“Dementia? But this man isn’t old.”

“No, he’s not,” Sherlock said. “Frontal lobe dementia can strike middle-aged people.”

“What are his symptoms?”

Savich said, “The disease reduces his inhibitions, makes him say and do uncharacteristic things—like telling the minister after church services that he’s a sanctimonious prig, telling a woman she looks fat, attacking a guy for eyeing his wife—social gaffes like that. Sometimes he remembers saying these things, sometimes he doesn’t. If he does remember, he tends to dismiss them, doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with saying them.

“As his disease has progressed, Dr. MacLean has started telling tales about his famous patients, even to his tennis partner. Privileged doctor/patient exchanges. Again, he doesn’t necessarily remember what he’s divulged, and if he does remember, he doesn’t think it’s any big deal.

“As you can imagine, Sheriff Hollyfield, this is not good since many of his patients are very famous and very powerful. And since he’s in Washington, we’re talking lots of politicians, some corporate bigwigs.”

Sherlock said, “Dr. MacLean has a huge reputation, he’s known for his bone-deep discretion before this disease struck him.”

Sheriff Hollyfield said, frowning at a dustpan propped against the wall in the corner of the cafeteria, “Thank you for filling in the blanks. That makes it all very straightforward. Someone decided to take him out to protect himself.”

Savich nodded. “Depending on what Dr. MacLean divulged, and to whom, it could ruin patients’ reputations and careers, even send them to prison.

“One person we know for certain Dr. MacLean talked to was, as I already told you, his longtime tennis partner, Arthur Dolan, who died two Fridays ago, after driving off the road and over a cliff near Morristown, New Jersey. The case is still open, but the local cops are leaning toward an accident. The FBI began questioning MacLean’s family and friends. He did indeed speak to several friends, revealed juicy tidbits. However, he didn’t give out any patient names to those particular people.”

Sherlock said, “But still, whoever is behind this was worried Arthur Dolan would spill out names sooner or later, so he or she killed him.”

“A preemptive strike,” said the sheriff, “and that bespeaks a powerful motive, doesn’t it?”

“I’d say so,” said Savich.

The sheriff said, “Did Dr. MacLean remember enough of what he’d said to his tennis partner to be frightened?”

Savich said, “No, but Dr. MacLean’s wife Molly doesn’t believe for a minute it was an accident. She knew, you see, what Timothy was doing, and was frantic. She called his family, in Lexington, told them what was going on. Then someone tried to run him down in Washington, near their house. They flew him back to Lexington, then traveled to Durham to get him diagnosed by a physician at Duke University. After an attempt on his life in Lexington, Mrs. MacLean called Jack to ask for help. The FBI cleared it, and Jack flew out to get him. Then this happened.”

Sheriff Hollyfield said, “Is Dr. MacLean now on any medication? Something to control the symptoms?”

Sherlock said, “Unfortunately, there isn’t any treatment for this disease. It will continue to progress until he dies.”

Sheriff Hollyfield’s beeper went off. He looked down at the number, excused himself, and went off to find a hospital phone to use.

He was back in five minutes. “That was Jack. He said Rachael is threatening to go down to Roy Bob’s and steal one of his cars. He said he’s not really feeling up to chasing her down and tying her to a chair so he wants you guys to come back and talk her into telling us the truth.”

Sheriff Hollyfield looked from one face to the other. “I don’t think you guys are going to sleep for a good while yet. Let’s go back to Parlow and have Rachael tell us why someone walked into Roy Bob’s garage and tried to shoot her.” He paused for a moment. “Why wouldn’t she want to level with you? I mean, she’s Jack’s girlfriend, isn’t she?”

TWELVE

Jack said to Sherlock as she walked into the sheriff’s office, Savich and the sheriff following her, “I think she wants to hotwire a car. I’ve threatened to lock her in a cell, but I really don’t want to since she saved my neck. I need reinforcements.”

Savich said, “If she hotwires a car, that’d be okay, then we could arrest her.”

Sheriff Hollyfield took the chair behind his desk, motioned for them to sit down. He looked at each of them, shaking his head. “I never knew the feds could be so much fun.”

Rachael was wringing her hands. She noticed it and wanted to kick herself. How had she fallen so low so quickly? She looked at the expectant faces surrounding her. “I don’t know how to hotwire a car,” she said.

Sheriff Hollyfield said, “I’m the sheriff of Parlow, Ms. Abercrombie. I would like you to tell me why this yahoo who is currently residing in the Franklin County Hospital tried to kill you.”

Rachael knew anyone in this office could run her license plate, find out who she was in a flash. What with the shooting, she had no doubt that now they’d do it if she didn’t level with them. Well, obviously Quincy and Laurel already knew she was alive, since they’d already tried to kill her again.

She supposed if she had to trust someone, it might as well be three FBI agents and a sheriff.

She nodded slowly, looking at each of them. “There’s no reason to keep my mouth shut now. I don’t know what you can do, but maybe you can help me. If there are FBI leaks, well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? They know I’m not dead. I’m sort of like Dr. MacLean, I guess you could say. The people after me aren’t about to stop until I am.”

“Well then, Rachael Whatever Your Name Is, tell us everything,” Jack said.

“Last Friday night when I got home I found a bottle of red wine on the kitchen table. To be honest here, I was depressed, tired, and I think I would have downed the whole bottle if I hadn’t had a roaring headache. Lucky for me I only had one drink, because the wine was drugged.

“The effects of the drug were wearing off while they were carrying me out on a dock. There were two of them, one carrying me under my arms, the other, my feet. They hadn’t tied my wrists together, simply tied my arms down to my sides. But they had tied my ankles together. I guess right before they threw me into the lake, they must have attached the rope to a block of concrete, though I don’t remember that specifically.