Free Escapement by Rene Gutteridge

didn’t matter if she believed me or not.
    “It’s probably going to be a heart attack,” I continued. “I’ve always had a premonition that I was going to die that way. And also a doctor telling me every six months that I was. So after I kill Abby here, I’m just going to drop dead right on this carpet.” I eyed her. “Don’t try to revive me. It won’t help.”
    Rosemary nodded again, like this was all making perfect sense to her. She kind of reminded me of Beth in the early days, when all we had was hope for a great future. You know the era . . . when you’re broke and destitute, but you’re sure if you just hang in there long enough your life is going to improve.
    “Rosemary,” I said, “will you do me a favor? Could you contact my wife after I’m gone? Tell her where the body is. And tell her that I love her very much. Her name’s Beth and she’s in my contacts list on my phone under Hershey Kiss.”
    “Sure. Okay. Of course.”
    I looked at Abbott. His eyes were glazing over. The medicine was probably putting him into a semicoma. “Abby! Snap out of it!”
    He flickered to life.
    “So,” I said to Rosemary, “Abby tells me that you talked him out of suicide.”
    “I believe life is precious and a gift from God. Every part of our lives. Even the end. I told Abbott that God had a purpose and a plan for every minute, even as he was dying.”
    “Yeah. He looks real purposeful over there.”
    “I know it doesn’t seem that way. In the last few weeks, though, Abbott has had some epiphanies about his life and God’s will for it.”
    “So God just forgave him for everything? Even though he’s made many people miserable? And those are his words, not mine.”
    “Yes, God forgave him. Just like he’ll forgive you if you ask him.”
    “God and I aren’t on speaking terms, so I guess I’m out of luck.” I turned to Abbott. “So how many people did you trample to get all this wealth?”
    “Too many,” Abbott said.
    “How did you get so wealthy, anyway?”
    Abbott paused for a moment. What was he, a Wall Street heavy or something? Was I staring down an anemic Bernie Madoff?
    “I’m a psychologist,” he said softly.
    The words sat in the air for a moment.
    “I wrote a book about nervous breakdowns that sold three million copies.”
    “Awesome.” I tried to smirk but it didn’t really launch off my face like I’d hoped.
    Rosemary clasped her hands together. “Maybe Abbott would like to share his views about your visit from Time and this seven hours you’re speaking about.”
    “No thanks. I’d really like everyone to just shut up.” My eyes were slicing back and forth from him to her like some paranoid freak.
    “But, Mattie,” Rosemary said, her eyes locked on me, “what if you’re not going to die? What if your mind is playing tricks on you and this isn’t real?”
    “Shut up!” I yelled. Then I felt bad because Rosemary has one of those faces that you feel guilty for yelling at.
    She wasn’t deterred. “Mattie, have you been under a great deal of stress lately?”
    “Not at all,” I said smoothly. “I lost my job because I’m fat, and then I lost my wife because I lost my job, and then I lost my will to get up in the morning because I lost my wife. So everything is going perfectly fine.”
    “See!” It was like she didn’t speak sarcasm. “That could be it. Abbott, tell him. This could be his mind playing tricks on him, right?”
    Abbott shifted uncomfortably. “Rosemary, let the man be. He doesn’t want to be psychoanalyzed.”
    I smiled all Cheshire cat–like. This could be fun. I mean, obviously he didn’t want to play. So why not make him?
    “Why don’t you enlighten me, Abby?” I said, threading my fingers together. “Am I going nuts?”
    Abbott sat there for a long time, breathing shallowly, his eyes staring at the carpet. Then he looked at me but said, “Rosemary, were all the numbers on the pocket watch that Mattie showed you?”
    Rosemary’s