked body? Would that display—she cringed at the mental image—on the cabin floor be the picture Franklin saw each time he looked at her? Is he picturing me naked right now? She could feel her face turning red. But it was time to put away her fears and don a professional persona. Franklin had come here because he was concerned about her. That was a constructive reaction to recent events, but Ruth would not let that gesture, that act of kindness, distract her from her observation of the aberrant behavior he had displayed over the last few months. Franklin needed psychological care and treatment. It was time to uncover the cause of his debilitating symptoms.
Franklin fluffed the cushion and poked the pillows before sitting on the couch. She watched him attempt to improve his comfort by adjusting his position in the seat. He seemed to be having difficulty choosing just the right spot on the couch. Ruth was careful not to show her frustration as she waited for him to settle in.
“Have you ever had the feeling that you were being watched, Dr. Klein?” Franklin volunteered.
“Have you?” Ruth replied, wondering what precipitated the question.
“Often,” Franklin said.
“Were you being watched?” she asked. “Did you hear or see someone watching you, or was it just a feeling?”
Franklin’s stare seemed to pass through her, his eyes either unfocussed or focused on an empty space somewhere in the center of the room. It was an uncomfortable stare. Ruth shifted in her seat.
He began. “It’s nothing tangible, nothing you could put your finger on, but you know someone or something is there, a presence within your personal space that causes an uneasy feeling, a feeling of impending danger.”
Ruth’s concern elevated as she studied Franklin’s face. His expression had become more somber. She could swear that his voice changed. It became slightly deeper. His speech mannerisms and even his vocabulary seemed slightly altered. It wasn’t that he never used words like impending danger before—he had. As a matter of fact, his vocabulary was quite extensive, but somehow his voice inflection and tone seemed alien to everything she knew about him. Not that she thought she knew much.
“Your pulse quickens, and your body stiffens. Your muscles tense, your limbs begin to tremble, and a very surreal fear of dying fills your mind and crowds out all other thoughts.” He leaned forward as he spoke, causing Ruth to straighten in her chair.
Was he talking about the night she was lost in the forest, or was this simply a fluke, a meshing of his fears with hers?
“When have you felt this way?” she asked, trying to shake off her acutely uneasy feeling and the taste of bile rising in the back of her throat. Was he frightening her, or was it her cooking?
“Felt what way?” Franklin asked, his voice returning to its normal tonal range and meter.
Ruth now recognized the Franklin who was familiar to her, but she still felt uneasy, slightly confused.
“When did you fear dying?”
“In my dreams, Doctor; very often in my dreams.”
***
The sun was bright, the wind had stopped, and the forest gave off an earthy smell of fresh morning dew. Sam crunched along the gravel path to Franklin’s silver Toyota. The air pump was in the trunk. It was a combination air pump and battery charger—a handy device. He decided he would buy one for his own car; that was, if he ever found his car. Sam walked around Ruth’s Ford, inspecting the tires. He noticed that there were no caps on any of the valve stems. Could be someone removed them and then let the air out of all the tires. Either that, or Ruth�
�s skill at maintaining her car rivaled her skill in the kitchen. That wasn’t fair. Sam reprimanded himself for belittling Ruth’s cooking. So she couldn’t cook. She was well educated, attractive, feisty, and seemed to have good deductive reasoning skills. Although he had criticized her, and threatened to arrest her for interfering with his investigation, he had to admit that she was probably right about Mortimer Banks not being the killer. She would have made a good detective. Well, she certainly would have made a better detective than a cook.
The gravel in the parking area was damp and interspersed with puddles of mud, so Sam looked for something to kneel on while he filled the tires with air. His overnight bag was still in his lost car. He may be in these clothes for a while. He was wearing the sweat pants Alicia had bought for him, and he didn’t want to ruin them. Alicia! He had forgotten all about her. They had been drifting apart lately, and this weekend certainly wasn’t improving that situation. He was going to have to make some important decisions when he returned home.
Sam looked in the window of Franklin’s car, hoping to find a newspaper to use to protect his trousers. No joy there, but there were some papers showing under the passenger seat. They looked like they were sticking out of a file folder.
***
“Franklin, what happened between Lieutenant Peirce’s visit to your house on Saturday and your arrival here on Sunday night? You seemed to be confused about the amount of time that had passed.”
Franklin shook his head and held up his hands, signaling that either nothing happened, or that he didn’t want to talk about it. “I must have fallen asleep while parked in my car. I haven’t slept much lately; I just lost track of time.” He withdrew from the conversation by folding his arms across his chest and slowly rocking forward and back on the couch.
Ruth decided to try a different approach. “You said you came here because you thought I was in danger, and I really appreciate your concern. Can you tell me what caused you to have that belief?”
“First, you have to promise that you won’t tell Lieutenant Peirce what I’m about to say. If he knew, he would probably arrest me again, and I can’t spend another night in jail. Strange things happen there.”
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