David realized that Van Slyke was in the grip of an acute anxiety attack, probably triggered by his discovery of David hiding in his home. Remembering the man’s psychiatric history, David thought there was a good chance Van Slyke was psychotic that very moment.
David thought about mentioning Calhoun’s truck as a way of explaining his presence, but he quickly decided against it. Who knew what had transpired between Van Slyke and the private investigator? Mention of Calhoun might only exacerbate Van Slyke’s psychotic state.
David decided that the best thing for him to do was to try to befriend the man, to acknowledge that he had problems, to admit that he was under stress, to tell him that David understood that he was suffering, and to tell him that David was a doctor and wanted to help him.
Unfortunately, Van Slyke gave David little chance to act on his plan. Without a word, Van Slyke reached out, grabbed David by his jacket, and rudely yanked him from the stairwell into the cellar itself.
Overwhelmed by Van Slyke’s strength, David sprawled headfirst onto the dirt floor, crashing into a stack of cardboard boxes.
“Get up!” Van Slyke screamed. His voice echoed in the cellar.
David warily got to his feet.
Van Slyke was shaking so hard he was practically convulsing.
“Get into the root cellar,” he yelled.
“Calm down,” David said, speaking for the first time. Trying to sound like a therapist, he told Van Slyke that he understood he was upset.
Van Slyke responded by indiscriminately firing the gun. Bullets whizzed by David’s head and ricocheted around the basement until they embedded themselves in an overhead floor joist, the stairs, or one of the wooden doors.
David leaped into the root cellar and cowered against the far wall, terrified of what Van Slyke might do next. Now he was convinced that Van Slyke was acutely psychotic.
Van Slyke shut the heavy wooden door with such force, plaster rained down on top of David’s head. David didn’t move. He could hear Van Slyke moving around in the cellar. Then he heard the sound of the hasp of the root cellar door being closed over its staple and a padlock being applied. David heard the click as the lock was closed.
After a few minutes of silence, David stood up. He looked around his cell. The only light source was a single bare bulb hanging by a cord from the ceiling. The room was bounded by large granite foundation blocks. On one wall were bins filled with fruit that appeared mummified. On the other wall shelves lined with jars of preserves reached to the ceiling.
David moved to the door and put his ear to it. He heard nothing. Looking more closely at the door he saw fresh scratch marks across it. It was as if someone had been trying desperately to claw his way out.
David knew it was futile but he had to try: he leaned his shoulder against the door and pushed it. It didn’t budge. Failing in that, David started to make a complete tour of the cell when the light went out, plunging him into absolute darkness.
Sherwood buzzed his secretary and asked what time the appointment was scheduled with David Wilson.
“Three o’clock,” Sharon said.
“What time is it now?” he asked. He was looking at the pocket watch he’d fished out of his vest.
“It’s three-fifteen,” she said.
“That’s what I thought. No sign of him?”
“No, sir.”
“If he shows up, tell him he’ll have to reschedule,” Sherwood said. “And bring in the agenda for tonight’s hospital executive board meeting.”
Sherwood took his finger off the intercom button. It irritated him that David Wilson would be late for a meeting that he had called to request. To Sherwood it was a deliberate snub, since punctuality was a cardinal virtue in his value system.
Sherwood lifted his phone and dialed Harold Traynor. Before he put in time on the executive meeting material, Sherwood wanted to be sure that the meeting hadn’t been canceled. One had been back in 1981 and Sherwood still hadn’t gotten over it.
“Six P.M.,” Traynor said. “On schedule. Want to walk up together? It’s a nice evening, and we won’t be having too many more of these until next summer.”