(Un) Sound Mind

by Richard Amico

  Ruth tried to judge his speed and distance and started down the hill. She planned her speed well, and he was gaining enough ground to keep him interested but not enough to catch her. She said aloud, “Now, you bastard,” and slammed on the brake. The pedal fell to the floor and stayed there. Ruth tried to pump the pedal, but all she was doing was mashing it against the floorboard. She grabbed the shift lever and tried to throw the transmission in reverse. It made a loud clanking sound but only rolled faster down the hill. Ruth focused on steering the car down the narrow, winding path, gaining speed with each second. The parking brake, where was the parking brake? She glanced quickly at the console to locate the handle. She looked up to see the road turn sharply to the right. A turn much sharper than she could accomplish at this speed. The big SUV veered off the road into the trees. There was the sound of breaking glass and tearing metal, and then the bone-jarring eruption of the airbag crashing into her face and upper body. Then there was quiet and darkness.

  At first there was no sensation at all. No awareness of temperature. No light, just a silent black void, a moment of sensory deprivation. Then she noticed a flow of small droplets running down her upper lip and into her mouth. They felt warm and tasted metallic. Soon the pain told her what the droplets were. The air bag had protected her face from hitting the steering wheel or the windshield but at the cost of her nose.

  She could feel someone tamping down the air in the airbag and pulling at her robe, trying to yank her out onto the ground. He had reached the car. She couldn’t see, but that wouldn’t lessen her resistance. She swung her arms and kicked her feet at this man who was responsible for her condition. He had taken a reasonably sophisticated, affluent woman of science, and degraded her to a base human being, fighting for her very life. She was in pain and bleeding, but she wasn’t beaten. He stopped suddenly and let her go. Maybe she had hurt him. She hoped she had. Then, just as suddenly, two hands were back, reaching around her waist, trying to pull her from the car. She lashed out again. She would not yield.

  “Hold on, hold on, lady, I’m trying to help you,” said a voice. “I’m one of the good guys.” Ruth’s waving arms knocked Trooper Sullivan’s hat from his head, exposing an extremely close buzz cut, a haircut common among law enforcement, particularly in the state police. When this was over, she would have to find out if there was some advantage to the haircut, or if it was just a way to mask a receding hairline.

  “There was a man trying to kill me; he was here.”

  “Man in a hood? He was right here at your side, but he ran off when I climbed through that fallen tree blocking the road. He ran back up the hill. Is he the one who shot that downstate lieutenant yesterday?”

  Trooper Sullivan looked in the car to find something to wipe the blood from Ruth’s eyes and nose. He reached in his back pocket and snapped his handkerchief open. “It’s clean,” he said. “Mildred laundered it just last night.”

  Ruth jerked her head back as he began to wipe the blood from her eyes and nose.

  “Is it broken?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so. It’s straight, and I’m sure it’ll be just as pretty as before once we stop the bleeding and the swelling goes down. I think we should still get you to the hospital though, and make sure nothing else is broken.”

  “No,” she shouted. “There’s a patient of mine in the cabin. He’s disabled, and that man is going to hurt him. I’m fine—go help Franklin.” Ruth pressed the handkerchief to her nose and almost pushed the officer toward the cabin.

  Trooper Sullivan looked uphill at the winding, narrow road. He put his hand on his service weapon. “You stay right here and don’t move till I get back.” He touched his belt where his radio usually hung. The clip that secured it to his belt was there, but the radio was not.

  He took a step toward the fallen tree. If he returned to his car and called in his situation and location, backup would be there in a matter of minutes. That tree, however, had been a challenge to climb over the first time, and he wasn’t sure his suspect would wait for him to call in before hurting someone else. No, he was going to do this alone. He patted Ruth on the shoulder, removed his automatic from its holster, and cautiously started up the hill. Ruth watched him, illuminated by the first light of dawn, disappear around the turn in the road.

  ***

  Trooper Sullivan was a barrel-chested man with large biceps and heavily muscled thighs. He spent hours each week in the gym toning his body and building his endurance by running five miles three times a week. He was proud of his physical conditioning and trudged up the hill toward the cabin like a locomotive under full steam—arms swinging at his sides and legs, making powerful strides over the rough terrain. When he reached Franklin’s car in the parking area, he ducked down behind it to assess his best approach to the cabin. He hugged the tree line next to the path until he reached the clearing and then ran the last few steps to the porch.

  The door to the cabin was open. Trooper Sullivan flattened himself against the cabin wall next to the door, then peeked through the window into the living room. The room was dark. The sun was not yet high enough to illuminate the living room. Sullivan removed his flashlight from his belt and held it under his gun hand as he darted through the door and crouched behind the sofa. He methodically cleared the room as he had done so many times in his career, first the living room, then the kitchen. The hall closet and the back hall all proved empty. Next he grasped one of the bedroom doors and swung it wide, pointing his gun at each corner of the room in turn.

  He suddenly pointed his gun at the ceiling. A man was sitting on the bed, staring at his cane on the bedroom floor. The man’s face was bloodied, and one eye was half-closed. He was reaching out with one foot, trying to drag his cane within reach. The police officer locked eyes with Franklin and saw Franklin’s eyes shift toward the open bathroom door. Trooper Sullivan nodded, put his finger to his lips, and then silently approached the bathroom. He stood against the wall next to the door and signaled Franklin with his hand to get down. He hesitated for a moment, but when Franklin didn’t move, he held his automatic in both hands, entered the bathroom, and dropped to one knee. The room was empty. As he stood, he heard a distinctive sound come from the bedroom behind him. The sound caused him to freeze in his tracks. It was a sound that every police officer who’s seen action fears, the click from the hammer of a revolver being cocked.

  42

  “Good to see you among the living,” Martha said. Now that the pain-killers were wearing off, the gauze pad and the bandages fastening it to Sam’s chest itched. He tried to reach his left side with his right hand, but the tube delivering the saline drip and antibiotic wasn’t long enough to make the trip. He winced and shifted his position in the bed to create more slack in the tube. It wasn’t enough. Sam lifted the sheet and tried to focus his eyes on his bandaged chest, trying to will the itch to stop.

  “It took a pretty heavy dose of sedative to put you out; how well did you sleep?” the nurse asked.

  “How long did I sleep is a better question. What time is it?” Sam asked, wriggling back and forth, hoping the weight of his blanket might scratch the itch. This was going to drive him crazy.

  “You slept through the night. It’s almost seven in the morning. I have breakfast for you. It’s scrambled eggs and bacon, hot coffee, buttered biscuits, and a fruit tart. Let’s sit you up while it’s all hot.”

  It had been almost twenty-four hours since Sam had eaten. His last meal was memorable, but far from satisfying. “Bring it on,” he said, the itch now totally forgotten. He scooted up in the bed, snapped his napkin open, and draped it over the bandage encircling his chest.

  “There was a woman here with me last night. Do you know where she is?”

  Martha looked down and made a sound that was half laugh and half snort. “Do you mean the woman who brought you in yesterday, or the one that chased her away?”

  “Sam, you’re up,” Alicia said, entering the room holding a tray from the cafeteria. “Yo
u can take that breakfast tray back, nurse. I brought his breakfast.”

  Alicia pressed the up button on the bed to elevate Sam into a semisitting position and slid the overbed table in front of him. She removed the hot breakfast tray Martha had delivered and handed it back to her. Then she slid the tray she had specially ordered for Sam into position and lifted the stainless steel plate covers.

  “It’s organic oatmeal, dry five-grain toast, and a sliced kiwi. Enjoy.”

  ***

  “I think I’m ready to get out of here,” Sam said as he pushed the overbed table to the side. “Has anyone seen my overnight bag, or my car, or my gun?”

  “Your bag is in the closet,” Martha said. “Dr. Klein put it in there. I don’t know anything about your car or a gun.”

  “Well, where’s Dr. Klein?”

  “She left last night just after I arrived,” Alicia said. “She was with a man. He had a limp and used a cane. I think he was going to drive her back to wherever she was staying.”

  “She left with Franklin?” Sam said, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed.

  “You don’t have to worry about her; she has a man to protect her,” Alicia said. “You’re injured. She’s not your responsibility any longer.”

  “Alicia, you don’t understand. There’s a killer still out there, and Franklin wouldn’t be much help in an emergency. He’s one of her nutty patients.”

  “Are you sure she’s in danger? The sheriff seemed to think that you were shot accidentally by a hunter who ran away rather than own up to his carelessness.”

  “A hunter using a handgun and shooting from the cover of the trees? I don’t think so. This case has narrowed down to one suspect, a guy named Dennis Clever. We haven’t figured out his motive yet, but he killed two women that we know of, and he tried to kill me.” Sam pulled the rolling stand holding the IV bag close to him and used it for support to stand.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Alicia said. “You’re here for at least another twenty-four hours.”

  “Listen to the pretty lady,” Sheriff Thompson said, hiking up his trousers as he entered the room. “I had my deputies, the auxiliary police and, by God, even the volunteer firemen sweep those woods yesterday for three miles. Your guy is gone, if he ever existed.”

  Sam raised an eyebrow, but caught himself before commenting.

  “What about a car, or a blood trail at the scene? Dr. Klein thought she might have hit the man who shot me while he ran.”

  “No car. No blood, except for yours—a mess of blood by the lake.” He laughed. “I should charge your county for the cleanup.” Sam’s face started to redden.

  “I’m just funnin’ with ya. Your friends are OK. There’s nobody up there for miles. You get back in bed and get well. We’ll keep an eye on the roads in and out of those woods. Oh, by the way, Mavis at the front desk asked me to give you this note.” Sheriff Thompson pulled a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. “The red-haired gal left it for you last night.” He ambled over to Sam and handed him Ruth’s note. Looks like you’re a popular guy.” He smiled and tipped his hat to Alicia and Martha as he left.

  Alicia sat Sam back down on the bed. “I’m sure Dr. Klein and Franklin can take care of themselves. Besides, the sheriff said he sent some men to search the woods and found no one. Your suspect has probably left the state by now. Let’s get you back in bed; you need your rest.”

  Sam sat on the edge of the bed and opened the note.

  Dear Sam,

  I spoke to your doctor before I left the hospital. He assured me that you’re doing fine and will be up and around within twenty-four hours. You’re receiving excellent care, particularly since your cardiologist arrived. Your car is being repaired at the garage indicated on the enclosed card. It will be ready tomorrow afternoon. Let me know the cost of the repairs, and I’ll send a check to reimburse you for the damage I did. Unfortunately, I can’t reimburse you for the damage I may have done to your relationship with Dr. Goodman. That will be up to you. Thank you for driving here to come to my aid. I’m sorry for a lot of things. I’m sorry I damaged your car. I’m sorry for the terrible meals you were forced to eat, and most of all I’m sorry you were hurt. What I’m not sorry for is the evening we spent together, even if it meant more to me than it did to you. I won’t complicate your life any longer, and I’ll stop interfering with your work. I have my practice and should focus my energy on my patients. Franklin is taking me back to the cabin. I can now concentrate on his problems and hopefully be of some help to him before we return home. Heal well, and stay safe.

  Ruth

  Sam swung his legs back onto the bed. He folded the letter and placed it under his pillow.

  While Sam was reading the letter, Alicia had walked to his closet to keep busy arranging his clothes. She turned to look at him every few seconds to note his expression. She aligned his shoes evenly on the closet floor and picked up his sweatshirt from the chair to place it on a hanger. Alicia raised the sweatshirt to her face and noticed a light scent, a scent that she knew was too feminine to be Sam’s. She hung the shirt on a hanger and turned to Sam.

  “Do we need to talk?” she asked.

  Sam looked out the large plate-glass window at the bare trees bending in the wind. The few remaining leaves were fighting to hold their grip on the moving branches. He was silent for a long time and then said, “I think it’s going to snow.”

  Alicia watched his face until he turned and met her eyes. “We can talk when we get home,” he said.

  ***

  “I don’t care who is in the room. I was told to deliver this newspaper clipping to room two-seventeen and collect twenty-five dollars.”

  “Sir,” said Martha, blocking the doorway, “if you don’t have the name of the person you’re delivering that envelope to, who do you think is going to give you twenty-five bucks?”

  “She didn’t give me a name. She just said if I brought this article here this morning, I would get twenty-five dollars, and I’m not leaving without it.”

  “Nurse,” Sam called out while holding his ribs. “Let him in.”

  The librarian skirted around Martha’s girth and eased through the door, trying to keep as much distance as he could between the angry nurse and himself.

  “Who told you to bring that here?” Sam asked.

  “She was a lady doctor, I guess. She was wearing one of those green doctor shirts under a gray sweatshirt jacket.”

  Alicia took Sam’s sweatshirt jacket from its hanger. It was part of the sweat suit she had given to Sam to encourage him to exercise. She held it again to her nose to confirm her suspicion and then dropped it to the floor of the locker.

  Sam stood at the side of his bed and took the IV stand in his hand. “Hold on,” he said. “I’ll get your money.”

  “Wait.” Alicia reached in her pocket and handed several bills to the librarian. “You get back in bed,” she said to Sam, and opened the envelope.

  “It’s just an old newspaper article from 1988. It’s about two boys in a fishing boat on a lake in upstate New York who were hit by lightning.”

  “Does it have a picture of the boys?” Sam asked.

  “No, I’m afraid it doesn’t,” Alicia replied, “just an account of the accident.” She read on, then said, “Two boys were fishing on a lake and their boat was struck by lightning, Franklin Jameson and Dennis Cleaver. Is that the same Franklin who took Dr. Klein back to her cabin?”

  “Yeah, I guess that was how he lost the full use of his leg. What about the other boy, Dennis Cleaver? Does it say anything that might help us? Any reference to family, where he lived, anything we could use to find him?”

  “Sure, it says exactly where he is.” Sam stood as Alicia began to read a portion of the article aloud:

  A fisherman, Maxwell Trendle, who had seen the young men leave the pier hours before the freak thunderstorm arrived, called police, who accompanied him on a search for the small boat. They found Franklin Jameson in a portion of t
he boat that was still floating. Apparently the boat had been severely damaged by a bolt of lightning. Young Jameson, suffering from shock and burns, was taken to General Hospital. The body of the other boy, Dennis Cleaver, washed up on the far shore Tuesday morning. Jameson said that Cleaver had left the disabled boat to swim for help. Police believe that Cleaver, an excellent swimmer, was disoriented by the storm and swam in the wrong direction.

  Sam took the article from Alicia and quickly read: “Services for Dennis Cleaver will be held at the Christ Methodist Church on Saturday, and he will be laid to rest in Griswold Cemetery.”

  Sam threw down the article. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “He was right under our nose all the time.” A loud electronic tone sounded as Sam disconnected the wire leads from the electrodes stuck to his chest and held out his arm with the IV needle to Alicia.

  “Sam, what are you doing?” she yelled.

  “Either you take it out, or I will,” he said. Alicia stared as Sam peeled the plastic tape from his arm and pulled out the needle.

  “Wait,” she said. She tore open a sterile pad, swabbed his arm, and placed a folded piece of gauze and tape over the puncture.

  Sam was half-dressed before Alicia could present a cogent argument for not leaving the hospital. She knew it was a losing battle, but she tried anyway. Sam handed her his car keys. “My car won’t be ready until later this afternoon. I’ll need yours.”

  “I don’t understand. If Dennis is dead, what did you mean when you said he was right under your nose all the time?”

  “Franklin said he had been seeing Dennis for the last three months. If Dennis is dead, then Franklin is nuttier than we thought.”

  “Nutty enough to be the killer?” Alicia asked.

  “I think so.”