I start toward the door. “Let me go, and I’ll do what I can to keep you out of prison.”
“What? You’ll put in a good word for me? Tell them I’m a good boy who’s been misunderstood?” He laughs, but his expression falls abruptly. “Go through that door or I will drag you.”
Pain thrums in my arm where he hit me with the Maglite earlier. I don’t let it keep me from working at the binds on my wrists. I take small steps, keenly aware of Armitage behind me. My mind scrambles for a resolution to this that won’t get me killed. Spin and kick the weapon from his hand? Break away from him and run?
I reach the door. He steps around me and pushes it open. I step into the night. “Is that your truck?” I ask. “Are you involved with what happened to Paul and the children?”
He doesn’t respond. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. In the glow of the flashlight, I discern the blankness of his expression. It’s as if he’s gone someplace inside himself. A place where he’s no longer hindered by fear or conscience. A dangerous place I can’t reach.
We cross the lot and enter the house via the deck. He opens the French door and then we’re in his office. I stop, thinking we’ve reached our destination, but he sets his hand between my shoulder blades and shoves me toward the hall. “Keep going.”
I start toward the reception area. In the back of my mind I wonder if my dispatcher has tried to raise me on the radio after my abrupt disconnect earlier. I wonder if she became concerned when I didn’t respond. I wonder if she notified T.J. and he’s out looking for me. That’s a best-case scenario, because no one in my department knows I’m here. I parked the Explorer out of sight from the street. Armitage isn’t a suspect; he’s not even on the radar. No, I think darkly. No one’s going to come. If I want to survive, I’m going to have to get my hands on the gun.
Keys jingle and I glance over to see Armitage unlock one of the exam rooms. He opens the door and then steps back. “Inside.”
“You can’t—”
He grabs my arm and manhandles me into the room. The light flicks on. It’s a small space, about twelve feet square, with a colorful mural on the wall depicting an Amish boy playing with a Labrador. To my left, there’s a sink and counter. A glass canister of tongue depressors. Another filled with cotton-tipped swabs. A Dr. Seuss calendar hangs on the wall. Wood cabinets painted country white. A single window covered with blinds. A frilly valance at the top.
Armitage goes to the counter, pulls a key chain from his pocket, and unlocks an upper cabinet. He’s holding my .38 in his right hand and uses his left to remove a small plastic medical kit from a shelf. Glancing at me, he sets it on the counter and begins rummaging inside.
I concentrate on loosening the scarf at my wrists, but I’m not making much headway. There’s no phone in the room, but I recall seeing one in the reception area. I wonder if I can reach it before he shoots me in the back.
Armitage is still standing at the counter, pulling items from the kit and setting them next to the sink. Rubber tubing. Packages of needles. A glass vial, the label of which is too small for me to read. A prepackaged syringe. I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I think I’ve landed upon a solution to the problem. A little ingenuity and some luck and I might just pull it off.”
I visualize myself rushing him, knocking him off balance, grabbing the gun with my bound hands, turning and firing blind. Emptying the cylinder into him, his body jerking with every slug. But while I’m proficient with a firearm, hitting a target with my hands bound behind my back isn’t a realistic scenario.
He turns to me, motions toward the exam table. “Why don’t you slide up on the table for me?”
Behind him on the counter, I see a syringe affixed with a small-gauge intravenous needle. I have no idea what’s in it. The one thing I’m certain of is that he plans to harm me.
“I’m not going to let you use that,” I say.
“We’ll see.”
I move toward the exam table as if I’m going to obey, then I lunge at him. Bending, I go in low and ram his abdomen with my shoulder, putting the full force of my body weight behind it. He grunts and careens backward, striking the counter. Snarling an expletive, he raises the gun. I kick it from his hand and the weapon clatters to the floor. I scramble toward it, kick it toward the door. It skitters into the hall like a hockey puck.
Armitage dives at the gun. Knowing I don’t stand a chance of wresting it from him, I sprint in the opposite direction toward the window. Ducking my head to protect my face and neck, I launch myself at it, shoulder first. The wood blinds crack. Glass shatters. But the blinds keep me from going through. I’m trying to elbow past them when hands slam down on the back of my shirt. A scream rips from my throat as he yanks me back and slings me to the floor.
With my hands bound, I can’t break my fall. My head strikes the tile and darkness falls like a curtain.
CHAPTER 23
The first thing I become aware of is bright light raining down on me from above. I’m lying on the exam table with my arms pinned beneath me. I try to shift, but someone presses me back. A headache pounds at my brain hard enough to make me nauseous, and for a moment I think I’m going to throw up.
“That was a foolish thing to do.”
I try to focus on the face above me. Armitage stands over me, but I’m seeing him as if through waves of heat. I blink, try to clear my vision, but it doesn’t help. Snatches of memory trickle into my consciousness. I remember going to the clinic. Finding the truck in the barn. The struggle with Armitage …
“You’re going to have a bump on your head. That’s unfortunate.” He looks at me the way an emergency room physician might look at a patient who’s been brought in due to some ridiculous, avoidable accident, which adds a weird twist to an already bizarre situation. “How are you feeling?”
I raise my head and look around. The room spins. I feel lightheaded and sick to my stomach. I wonder if I sustained a concussion in the fall. Then I remember the syringe and terrible realization dawns.
“What the hell did you do?” My voice is phlegmy, my words slurred.
“Word around town is that you’ve had some problems with alcohol, Chief Burkholder.” He’s wearing studious-looking glasses and peers down at me through the bifocals. “Do you know how patients with acute alcoholism are treated when they enter rehab and go into detox? It’s quite fascinating, actually. I wrote a thesis on the subject when I was in college, before I decided to go into pediatric genetics.”
I stare at him, trying to make sense of his words, the situation. Beneath me, the exam table dips as if I’m on a raft that’s careening down some wild, white-water river.
“The abrupt cessation of alcohol can send a patient’s body into severe physical withdrawal, which can be very unpleasant. As a preventative measure, the attending physician may administer an IV infusion of grain alcohol.” A faint smile traces his lips. “The college kids call it Everclear, I believe, though I’ve never indulged in any of that brain-cell-killing behavior myself.”
“What did you do?” My words are garbled. When I try to rise, he pushes me back down. “What the hell did you do!” But I recognize the effects. I feel the alcohol flowing through my veins, attacking my coordination and balance, affecting my reflexes and thought processes. “You son of a bitch.”
He tsks. “I administered the injection while you were unconscious. Directly into your bloodstream with a small-gauge hypodermic at the groin, where no one will find the site.” Gently, he pats my left thigh an inch or so from my crotch. “Sorry.”
I can’t bring his face into focus. My eyes keep trying to roll back. I know the table isn’t moving, but the rocking sensation is so real, I feel as if I’m going to be flung into space. In the back of my mind, I wonder if he gave me a fatal dose. If he’s waiting for me to take my last breath.
“Why would you do that?” I twist and try to slide off the table. “Why?”
>
He grasps my throat, pushes me back. For the first time I notice the latex gloves on his hands. “We’re going to take a little ride.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
The corners of his mouth curve. “Do you know that old stone quarry a mile or so down the road? The one off that dirt track by the Shilt farm? I’m told the kids swim there in summer.”
I’m so overwhelmed by the bizarreness of what’s happening that it takes me a moment to recall the place he’s referring to. It’s an abandoned quarry known for its deep, cold water.
“You’re out of your mind,” I slur.
“I’m afraid you’re about to exercise some extraordinarily poor judgment this evening, Chief Burkholder. Being a peace officer, you should know better than to drink and drive.” He brandishes a small bottle of vodka. “Your drink of choice, no?”
“Nobody will believe that.”
“People always believe the worst. Especially if it’s juicy.” His smile is cruel. “You see, you’re going to have an unfortunate accident this evening.”
“You can’t do that.” My thoughts are so muddled I can barely speak. “You’re insane.”
“I assure you, I’m quite sane.” Bending, he puts his mouth next to my ear and whispers, “You’re going to drive your Explorer into the quarry. You’ll be belted in, drunk out of your mind and, unfortunately for you, unable to escape. The weight of the engine will carry your vehicle to the bottom some sixty feet down. It’s a tragic accident and the perfect murder rolled into one.”
The cigarette stench of his breath repulses me. “There’s no such thing as the perfect murder.”
“Oh, there might be a few questions. An autopsy will be conducted.” His eyes narrow on mine. “They won’t find the injection site. And any bruises you’ve sustained tonight can be explained away in your struggle to escape the sinking vehicle. With so much alcohol in your system and this bottle of vodka as evidence…” He shrugs. “On the bright side, the alcohol will act as a sort of anesthesia and ease your discomfort. Drowning isn’t such a bad way to go, is it? No blood, anyway.”
I roll, swing my feet to the floor, but my balance is skewed. I stagger and go to my knees. My head spins and I fall onto my side and end up flopping around like a fish.
I’m aware of Armitage coming around the table and pulling me to my feet. I try to curse him, but my words are unintelligible. “Sonva bitch.”
The room dips and I lean against the exam table. Somewhere in the periphery of my thoughts I’m aware that my face and hands have gone numb. I can barely hold my head upright. My mouth is so dry I can’t lick my lips. Unconsciousness beckons, a dark, safe cave I could crawl into, curl up, and sleep until this nightmare is over …
My knees wobble and I almost go down again. Holding me upright, Armitage drags me into the hall. I hear my boots against the floor, but I can’t seem to keep my feet under me. He takes me to his office and through the French doors and then we’re outside, heading toward the gravel area behind the clinic.
“I took the liberty of moving your vehicle while you were out. I hope you don’t mind.” He chuckles, and all I can think is that this man has descended into the deepest depths of lunacy.
We reach the Explorer. He props me against the quarter panel, yanks open the passenger door. The instant his hands are off me, I lunge away and totter toward the road. There’s not much traffic this time of night, but if a car happens by, I’ll flag it down. I only manage to run a few feet when Armitage catches me. I try to twist away from his grasp and end up going to my knees.
“Get off me!” I try to get my feet under me, dig in with my heels, but he drags me back to the Explorer.
“Get in,” he snarls.
When I don’t move, he shoves me onto the seat. I lash out with my feet, send him backward with my foot. Twisting, I grapple for the door latch with my bound hands, manage to slam it closed. I hit the lock with my elbow. Hampered by my bound hands and the alcohol in my bloodstream, I scramble over the console, twist, hit the door locks with the heel of my hand. I look for the keys in the ignition, but they’re not there.
Then I hear the locks disengage. Through the window I see the keys dangling from Armitage’s hand. He opens the driver’s side door. Grinding his teeth, he pushes me back over the console and into the passenger seat. Even through the haze of alcohol, I feel the pain of having my arms pinned behind me as he leans close and buckles me in.
A sense of doom envelops me as he starts the engine and pulls onto the road. The gravity of my situation hits home with paralyzing clarity. There’s no doubt in my mind he’s going to kill me. For the first time I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop him.
I can just make out his profile in the dim light from the dash. He’s muttering to himself. Nonsensical words only he can understand. It’s as if he’s in his own world and I’m not there. My eyes fall on my police radio mounted below the dash.
I test the seat belt, but the straps are tight against me. I yank against the fabric binding my wrists, hoping to leave bruises or chafing so that, if I die tonight, the police will know it wasn’t by my own hand. It’s a desperate, terrifying thought.
Armitage turns onto a gravel road. Tree branches scrape both sides of the vehicle. Dust whirls in the glow of the headlights. He drives too fast, as if he’s in a hurry to get this over with and an overwhelming sense of despair grips me. I think of Tomasetti, how we left things, and I realize how desperately I want to live. I’m not going to let this son of a bitch end my life. Hunkering down in the seat, I lift my leg and ram my boot against the shifter.
Gears grind. The Explorer lurches to a stop. Armitage screams, “You bitch!”
I ram the heel of my boot against the ignition key. The engine dies. Armitage tries to backhand me, but I shrink away and he misses. I twist around and try to get my hands on the seat belt buckle. Simultaneously, I ram my knee against the door handle, hoping to open it. Once. Twice. If I can get out and run, I might be able to lose him in the woods.…
Armitage punches the back of my head. My forehead strikes the passenger window hard enough to crack the glass, but I barely feel the pain.
His nails scrape my scalp as he slaps his hand down on the top of my head and grabs a handful of hair. Fire streaks across my scalp when he yanks me toward him. All I can think is that he’s leaving evidence. Even if he takes my life, he won’t get away with it.
I lean against the seat, breathing hard, my head spinning.
“Don’t do that again.” Glaring at me, he starts the engine and puts the Explorer in gear. There’s sweat on his temple. A tuft of hair hanging low on his forehead. A crazy light in his eyes.
“The cops are going to appreciate all the evidence you’re leaving behind, you son of a bitch,” I tell him.
He sneers. “I think all the little fishes and turtles down there in that quarry will take care of any so-called evidence.”
Armitage turns onto another dirt road that will take us to the quarry. Tall grass whispers against the floorboards. Tree branches scrape the doors as we bump over ruts and rocks. Then the headlights play over the black surface of the water.
He stops the Explorer scant feet from the bank and engages the emergency brake. I look out over the water, black and glimmering, and fear sweeps through me. Panic threatens, but I fend it off. I know that if I want to live, I’ve got to keep my head and think my way out of this.
Beside me, Armitage grips the wheel and gazes out over the water. “I don’t know if you can believe this, but before … this mess with Paul, I’d never hurt anyone in my life. I’d never broken the law.” He says the words without looking at me. “I love her, you know.”
He doesn’t have to say her name; I know he’s talking about Mattie. “She’ll never forgive you for this. She’ll never forgive you for what you did to her husband and children.”
He shoots me a look I don’t understand. “Loyal to the end. That’s admirable. Really. Unfortunately, it’s not going to save
your life.”
I look into his eyes, seeking some shred of humanity, but there’s nothing there. “Don’t do this, Mike. I’m a cop. If you kill me, you’ll get the death penalty. They’ll fucking fry you. Let me go and you’ll be out of prison in twenty years.”
Without speaking, he gets out and comes around to the passenger side. I hit the lock with my elbow, but he uses the remote key and gains entry. Leaning close, he reaches in and unfastens my seat belt.
“Let’s get this over with,” he says.
I stare at him, fear and adrenaline pounding through me even through the effects of the alcohol. “If the police find my body in the passenger seat, they’ll know this wasn’t an accident.”
“Nice try. But if you read up on the Chappaquiddick incident, you’d know Mary Jo Kopechne’s body was found in the back seat. You see, when cars become submerged, the people inside sort of scramble around, trying to find their way out. It’ll be fine.”
Horrific images fly in my mind’s eye, but I shove them back, refusing to believe my life will end this way. That’s when I realize the effects of the alcohol are starting to wane. I’m still impaired, but my head is clearer. I’m able to think. My coordination is beginning to return.
Gripping the back of my neck, he forces me to lean forward, pressing my forehead against the dashboard. He clips my cell phone to my belt then tosses my radio onto the seat. I’m surprised when he cuts the binds at my wrists. The instant my hands are free, I lunge at him, wrap my arms around his hips, drive him backward. He tries to keep me in the car, but I brace my feet against the rocker panel and shove off. He reels backward. I go with him and we land in the weeds with me on top. An animalistic sound erupts from his throat and the next thing I know he punches me below my ribs. The air leaves my lungs in a rush. I double over, retching, fighting for air. I mentally grab for consciousness, drag it back. But I know I’m done. Better to save my energy for what comes next.