Vaguely, I’m aware of him rising, lifting me, and carrying me back to the vehicle. He shoves me into the passenger seat. Wheezing, I reach for him, grasp his shirt with my fists. But he disentangles himself, slams the door, and locks it.
I’m not claustrophobic, but I feel the dark cloak of it descend. I’m trying to unclip my cell phone from my belt when the driver’s side door opens. Armitage leans in, releases the emergency brake and puts the Explorer in gear. The transmission engages. The Explorer rolls forward.
Terror rips through me. “Help me!” I try to open the door, but it’s locked. When I start to scramble over the console, he thrusts the bottle of vodka at me, splashing the alcohol in my eyes. I’m too frightened to feel the burn. I claw at his arm, but he shoves me back. He tosses the bottle and my .38 onto the driver’s side floor. I make a wild grab for the gun, but miss.
“Safe travels.” Armitage slams the door and lurches back.
“Fuck you!” I scream.
The Explorer rolls down the bank and plunges into the water.
CHAPTER 24
The quarry bank is a sheer drop-off, like that first big plunge of some monster roller coaster. The Explorer jolts as the front tires roll off the rocky ledge. Steam sizzles and shoots out from under the hood. Through the windshield, I see the dual slash of headlights through tea-colored water. The sight of that water washing over the hood induces a moment of mindless panic.
On instinct, I press my hand against the dash, as if I can somehow prevent the vehicle from the inevitable nosedive. Water pours in around my feet and climbs up my legs at an alarming rate. The smells of moss and fish and mud fill my nostrils. Panic slashes me, a heavy blade busting through bone. I fight to stay calm, but some fears are so ingrained they can’t be overcome by logic or reason.
Water rises over the dash. The Explorer noses down at a steep angle. Gravity throws me face down in the water. I come up sputtering, suck in a breath, and then I thrust my body across the console. Arms outstretched, I plunge into the water and feel around for my .38. Past the steering wheel. The front of the seat. I touch the floor mat. The brake pedal. Where the hell is my gun? All the while the vehicle fills and begins to sink.
I jam my hands into the space between the door and the seat. My fingertips brush against steel. I make a wild, blind grab, and my hand finds the barrel. Twisting, I feel my way through the darkness to the driver’s side door. Lungs bursting, I fumble for the latch, yank it hard, but the door doesn’t budge. The pressure of the water, I realize.
Gripping the .38, I push off the seat with my feet to find air. My face smashes into the cage that separates the backseat from the front. There’s air beyond, but I can’t get to it. I kick the driver’s side window with both feet. Once. Twice. I can’t get enough thrust to break the glass.
I touch the window with my hand to orient myself. Then I bring up the .38 and fire twice. A muffled plunk! sounds. The concussion brushes against my face. I can’t see; I don’t know if I hit my target. Twisting, I bring up my feet and mule kick the glass. Relief crashes over me when I feel it give beneath my boots. I thrash, snake through the window, and kick clear of the vehicle. For an instant, I don’t know up from down. Then I catch a glimpse of the headlights below me, and I swim in the opposite direction.
The cold and darkness crush me. My need for air is an agony. Ears bursting, I claw toward the surface. My lungs convulse, and I suck in water. Coughing wracks my body. Water in my mouth. In my eyes and ears. And I know this is what it’s like to die.
I break the surface, choking and retching. Drowning is not a silent thing and terrible sounds tear from my throat as I struggle to breathe. I’m aware of the vast emptiness of deep water beneath me, my boots and clothing tugging me down. Treading water, I look around, try to get my bearings. I’m a strong swimmer and dog-paddle toward shore. Five feet from land, my feet make purchase on a rocky ledge. I reach out, feel moss-slick rocks. I crawl through a stand of cattails. When I’m clear of the water, I collapse in the weeds and throw up twice. For several minutes, I lay there, gasping and shivering and nauseous. When I can move, I reach for my phone, but it’s dead.
That’s when it strikes me that Armitage could be standing on the bank, waiting to finish me off. Sitting up, I scan the shore, but there’s no sign of him. I suspect he’s already hoofing it back to the clinic, which is a mile or so down the road, to hide any evidence that I was there. With no radio or phone, my only option is to walk to the nearest house.
My boots are filled with water so I toe them off, dump the water, and put them back on. I struggle to my feet, but stagger, nearly go to my knees. My clothes are waterlogged. I’m lightheaded and seriously cold, shaking uncontrollably. I don’t care about any of it because I’m alive.
Waist-high weeds crackle beneath my feet as I stumble up the bank. At the brink, I stop and listen, but the night is silent. I skirt the north side of the quarry and then follow the path back to the road. I’ve gone only a few feet when I spot Armitage thirty yards ahead, running along the shoulder.
Sticking to the shadows of the trees that grow alongside the road, I follow him. When he reaches the clinic, he cuts through the parking lot and bypasses the front door, going around the right side of the building. I hang back, out of sight, and watch him disappear. I wait until I see a light in the window and then walk along the tree line toward the rear.
I reach the deck. I see Armitage through the French doors. He’s disheveled and pacing his office. He looks panicked and scared, his hands going repeatedly to his head and clenching his hair as if he’s going to pull it out. After a several minutes of that, he goes to his desk, collapses into the chair, and puts his face in his hands.
Holding my .38 at the ready, I step onto the deck. My feet are silent as I sidle to the French doors, one of which stands open a few inches. Four feet away, Armitage sits at his desk with his back to me, his phone to his ear. I wonder who he’s calling and why. I ease open the door. The hinge creaks. Armitage jumps to his feet, spins to face me, makes a sound like the growl of some startled animal. The phone falls to the floor at his feet.
I step inside, level the .38, center mass. “Get your hands up. Get them up now!”
He blinks at me as if emerging from a fugue. His face goes corpse white. His mouth opens, his jaws working, but he doesn’t make a sound. He doesn’t obey my command.
“Get your hands up or I will shoot you!” I shout. “Get them up! Get on your knees! Now!”
His hands fly up. His eyes go wild. I see the fight or flight instinct kick in and I know he’s not going to go down easy.
“On your knees!” I shout. “Get your hands behind your head! Do it now or I will put a bullet in you!”
My pulse skitters wildly, a high-octane mix of adrenaline and rage and fear that’s powerful enough to make me shake. But my gun arm is steady, my finger snug against the trigger. I have no compunction about using deadly force if I have to.
“This is not my fault!” he chokes out as he lowers himself to his knees.
“Get on the floor, you sick fuck. Facedown.”
He goes to his hands and knees and then lays flat. “I tried to get to you. After the vehicle went into the water. I tried, but it went down too fast.”
I glance down at his feet. His slacks are wet only to his knees. His shoes are covered with mud. “I guess that’s why your clothes are wet,” I say nastily.
“I swear! I—”
“Put your hands behind your back.”
He obeys, keeping his head turned toward me. “I didn’t want to do this. I’m no killer.”
Blocking his voice lest I lose control and ram my fist into his face, I pull the handcuffs from the compartment on my belt and walk toward him. “Do not fucking move or I swear to God I’ll put a bullet in your heart. Do you understand?” I kneel and set my knee in the small of his back. Holding my gun with my right hand, I snap the cuffs onto his wrists with my left and crank them down tight.
“You son of a
bitch.” Relief is a sigh against my nerves as I holster the .38. Rising, I look around for a phone, spot the wireless on the floor. Keeping an eye on him, I snatch it up and dial the station. Mona answers on the first ring. “Painters Mill PD!”
I identify myself and tell her, “Ten twenty-six.”
“Chief! My God, I’ve been trying to get you on the radio for an hour. T.J.’s looking—”
“I’m at the Hope Clinic. Tell T.J. to get out here as fast as he can.”
“Roger that.” In the stunned silence that follows, I hear the click of computer keys. “He’s seven minutes out.”
“Ten thirty-nine.”
“Ten four.”
I toss the phone onto the desk and look at Armitage. I feel like kicking him after what he did to me. He’s watching me, his expression telling me he might try to talk his way out of this, so I put my temper aside and recite to him his Miranda rights. “Do you understand those rights?”
He nods, then sighs, puts his forehead against the floor as if he’s considering pounding it against the wood. “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”
“What way is that?”
“No one was supposed to get hurt.”
I hear my molars grinding. “What the hell did you expect when you rammed that buggy with your truck?”
“It wasn’t like that. It was an accident. I was frightened. I hit my head and I suspect I was in shock. I panicked.”
“You killed an Amish man and two children. You devastated a family.”
He chokes out a sound of indefinable emotion. “I know what happened. Like I told you, it was an accident. Once I came to and realized what had happened, I felt … it was the worst feeling I’ve ever experienced in my life.”
“I guess that’s why you stopped to render aid while that man and two innocent children were lying on the shoulder dying. That’s why you called nine one one. And that must be the reason why you tried to kill me tonight. Because it was an accident, right? Because you care?”
He shakes his head as if disbelieving I could be so callous. “You don’t understand.”
“I don’t want to understand.” Disgusted, I glance toward the hall, watching for the flash of police lights through the front window. “Is that your truck I found in the barn?”
The look he gives me is so cold, so devoid of anything human, that I feel the hairs on my arms prickle. “I’m not going to answer any more questions until I have an attorney.”
“That’s your right.” I force a smile that feels like broken glass on my face. “You know we’ve got you dead to rights, don’t you? No matter what you say or do, you’re going down.”
Closing his eyes, he sets his forehead against the floor.
Movement outside the French doors draws my attention. I glance over, expecting T.J., wondering why he’s come around the rear. Shock jolts me when I discern the slender figure in the black dress and apron. The pale face and white kapp. I catch a glimpse of the shotgun an instant before the blast shatters the door.
Glass and fragments of wood pelt me. I drop to a crouch, but not before something hot tears through my right hand, knocking the .38 from my grasp. I watch in horror as the weapon clatters away. I start to retrieve it, but shock freezes me in place when Mattie steps through the destroyed French door, a shotgun in her hands, the muzzle leveled at me.
The room falls silent. Papers from Armitage’s desk flutter down. Pain thrums in my hand and shoots like a hot wire to my elbow. I glance down to see blood dripping on the floor next to my foot. A sliver of wood the size of my thumb sticks out of the top of my hand and through the palm.
My .38 lies on the floor to my right four feet away. “Mattie.” My voice is so low and rough I barely recognize it. “What are you doing?”
Her expression chills me. There’s no shock. No emotion. Her demeanor is calm, her eyes filled with purpose and deadly intent. Armitage wriggles toward the gun, uses his foot to slide it closer to him. “Give me the key to these handcuffs, Burkholder.”
I can’t tear my eyes away from Mattie; I can’t make sense of her being here. Disbelief is a bullwhip snapping at my back, laughing at me, flaying my flesh, drawing blood, slicing me open so that some vital part of me pours onto the floor like entrails.
“Mattie,” I say, “put the gun down.”
“Shoot her,” Armitage says. “Kill her. Do it!”
“For God’s sake, don’t.” I look at him, motion toward Mattie with my eyes. “Backup is on the way. Stop this or you’re going to get her killed.”
“The key.” His lips peel back in an animalistic snarl, and for an instant he looks as if he’s going to pounce and tear me to shreds with his teeth. “Give it to me. Now.”
I turn my attention to Mattie, try to break through the shell of whatever she’s surrounded herself with to get to the warm and caring person beneath. The woman I’ve known for half of my life. The girl I’d once loved more than my own sister.
“Mattie,” I whisper. “Honey, don’t do this. Think about David. He’ll be alone without you. Please. He needs you.”
She looks at me, but her eyes skim over me as if I’m not there. “David doesn’t matter anymore.”
Something sick and ugly moves through me. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“He saw us.”
“Saw what?”
“He’s the only one who knew,” she tells me. “He was going to ruin everything.”
“What did you do?” Panic and urgency and cold, hard fear echo in my voice. “Mattie, for God’s sake what did you do? Where’s David?”
My words have no effect. When she looks at me, her eyes are devoid of everything that had once made her a human being, a mother capable of love and compassion. Her mind has fractured and something evil has crawled out of the crevice. I’m no longer her friend, but an impediment to her goal. And I know that no matter what I say or do, this is going to end badly. It’s only a question of who will die and at whose hand.
The shotgun is an old break-action, double barrel, probably handed down to her from her father. A deadly weapon to be sure. But there’s only one shot left.…
I try to flex my injured hand. Fresh pain sends red streaks across my vision. I don’t think any bones are broken, but it’s badly damaged. Even if I can reach my .38, I’m not sure I can grip it or pull the trigger.
Armitage gets to his knees, his eyes on me. “I’ll happily take that key off your dead body. Give it to me!”
Ever aware that Mattie is less than ten feet away with a shotgun, I ignore him, try instead to engage her. Get her talking, bring her back to a place where I can reach some small part of her. “Do you want me to give him the key?”
She looks at me, and for an instant she looks like her old self. As if she’s going to lower the weapon and burst into laughter. She’ll tell me this is a big joke and we’ll spend the next ten minutes laughing our asses off.
But there’s an icy glint in her eyes. A sheen I’ve seen before in the course of my career. She has the dead eyes of a killer. And I can’t help but think: Please don’t make me kill you.
Armitage is staring at Mattie, his eyes narrowed, his expression anxious and sharp. “Everything’s going to be all right, Matt,” he tells her. “Just get the key from her and take these cuffs off me. We’ll take care of her and then we can go. Just you and me. Like we planned.”
Like we planned.
Until this moment, I’ve been able to keep a handle on all those gnarly suspicions trying to claw their way into my brain. Keep my emotions at bay. I’m in cop mode and focused on staying alive, stopping this by whatever means necessary. But the realization that Mattie knew, that she was a willing participant in the murders of her husband and children, knocks me off kilter.
A thousand memories of her rush my brain. Mattie, my big sister and best friend rolled into one. Mattie, the instigator of mischief. The girl who could make me laugh until I cried and ease my hurt with a single word. She was the one person in this world I’d trust
ed and admired. Looking at her, I know that girl, the person she’d once been, is gone, replaced by a stranger I’ve never really known at all.
“Mattie, I’ll do whatever you want.” I raise my hands, making sure she gets a good look at my injured hand. “I’m going to give him the key, okay?”
With my left hand I reach for the compartment on my belt. Next to me, the banker’s lamp atop the desk casts soft light onto the blotter where slivers of glass glint like diamonds. No one turned on the overhead lights so it’s the only source of light in the room. The lamp’s electrical cord dangles less than a foot from where I stand.
Snapping open the handcuff compartment, I make a show digging out the key. “Everything’s going to be all right.” But my focus is on my .38, which is on the floor, next to Armitage.
“Hurry up.” The doctor glances at Mattie. “Matt, honey, get the key from her. Quickly, before the police arrive. Take these cuffs off—”
I kick the power cord. The lamp flies off the desk. Light plays crazily on the ceiling and then the lamp crashes to the floor. The room goes black. I drop and dive toward the .38.
Armitage shouts, “Kill her! Shoot her!”
On my hands and knees, I scramble for the gun. Armitage kicks at me, but his foot just grazes my shoulder. My right hand brushes the gun. I grapple for it, grip it hard, ignoring the pain. Armitage lashes out again, so I bring the gun around and fire blind.
He howls like a dog on fire. I hear him rolling around, feel him moving against me. Too close. Still dangerous. No time to do anything about it. I glance toward the French door. In the faint light, I can just make out Mattie’s silhouette, shotgun raised to her shoulder.
“Mattie! Don’t!” I scream the words as I raise the .38, take aim.
Time stops. My eyes meet hers. For the first time in the course of my career, I freeze. I see her finger on the trigger. I know she’s going to kill me if I don’t stop her. I see intent on her face. I brace for the inevitable blast.
Suddenly I can move. I drop and roll toward the desk, my only cover. The blast deafens me. Tiny missiles of wood and pellets and debris pelt me. But I feel no pain. All I know is I’m alive.