“Give me patience!” Terese cried, rolling her eyes heavenward. She collected herself and took a breath. “Okay, fine. With the patients it wasn’t you, it was the bacteria. In this case it will be the bullet, not you. How’s that? Does that satisfy this weird sense of responsibility of yours?”
“This is different,” Richard said. “It’s not the same at all.”
“Richard, we don’t have any choice. Otherwise you’ll go to jail for the rest of your life.”
Richard hesitantly looked over at the gun on the coffee table.
“Get it!” Terese commanded when she saw him eyeing the pistol.
Richard wavered.
“Come on, Richard,” Terese urged.
Richard went over and irresolutely picked up the gun. Holding it by the barrel as well as the handle, he cocked it.
“Good!” Terese said encouragingly. “Now go over there and do it.”
“Maybe if we take off the handcuffs, and he tries to run, I can . . .”
Richard began. But he stopped in midsentence when Terese strode over to him with her eyes blazing. Without warning she slapped him. Richard recoiled from the blow, and his own anger flared.
“Don’t even talk like that, you fool,” Terese spat. “We are not taking any more chances. Understand?”
Richard put a hand to his face and then looked at it as if he expected to see blood. His initial fury quickly abated. He realized that Terese was right. Slowly he nodded.
“Okay, now get to it,” Terese said. “I’ll be outside.”
Terese strode to the door. “Do it quickly, but don’t make a mess,” she said. Then she was gone.
Silence settled over the room. Richard didn’t move. He only turned the gun over slowly in his hands, as if he were inspecting it. Finally, Jack spoke up: “I don’t know whether I’d listen to her. You might face prison for the outbreaks if they can prove it was you behind them, but killing me like this in cold blood means the death penalty here in New York.”
“Shut up,” Richard screamed. He rushed into the kitchen and assumed a shooting stance directly behind Jack.
A full minute went by which seemed like an hour to Jack. He’d been holding his breath. Unable to hold it any longer, he exhaled—and immediately began coughing uncontrollably.
The next thing he knew, Richard tossed the gun onto the kitchen table. Then he ran to the door. He opened it and shouted out into the night: “I can’t do it!”
Almost immediately Terese reappeared. “You goddamned coward!” she told him.
“Why don’t you do it yourself?” Richard spat back.
Terese started to respond, but instead she strode to the kitchen table, snapped up the gun, and walked around to face Jack. Holding the pistol in both hands, she pointed it at his face. Jack stared back at her, directly into her eyes.
The tip of the gun barrel began to waver. All at once Terese let out a barrage of profanity and threw the gun back onto the table.
“Ah, iron woman isn’t as hard as she thought,” Richard taunted.
“Shut up,” Terese said. She stalked back to the couch and sat down.
Richard sat across from her. They eyed each other irritably. “This is becoming a bad joke,” she said.
“I think we are all strung out,” Richard said.
“That’s probably the first thing you’ve said that’s true,” Terese said.
“I’m exhausted. What time is it?”
“It’s after midnight,” Richard said.
“No wonder,” Terese said. “I’ve got a headache.”
“I’m not feeling so great myself,” Richard admitted.
“Let’s sleep,” Terese said. “We’ll deal with this problem in the morning. Right now I can’t even see straight.”
Jack woke up at four-thirty in the morning, shivering. The fire had gone out and the temperature in the room had fallen. The rag rug had provided some warmth. Jack had managed to pull it over him.
The room was almost completely dark. Terese and Richard had not left on any lights when they’d retired to separate bedrooms. What little light there was drifted in from outside through the window over the sink. It was just enough for Jack to discern the vague shapes of the furniture.
Jack didn’t know what made him feel worse: fear or the flu. At least his cough had not worsened. The rimantadine had seemingly protected him from developing primary influenza pneumonia.