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 have 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.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sam said. “The instinctive, natural way to express anger is to respond aggressively. Anger is a natural, adaptive response to threats; it inspires powerful, often aggressive feelings and behaviors, which allow us to fight and to defend ourselves when we are attacked. A certain amount of anger, therefore, is necessary for our survival.”
Ruth looked perplexed as she poked her head out of the partially open kitchen door. In the center of the living room, Sam stood reading aloud from an article in Human Nature Review. He looked up, saw Ruth, and began to laugh.
Ruth shook her head. “How about stirring up the fire, Sigmund? The coffee will be ready in a minute.”
A half hour later, Sam and Ruth were deeply involved in Sam’s most recent theory of the crime. The case had been reopened, and Hyrum Green was now a person of interest. “Do you like him for the murders?” Ruth asked.
“Do I like him?” Sam asked. “I think you’ve been watching too much television, but Dr. Green did elude our stakeout and disappeared. He certainly is moving up on the list.”
“What about Franklin—are you satisfied that he couldn’t have committed the crimes?”
“Not totally,” Sam said, pouring a second cup of coffee for Ruth and himself. “He knows things about the crimes, like the shape and location of Sylvia’s tattoo, but he doesn’t seem to have the strength or physical capability to have killed her. She was very fit, according to the medical examiner, and put up quite a struggle. I think we’re looking for someone stronger than Franklin, or at least someone without his disability.”
Sam stood and walked to the living room window. He parted the drapes, lifted the shade, and observed the makeshift silverware window alarm; then he looked at the shotgun, and finally at Ruth.
“What are you doing here alone?” Sam asked. “I thought you were vacationing with your daughter.”
“I sent her home. She has school tomorrow.”
“Why didn’t you go with her? You know, it’s possible that the murderer could come looking for you.” He stepped into the bedroom and noticed that the bedroom window did not have a fork alarm.
“Oh, I guess I didn’t think of that,” Ruth said, turning to watch him investigate.
“Wait a minute,” Sam said, striding back into the room. “You stayed here hoping to catch the murderer. Do you have reason to believe he’s here? Have you seen someone suspicious near the cabin?”
“Just you,” Ruth said, still not meeting his eyes.
“You were ready; you were lying in wait for the killer. You have alarms on all the windows except for the bedroom.” He opened the living room window and watched the fork fall into the pot with a loud clatter. “Do you have a death wish?”
“Oh, it works,” Ruth said involuntarily, then immediately wiped the smile from her face. “Ah, no, I just happened to take that old shotgun off the rack on the fireplace mantel when I heard a noise outside. I didn’t even know if the gun was loaded.”
“And I guess those aren’t shotgun shells bulging out of your pockets,” Sam said, pointing at the stuffed pockets of her slacks and sweater.
“Look, Sam, I have been afraid that someone may have followed me up here since the day I arrived. I tried to call you, but I was told you were away on assignment. I sent Emma home to keep her out of harm’s way. I can’t live in fear. I’d rather fight.”
“That sounds noble, but foolish. You can’t catch this man. He’s killed at least two women already. You’re not a detective, you’re a…a…”
“A woman?” Ruth said, standing to face him.
“I was going to say a psychologist, but you certainly are a woman.” The sides of Sam’s mouth turned up ever so slightly into a smile.
Ruth softened her stare. She actually felt that he was paying her a compliment. “Well, I was scared. I thought someone might be following me, and I didn’t know what else to do.”
“I know what to do,” Sam said, placing the shotgun back on the gun rack. “You and I are going into West Haven. We’ll have dinner and stay at a hotel for the night. I have a room booked.” He paused. “And I’m sure they will have another.” Now Sam avoided Ruth’s eyes. “Then tomorrow, in the daylight, we’ll come back and pack your things and go home.”
Ruth usually had difficulty taking orders, but he was right. She swallowed her pride and said, “Give me a minute to get my toothbrush and a change of clothes.”
Sam and Ruth walked along the path to the clearing that served as a parking lot for the cabin. “Where’s your car?” Ruth asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You lost your car, Detective?” Ruth chided.
“I can find it tomorrow while you pack.” Sam walked to Ruth’s car with his head held high, his demeanor indicating that there was nothing at all unusual about losing one’s car.
Sam stopped so abruptly that Ruth walked into him. He held his arm out to steady her. He looked left and right, searching the area. He held his finger to his lips and listened. “What’s wrong?” Ruth whispered. Sam reached under his jacket with his right hand and closed his fingers around the butt of his Sig Sauer P226. With his left hand, he pointed to Ruth’s car. All four tires were flat, the metal wheels pressing deeply into the deflated rubber sidewalls.
A crunch of gravel on the narrow road and twin beams of light sweeping around a turn preceded a car slowly driving to the parking area. Sam held his automatic at his side and slightly behind his back as he pulled Ruth behind her car. The glare from the headlights now obscured the oncoming car and its driver. The vehicle pulled behind Ruth’s car and stopped.
Ruth and Sam stood bathed in a circle of light, momentarily blinded by the glare of the headlights. “Stay here and keep low,” he said, motioning to a spot in front of her car. Sam slowly walked toward the now stationary maroon Mercedes. He tried to block some of the glare with his left hand, holding his gun on his right side at the ready.
“Police,” Sam shouted. “Shut off your headlights and step out of the car.”
The headlights went out. The possibility of seeing the driver was now negated by the tinted windshield. With a click, the door began to open. Sam stopped short. Again Ruth, not anticipating his sudden stop, walked into his back. “You’re going to get us both killed,” Sam whispered without turning his head. “Didn’t I say to stay put?”
“I didn’t want to be alone,” Ruth said, also whispering. “And besides, I recognize the car. It’s Dr. Green.”
“You don’t know that,” Sam said. “Thousands of people could have the same make and color car as Dr. Green.”
“Yes, but how many of those people have a vanity plate on the front bumper saying DDS-NO1? That’s Hyrum’s car, Sherlock; I see it in the parking lot all the time,” Ruth hissed.
“Even more reason to be cautious,” Sam whispered, now turning to look at Ruth out of the corner of his eye while still watching the door of the car. “He’s our primary murder suspect.”
“You said he was just a person of interest twenty minutes ago,” Ruth said, stepping alongside Sam.
“Well, I just upgraded him,” Sam said, turning toward Ruth and slightly raising the volume and intensity of his whisper. “He’s wanted for questioning.” Sam’s right hand now pointed his gun at the car door to keep the driver in check while they spoke.
“Maybe you’d like to just shoot him, and then you can question him later,” Ruth said in full voice.
“Maybe I should arrest you for interfering with a murder investigation,” Sam shouted.
“Interfering? I’m just offering some psychological reasoning instead of your usual brute force. Who told you that Mortimer Banks was not the killer and you should reopen the case? Who told you that you had the wrong man when you arrested Franklin? Who said—”
“Excuse me,” came a quavering voice from within the car. “If you’re finished arguing, I’d like to get out of the car now. Could you please lower your gun, Lieutenant?”
Sam and Ruth were now staring into each other’s eyes. They stared for a long moment, eyes locked. All expression drained from their faces. Sam exhaled loudly and walked to the car door. “What are you doing here, Dr. Green?”
“Am I under arrest?” Hyrum said. “I was concerned about Dr. Klein, and I came here to see that she was all right. There’s no law against that, is there?”
Sam lowered his gun to his side and opened the driver’s door of the Mercedes. “Please step out of the car, Dr. Green.”
“First tell me what I’ve done.”
Sam placed his pistol back in its holster under his left arm and stepped back from the car door. He didn’t have any conclusive evidence that Hyrum had committed any crime, but he felt a good deal of skepticism about Hyrum’s stated reason for his visit. “No, you’re not under arrest, Dr. Green, but I do have a few questions I would like to ask you about the murders of Sylvia Radcliffe and Michelle Ackerman.”
“And if I don’t want to answer your questions?”
“Well, that’s your right. If you don’t want to talk to me, you can leave. But once you’re back in the city, I will bring you in for questioning as a material witness. Now we can talk here informally, or I can have two officers come to your office next week and bring you in. I personally would want to avoid that kind of embarrassment.”
“I have nothing to hide. Can we talk inside? It’s been a long drive, and I would like to use your restroom.”
Sam extended his arm toward the cabin, and Hyrum began to walk in a hurried fashion in front of Ruth and Sam.
Sam whispered to Ruth. “You see, I can use psychology as well as brute force to change someone’s mind.”
“You mean that not-so-veiled threat was an attempt at psychology?” Ruth laughed.
“There’s just no satisfying you, is there?” Sam said as he stormed away, following Hyrum.