Free Escapement by Rene Gutteridge Page B

of my weight. Tell her that I estimated he was responsible for at least 180 pounds.”
    For some reason Rosemary smiled. I don’t know why. But I smiled too. Good grief, this was not going down at all how it had in my head.
    “I’m cold . . . ,” Abbott said suddenly.
    Rosemary’s attention snapped to Abbott and she stood. He was shivering like we were in the Arctic.
    “I need to get him an afghan,” she said to me. “It’s right in that same hall closet.”
    “Fine,” I said, following her once my knees creaked to life. I had to keep an eye on her at that closet. I didn’t think she knew the gun was in the shoe box labeled “power cables,” but I had to be sure. She reached right by it and pulled out the afghan, neatly folded like the rich people do it. She took it back to the room and I settled into my chair, pulling out the watch, hoping against hope that all the numbers would be there. Alas, they were not. The second hand bothered me, though. It’s like it was growing louder, like it was the only sound in the room.
    I glanced up to make sure Rosemary and Abbott were still where they should be and gasped. I gasped so loud that I choked myself with the air inflow, coughing and wheezing while still managing to hyperventilate.
    Rosemary’s eyes grew wide. “Dear God, this is it . . . He’s having a heart attack!” she yelled as if we were in a crowded restaurant and there might be people around to help. “Mattie! Hold on! I’ve got you! I know CPR!”
    I halted her with one outstretched hand. “I’m fine,” I wheezed.
    “You’re not! You’re pale as a ghost! Let me check your blood pressure.” She didn’t wait for permission. Before I knew it, she was by my side, the cuff in her hand. But unfortunately for us both, it was too small to wrap around my arm. She dropped it to the floor and her fingers pressed against my wrist.
    But I was still staring across the room at Abbott—more accurately, at the really large Thomas Kinkade painting that lay across his body in the form of an afghan.
    Abbott was staring back at me. “What?”
    I couldn’t speak. Was it a sign? Had God just sent me a sign in the form of a brightly lit lamppost with snow on it and evergreens in the background?
    “It’s coming down,” Rosemary said, obliviously focused on this as a medical issue. “Whew . . .”
    And then, without warning in the fullest sense of the term, I began bawling hysterically. At my weight, you can just call it blubbering. I wailed like no man my size has ever wailed.
    “There, there,” Rosemary said, patting me on the back. “It’s okay. It’s okay, honey.”
    “What’s the matter?” Abbott asked, and I knew he meant beyond the scenario in which we all had found ourselves.
    I sobbed, “I think I just got a sign from God.”
    Abbott glanced around him, like he might spot an angel or something.
    “It’s the . . . the afghan,” I said, pointing.
    Nobody understood. How could they?
    But I felt something. I think it was guilt. Or maybe pre-remorse. Wasn’t sure, but suddenly the idea of slicing Abbott open or banging him on the side of the head didn’t seem like a good one.
    Then my phone vibrated to life. I’d completely forgotten it was there in the front pocket of my shirt. I hardly received phone calls these days. Most of my friends, who were also my coworkers, had stopped calling. And Beth was the only one I cared to see on the caller ID.
    It was a number I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t even an Oklahoma area code. It piqued my interest. Maybe this was another sign. Rosemary and Abbott watched me carefully as I stared at it, wondering if I should . . . or shouldn’t . . . or should . . .
    I answered, clearing my throat and trying not to sound like a serial killer or a blubbering idiot. “This is Matthew.”
    “Matthew Bigham?” the male voice asked, pronouncing my name correctly.
    “Yes? Who is this?”
    “My name is Detective Warren Caffield. I am with the