Chapter Forty-six
Jake almost gasped in shock, looking out the window. It was the BMW. It didn’t belong to Dr. Dave, so it must have been his wife’s. They must’ve driven separately to the memorial service.
Jake’s thoughts raced. He didn’t realize Dr. Dave had known Kathleen, but he must have. Dr. Dave must have been the one who had an affair with Kathleen, not Slater. Dr. Dave would’ve known about Dolomite Road because that’s where the athletic teams ran. Dr. Dave must have killed Voloshin.
Jake turned around just in time to see Dr. Dave pull a handgun from a cabinet drawer, aim it at his chest, and start firing.
CRAK! CRAK! CRAK! went the gunshots. Flames burst from the gun barrel.
Jake dove out of the way, too late. He doubled over reflexively and hit the tile floor. His stomach exploded in searing pain, like his gut caught fire. He curled into the fetal position, gripping his belly. Warm red blood spurted from between his fingers. He tried to get up. Intense pain felled him. He couldn’t move for the agony. He tried to scream but could only whisper, “No.”
“Wow, you’re still alive?” Dr. Dave set the gun on the island. “No matter. You won’t be for long.”
“No, no.” Jake felt sheer terror. Blood sprayed from his belly, spattering the tile floor. He tried to stanch the flow, but he couldn’t. He shifted to get up again, but agonizing pain seared through his entire body.
“Sorry, Jake. I’d put you out of your misery, but the trajectory of the bullet would be wrong. It has to be level and face-to-face. I saw on TV.”
Blood gushed everywhere, spattering the tiles, running in rivulets in the grout. Jake watched it leak from him, helpless. He began to lose consciousness.
“I had to shoot you, in self-defense.” Dr. Dave picked up his knife from beside his dinner plate and crossed to him. “You drove here, enraged about Pam and me. She called and said you weren’t the violent type, so I didn’t call 911. You and I were talking it over, apparently reasonably, but suddenly you became angry and tried to kill me.”
Jake felt dizzy and faint. The pain raged in his stomach.
“You grabbed my steak knife and tried to stab me.” Dr. Dave knelt down with the knife beside Jake, picked up his hand, placed the knife in his palm, and wrapped his fingers around the handle. “I managed to get to my gun and protect myself. Unfortunately, by the time 911 arrived, you had bled to death.”
Jake pulled his hand away, but the knife clattered to the floor. The pain was so intense it immobilized him. He was going to die.
“Are your keys in your pocket?” Dr. Dave plunged his hand into Jake’s pocket, fished around, and pulled out his car keys. “Perfect. The police will find Voloshin’s laptop and phone in the trunk of your car. They’ll figure that you killed him because he was blackmailing you. After all, he had proof that you and Ryan killed Kathleen in the hit-and-run.”
Jake looked around wildly. He couldn’t save himself. He couldn’t get away. Dr. Dave was framing him for Voloshin’s murder.
“Kathleen was one of my favorite clients, and she was incredible in bed. Trust me, the ones with father issues are the best.” Dr. Dave straightened up, hurried to a base cabinet, and took out a Whole Foods bag. A gray computer cord hung out of its open mouth. It had to be Voloshin’s laptop and phone.
Jake didn’t want to die. Pam and Ryan needed him. Blood drenched the floor. He could barely see as Dr. Dave left the kitchen with the bag, then the front door slammed.
Ring! Jake’s cell phone rang again. It had to be Pam. His heart fluttered with hope. It was his only chance. His cell phone was in his right back pocket. He didn’t have any time to lose. Dr. Dave would return any minute.
Jake moved his arm toward his pocket. He cried out in agony. He froze. He couldn’t move. His body began to shake uncontrollably. He couldn’t keep his eyes open. His phone stopped ringing. It was over.
Jake heard the front door slam, then footsteps returning to the kitchen. He roused, opening his eyes to see Dr. Dave knock his dinner plate to the floor, scattering the chicken and rice.
“The proverbial signs of a struggle,” Dr. Dave said, half to himself. He straight-armed the wineglass and bottle off the counter, and they shattered on the tile. He upended a cherrywood stool, then another. He eyed the kitchen, putting a finger to his mouth, then crossed to the oven, grabbed a metal frying pan from the stovetop and threw it clanging to the floor. He walked over to the toaster and pushed it over, then the coffeemaker. He swept newspapers off one of the stools, then glanced over at Jake.
“What, you’re still alive? Get on with it, man. I have to call 911, but you don’t look dead enough.” Dr. Dave took the gun off the counter and walked to Jake, cocking his head as if he were thinking aloud. “I bet I could get away with another shot.”
“No,” Jake whispered, in terror.
“I could say I was afraid you could get up, in fear for my life.” Dr. Dave aimed the gun at Jake.
Suddenly, there was a noise from the front door.
Dr. Dave turned away, toward the sound.
And all hell broke loose.