The ceiling fan slowly rotated, turned by the breeze blowing through the open window. Franklin pulled the patchwork quilt from the bed and wrapped it around his shoulders. He was shivering. The afternoon sun was low in the sky, and the temperature was dropping. The room heater did little good with the window wide open. He thought he might have had another dream, but he couldn’t remember the details. Someone was running, and there had been loud explosions. It was all fuzzy, and he felt lightheaded.
Franklin looked at his watch. Five fifteen. How could they have let him sleep all day? Slowly the events of the morning came back to him. He had argued with Dr. Klein and Lieutenant Peirce. They had accused Dennis of being a murderer. He was still angry about that, but there was something else. It was there, in the back of his mind, but he just couldn’t get the image to gel.
Frustrated, Franklin pulled the quilt tighter and rose to his feet. The sudden force of his rising made his head spin and put too much pressure on his weak leg. It collapsed, sending him staggering forward. He reached for his cane with his right hand, but the quilt restricted his movement and his fingers fumbled on the shaft. Although he finally caught the stick and planted it firmly on the floor, his body was already past the tipping point. He didn’t have the strength to arrest his fall. Falls like this seemed to happen in slow motion, and although he could see what was coming next, he couldn’t lift his arm in time to protect himself. His head struck the corner of the dresser, sending a spray of blood from his eyebrow onto the lampshade. He spun as he collapsed and landed flat on the floor. He felt a sharp ache in the middle of his back; it ached terribly.
Franklin lifted himself, trying to determine how badly he was hurt. A splash of cold water on his eyebrow and a look in the mirror told him that although blood ran freely—cuts on eyebrows seemed to do that—the cut wasn’t deep. He wadded up a piece of toilet tissue and pressed it to his forehead until the bleeding stopped. Then he found a small plastic bandage in the bathroom medicine cabinet and finished the repair. It stung, but he thought the bandage gave his face character. He twisted his body in front of the mirror to view his back. He had decided to sleep in his shirt to help fend off the cold. A mistake, he thought. He had a spot of blood on the back of his shirt. Must have rolled in some blood from my eyebrow when I fell. Franklin changed his shirt and brought the soiled one into the kitchen to soak it in cold water.
“Anyone home?” Franklin called as he walked into the living room. Something had happened here. “Hello?” he shouted. A metal kitchen canister half full of sugar was on its side on the counter; its cover was bent on the floor. In the sugar he saw the brass casing and part of the paper tube of a shotgun shell. He hobbled back to the living room and looked at the empty shotgun rack over the fireplace. The rocking chair was lying on its side in the middle of the room. Something was terribly wrong. He hoped that nothing had happened to Dr. Klein and the lieutenant. He also hoped that whatever had happened had nothing to do with Dennis. Then he saw it. It was lying on the table next to a half-filled bowl of cereal and a spoon. It was a handgun, a silver Taurus .38 special stainless steel revolver. The same kind of gun that Hyrum had convinced him to buy for self-protection. The same kind of a gun that Franklin kept in his own nightstand next to his bed. It was his gun.
Franklin dropped his stained shirt on the back of a chair and picked up the gun. He smelled the end of the barrel. He pushed the knurled lever to release the cylinder and dumped the brass cartridge cases out onto the table. All five were empty; all five had been fired. Confusion, shock, horror, fear—which emotion first? Something bad had happened, but what?
Franklin drove his car down the narrow road back to the highway. His attention was divided between the road and the signal-strength indicator on his cell phone placed on the passenger seat. After turning onto the highway and driving about a mile, the meter registered three bars. That was enough. He braked heavily and pulled partially off the road onto the shoulder. The driver of the car behind him blasted his horn and swerved to avoid Franklin’s Toyota.
“Fucking idiot,” the driver yelled.
Franklin waved his hand in dismissal of the exasperated driver as he searched the contact list on his cell phone to find a number for the Luzerne County Police Station. The only number he could find was that of Lieutenant Peirce.
“County police, Lieutenant Peirce’s office, Sergeant Holloway speaking.”
“Sergeant, this is Franklin Jameson. I’m afraid something terrible may have happened to the lieutenant and Dr. Klein.”
“Mr. Jameson, I’m glad you called. I just spoke with Lieutenant Peirce. He was hoping that you could give us some additional information about Dennis Cleaver. We were hoping you could tell us where we might find him.”
“Is the lieutenant all right? Is Dr. Klein all right?” Franklin said, asking the second question before allowing time for Holloway to answer the first.
Holloway attempted to answer all Franklin’s questions in one rambling utterance. “Lieutenant Peirce has been wounded in the line of duty. Dr. Klein found the lieutenant near the lake and managed to drive him to the hospital, but she never saw the gunman. Dr. Klein is with the lieutenant at Lowell County Hospital.”
Then it was Holloway’s turn to get answers. “Now where can I find Dennis Cleaver?” Holloway realized that he had raised his voice. He composed himself. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jameson,” he said, remembering that Franklin was not a very stable personality. “You seem to be the only person who knows the suspect. We could use your help.”
Franklin took the empty gun from his pocket. Now it was clear. Dennis must have followed him to the cabin and attempted to kill the lieutenant and Dr. Klein. Somehow they had escaped. But why leave the empty gun at the cabin? Then the second wave of clarity arrived. The gun that shot the lieutenant was in Franklin’s possession and had his fingerprints on it, and it was probably safe to assume that his were the only prints on it now.
“Mr. Jameson, are you still there? We really need your help to find Dennis Cleaver.”
“Yes, yes, I understand. I’m driving to the hospital as we speak. I’ll be glad to tell all I know when I arrive.” Franklin ended the call before Holloway could reply. He needed to get to the hospital. He was being set up by someone who used to be his best friend, and although he refused to admit it, he knew why. He needed to talk to Dr. Klein before the police questioned him.
***
Ruth sat next to the hospital bed and removed Sam’s sweatshirt from her shoulders. The top from the pair of green scrubs was comfortable enough, but she still wore her own slacks. She had tried on the scrub bottoms, but her height had turned them into pedal pushers or some sort of baggy capri pants. The room was warm, and she could see small beads of perspiration on Sam’s forehead. She took a tissue from the box on the nightstand and wiped his brow. She tried to dry his face, but the stubble of his three-day growth of beard caused the tissue to flake and leave dots of paper on his cheek. Ruth leaned over him and gently blew the bits of paper away. She inhaled and drank in his scent. The faint musky redolence of his skin was intoxicating. Maybe it was his pheromones working overtime, but Ruth couldn’t help herself. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his forehead. Footsteps entering the room catapulted her out of the moment.
“How is he doing, Doctor?” came a voice from the doorway.
“Fine. He seems a little warm,” Ruth said, wondering how much this person had seen.
“I’m Dr. Goodman, Alicia Goodman. I’m Lieutenant Peirce’s cardiologist. I understand that in spite of his wound, he hasn’t exhibited any signs of a cardiac event.”
“Yes, that’s what I understand,” she said. “I’m Dr. Ruth Klein; I’m not—”
“I spoke to Dr. Bradshaw, the attending, right after I was notified of the shooting by the lieutenant’s aide, Sergeant Holloway. Are you Dr. Bradshaw’s relief?”
“No, I brought Sam—Lieutenant Peirce—into the hospital after he was shot.”
“Well, he was fortunate to be found by a physician.”
“I’m not a medical doctor. You see, Sam—Lieutenant Peirce—stayed at my cabin last night. When he was shot this morning, I drove him here.”
“Oh, I see. You’re that Dr. Klein. You’re the psychologist he came up here to find. Something about a possible threat on your life?”
“Well, I guess…”
“And he stayed with you last night?”
“How do you know about me?”
“He told me. I’m not just Sam’s cardiologist; we’ve been dating for a year.”
“I didn’t know that he—you both—were in a relationship.”
“Obviously,” Alicia Goodman said.
“No, it was all very innocent. Lieutenant Peirce only stayed because my car had four flat tires, and he couldn’t find his car, and—”
“Dr. Klein,” Franklin said, rushing into the room. “I woke up, and you and the lieutenant were gone. I called the lieutenant’s office, and they told me he had been shot. How is he?”
“He’s in satisfactory condition,” Alicia Goodman said. “It sounds like you had a house full last night, Dr. Klein.”
“Oh, I wasn’t an invited guest,” Franklin said. “I’m afraid I barged in and caught them right in the middle of—”
“Franklin is a patient of mine,” Ruth interrupted. “He has a vivid imagination. Franklin, why don’t we step outside so that the doctor can examine her patient?”
“That’s a good idea,” Alicia said. “And, Doctor, we only use our lips on a patient’s forehead to check for fever in pediatrics.”
Ruth took Franklin by the arm and quickly led him out of the room.
Before leaving the hospital, Ruth asked for a sheet of paper and a pen at the information desk. She stared at the blank sheet for several minutes before writing a short note. Ruth then folded the paper in thirds, addressed it to Sam Peirce, and asked that it be delivered to room 217.
Ruth didn’t speak for a long time on the drive back to the cabin. Franklin rattled on about how frightened he had been for her safety after awakening and finding no one at home.
“I have something very important to discuss with you. I need to talk. I need to tell you what happened.”
“Not now,” Ruth said. “I have a few problems of my own.”
All Ruth wanted to do now was go home. She was happy to get a ride back to the cabin from Franklin, but the ride wasn’t free. Somewhere in the background she could hear him still whining about some pernicious event that had left him devastated. Ruth opened the window to let cold air blow on her face. The sound of the wind subjugated his words and allowed her to escape into the muffled din. Sam was dating his cardiologist. That was now apparent to her. Does he have a thing for doctors? He never said he was available, but he never said he wasn’t. How could she be such a fool? The answer to the question she had asked herself this morning—was she being too easy—was suddenly obvious. Well, that ends now.
The buzz in her ears slowly began to resolve into words. Franklin was still speaking. His pitch was high and the cadence of his words rapid.
“They’re going to arrest me again, and I can’t go back to jail. He was my friend; how could he do this to me?”
“Wait,” Ruth said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Try to calm down, and we can discuss this over a cup of coffee in a few minutes when we get back.”