He sighted down the gun.
“I know about Grady,” Daniel said quickly. “What you did. The hay baler. I was there in the loft. I saw you carve his name on the barn wall.”
A stretch of stillness.
Dr. Fromke appeared deep in thought.
“Daniel, give me your phone.”
Get him closer.
Just get him close enough and then you can use the knife.
He set Larry’s cell down beside his leg. “Come and get it.”
“Slide it to me.”
“No, I—”
Dr. Fromke fired a shot into the floor next to Daniel’s dad, missing him by mere inches. “Slide it to me, Daniel. I didn’t have to miss that time. I won’t miss if I fire again.”
Unsure what else to do, Daniel flicked the phone across the floor toward the doctor. “How many of those names in the barn were your victims?”
“You really don’t remember, do you?”
“I noticed seven of them all carved the same way into the wood. It was all with the same knife, right? What? That pocketknife you use as a letter opener at your office? Did you kill all those people?”
“You’re the one who killed Grady Planisek, Daniel.”
“What?”
“The two of you were in the loft. You pushed him into that hay baler. I watched it all happen. I owned the farm at the time.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You killed that boy, repressed the memory, and now it’s resurfacing and causing you to have a psychic break. You’ve lost the ability to determine what’s real and what’s not. What’s right and what’s wrong.”
“No.”
Yes.
“You’re a very troubled boy, Daniel.”
You are troubled.
Yes.
You killed Grady.
No. You couldn’t have!
But—
“Think back to that day, Daniel. What did you really see?”
“You murdered him.”
“Did you see me do it?”
He’s trying to confuse you, he’s—
“I heard him screaming.”
“And?”
“The hay baler was running.”
“Yes.”
“Then you came up the ladder and . . .”
Reality.
Fantasy.
“You killed Grady,” Dr. Fromke repeated. “And you attacked your father—”
“No. That was you and Brandon. People around here know me. They know I would never do anything like that. They’ll never believe you.”
“But they already do. You’re a suspect in your dad’s disappearance, and now, tonight, you killed Brandon Hollister with your father’s gun—”
“It’s not going to work. No one will—”
“—and then, you shot me.”
“What?”
Dr. Fromke picked up Larry’s phone. “Since you’re my patient I knew what you were capable of, that’s why I had you committed up in Duluth. That’s why I had them station an officer outside your door.” He tapped at the screen of the phone, then held it to his ear.
Someone must have answered on the other end because Dr. Fromke said urgently, “He’s got a gun. You have to hurry. Daniel Byers. Yes! He’s going to kill me. He said he’s gonna kill me. I’m at 1594 West Creek Drive. Please!”
Daniel stood there in shock.
“Get away from me!” Dr. Fromke yelled loud enough for the dispatcher on the other end of the line to hear.
Then he shot himself through the shoulder.
“No, Daniel! Why would you—”
He dropped the phone and crushed it beneath his heel.
“The next move”—he clenched his teeth, obviously trying to help deal with the pain from the gunshot wound—“is up to you.”
CHAPTER
SIXTY-TWO
“What have you done?” Daniel gasped.
Dr. Fromke kept the gun out, pointing it at him. “You’re a mentally disturbed young man who hallucinates and does things he doesn’t remember. No one will believe your word over mine. What proof do you have that I ever harmed anyone? But don’t worry, Daniel. You won’t suffer. I’ll make sure the medications they give you at the psychiatric hospital won’t allow you to feel much of anything. It’s over. Now we wait.”
Your dad’s dying. You can’t wait.
You need to get help. You need to do something.
“They’ll know it wasn’t me. My fingerprints aren’t even on that gun.”
Dr. Fromke surprised Daniel by flipping the Glock around in his hand and walking toward him.
Do it. Take the gun.
No! Your prints will be on it.
As the doctor approached, Daniel slowly reached for the knife that was under his leg.
“Here.” Dr. Fromke held out the gun. “It’s all yours.”
Screw it. You need to go. You need to help your dad. Take the gun.
“Oh, wait,” Dr. Fromke said. “They can check gunshot residue, blowback, right? You won’t have any on you—unless you were close to the gun when it was fired.”
He was only a few feet away and directed the Glock at Daniel’s dad’s forehead. “It’s a shame you had to shoot your own father in the head.”
“No!” Daniel snatched up the knife and launched himself between the gun barrel and his dad. Obviously taken by surprise, Dr. Fromke held back just long enough from squeezing the trigger, and Daniel drove the knife down through the man’s shoe, through his foot, and into the floor.
Dr. Fromke cried out in shock and pain and Daniel went for the gun, wrestled it from his hand. It dropped.
He grabbed it.
Backed up a step.
He was going to set you up for his murder. He was going to shoot your dad.
Anger.
Rage.
Fury.
Caught up in the moment, Daniel stomped on the knife handle, driving the blade farther into the floorboards.
Dr. Fromke screamed and swung a fist at Daniel, but he leapt back in time to avoid the blow. “I’ll tell them to match your jackknife, the one you keep on your desk, with the carvings in the barn,” he said. “I’m sure someone who’s good at forensics will be able to tell what blade made those carvings.”
Dr. Fromke’s face darkened.
“You were right: it is over.” Daniel slipped the gun beneath his belt. “And you’re going to spend the rest of your life in prison.”
He bent down, slung his dad’s arm across his shoulder, then lifted him—fireman’s carrand headed for the porch.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dr. Fromke grab the handle of the knife to try to work it free from the floor.
CHAPTER
SIXTY-THREE
In the distance, sirens wailed through the night.
As Daniel took his dad to the car, he hoped that the snow pelting against his face would revive him, but it didn’t happen.
How are you going to get him into the car while he’s unconscious? You’ll never be able to . . . maybe the back seat instead of the front?
Moments later, as Daniel was positioning his dad in the back of the car, he heard the cabin door bang open.
Dr. Fromke stood, backlit in the doorway forty feet away, holding the shovel. He started limping across the porch toward the steps.
Go!
Daniel shoved his dad the rest of the way in, closed the door, climbed into the front, and fired up the engine.
As the wipers brushed the snow off the windshield he saw Dr. Fromke lurching across the driveway. Though he was forced to drag his wounded foot, he was already nearly halfway to the car.
Dr. Fromke’s car was behind Daniel, blocking him in, but he thought he might have just enough space to get
by it if he could edge along the bank of snow piled up alongside the driveway.
He locked the doors and backed up, trying to maneuver past the doctor’s vehicle, but his car slid across the icy driveway and one of the rear tires lodged into the snowbank.
Dr. Fromke was now only ten feet away, and Daniel couldn’t pull forward or he would hit him, but he couldn’t back up either because of the snowbank.
You have the gun.
You could—
No, don’t shoot him. You’d be a murderer. Don’t—
Dr. Fromke arrived at Daniel’s car, tried the door, found it locked, and despite the gunshot wound in his shoulder, hefted the shovel back and swung it at the windshield.
The glass shattered on impact, but thankfully remained intact, just like it’s designed to do in case of a crash.
With Dr. Fromke next to the car, Daniel tried pulling forward, but the back tire didn’t come unstuck from the snowbank.
Dr. Fromke drew the shovel back and smashed the blade against the windshield again, and it crunched inward toward Daniel. Another blow and it would probably give way.
You have to help your dad.
You have to get out of here.
Daniel threw the car into reverse and then into drive, and this time the tires spun for a moment, then found traction and his car jerked forward, brushing past Dr. Fromke.
Daniel stopped the car before smacking into the porch.
He could either try getting through between Dr. Fromke’s car and the snowbank again, or wait here.
Sitting around waiting for the cops to arrive is not an option. Not with Dr. Fromke out there.
In the side-view mirror, Daniel could see Dr. Fromke approaching.
The sirens were getting closer.
Daniel lowered his window an inch. “Get back!” he yelled, as he popped the car into reverse. “Get out of the way!”
But Dr. Fromke was obviously more intent on attacking Daniel than staying safe, and he came toward the car, cocking back the shovel.
As Daniel tried to thread through the gap, his tires spun on the ice and the car whipped around.
Everything outside the window was whirling.
Turning.
A smear of white.
And then.
The jolt of impact as the car collided into Dr. Fromke’s car, pinning the doctor between the two vehicles.
Dr. Fromke’s legs might have been trapped, but when he shouted out threats against Daniel it seemed to be more from wrath than from pain.
Daniel tried to drive forward or back up—anything—but his tires spun on the ice.
The red-blue-red-blue swirl of police lights cut through the storm as a state patrol cruiser careened around the corner and came to a sliding stop on the driveway.
Two state troopers exited the cruiser, guns drawn.
Daniel left his dad’s Glock in the car and climbed out, holding his hands up to show that he was unarmed. “They drugged my dad, we need to—”
“Get on the ground!” one of the troopers yelled.
“Listen, I’m—”
“Now! On the ground! Arms out to the side!”
The dispatchers couldn’t possibly have believed Dr. Fromke’s phone call.
But maybe they did.
An ambulance followed closely behind the patrol car.
Daniel knelt, then lay facedown and the trooper came over and cuffed his wrists behind his back while his partner went to check on Dr. Fromke.
“My dad’s unconscious,” Daniel said urgently. “He’s in the back seat of my car. You need to get him to a hospital now.”
“Sir,” the other trooper said to Dr. Fromke, “we’re going to help you.”
“He shot me.” The psychiatrist had tossed the shovel to the ground and was acting innocent. “He stabbed my foot and then tried to run me over. You need to stop that boy. He’s out of control.”
“No,” Daniel said to the trooper beside him, “that’s not—” Sort it out later. “Listen, tell the paramedics: Tribaxil. That’s what they gave my dad. A whole syringe of it. He’s the sheriff—Sheriff Byers. You need to help him.”
The trooper seemed uncertain what to do.
“Hurry!” Daniel told him.
He left to talk to the paramedics, who promptly loaded his dad onto a rolling gurney.
The trooper helped Daniel to his feet, shuffled him toward his cruiser, and put him in the back seat.
“Let me ride with my dad.”
“Until we figure this out you’re staying with me.”
The car door was still open and Daniel could see the other officer assisting Dr. Fromke, who was still stuck between the two vehicles. “You need to cuff him,” Daniel called out. “He’s dangerous. He—”
“We’ll take care of this, son,” the trooper said as he closed the door.
Daniel yelled through the window, “He’s killed at least eight people!”
He wasn’t sure if the officer believed him, but he did open his door again. “What did you just say?”
“He’s murdered at least eight people. One of them is in the cabin.”
Immediately, the man went to search the building. When he came back he spoke with the other trooper and it seemed to take forever before the officer who’d cuffed Daniel climbed in and turned the cruiser around to follow the ambulance. The other officer covered Dr. Fromke.
“Did you try to run that man over?” he asked Daniel.
“No.”
“Did you shoot him?”
“No. He shot himself.”
“Really.” He didn’t sound convinced.
“Yes, and he killed that man in the cabin.”
The trooper spoke into his radio, relaying information about their location and giving them codes that Daniel didn’t recognize.
Daniel prayed his dad would be okay, that the paramedics would get him to the hospital in time.
They turned onto the county road that led past the Traybor Institute and he scanned both sides of the road for any sign of Mr. Zacharias or his car, but saw nothing.
Just after they passed the facility, an explosion rocked the night and Daniel turned in time to see the building erupting in a blazing mushroom of smoke and flames.
The state trooper pulled the car over to the shoulder and muttered, “What the hell is going on tonight?”
Malcolm Zacharias wanted to take out the research station. Maybe he blew the place up.
Daniel didn’t know, and right now he was more worried about his dad getting the care he needed than about what’d happened to the man who’d helped Hollister escape.
The trooper got on the radio and called for more units.
When they took off again, he drove Daniel to the hospital rather than the county jail.
So, maybe he did believe him after all.
PART VII
TWO WOLVES
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 25
CHRISTMAS DAY
21 HOURS LATER
3:51 P.M.
CHAPTER
SIXTY-FOUR
Daniel repositioned his laptop so his dad could see the screen more easily from his hospital bed. “That good?”
“Yes.” He adjusted the angle of the bed a little higher so that he was nearly sitting up.
Last night the doctors had worked on him for several hours, re-suturing his side and counteracting the drug Hollister had injected him with. It was a good thing he’d mentioned the name of it, since, from what the doctors were saying, an overdose of Tribaxil could have been fatal.
As it turned out, Hollister had done a surprisingly good job of treating the stab wound over the past few days.
His dad was still weak, but the doctors said he was “on the road to recovery,” and Daniel figured that, at this point, that was about as much as he could hope for.
Daniel had spent a good part of last night and most of today filling in the deputies and state troopers about everything that’d happened. However, he did leave out the parts about his blurs so they would take the other things he had to say more seriously.
He had to go through it several times for them.
There was a lot to take in.
At first they’d kept a close eye on him, evidently still suspicious that he was lying to them, but when his dad woke up and corroborated his story, they let him spend the rest of his time with him in his room.
Dr. Fromke had been brought to the hospital as well and was being held under guard on the second floor. As far as Daniel knew, the psychiatrist hadn’t spoken with the police since last night, or asked to talk to a lawyer, and he wondered what was going through the man’s head, what he might be thinking or planning.
Whatever it was, Daniel did not like the fact that Dr. Fromke was in the same hospital as his dad, even if there were officers stationed outside the man’s room.
He tapped at the keyboard and brought up the video chat program they were going to use to talk to his mom, who was still stranded in Alaska.
Nicole sat quietly in the chair near the window finishing a drawing of a Christmas stable scene on the last page of her sketchbook.
Kyle and Mia, who’d come back from her grandparents’ house a day early, were on their way to the hospital to meet up with Daniel and Nicole and see how things were going. Kyle was also bringing a few things Daniel had requested—at least he was hoping his friend had been able to get them. Daniel had the envelope with him, but for the other two items he was relying on Kyle. From what he’d heard, Larry had come down from Bayfield and was at Kyle’s house with Mrs. Goessel, Glenn and Michelle.
Daniel had already spoken with his mom three times today. Though she’d tried to get a flight out of Anchorage, that hadn’t been possible, and his dad had only started feeling well enough in the last hour to have a video chat with her.
So Daniel had called her to set it up, and now here they were.
She came up on the screen, standing in front of her computer.
Champagne hair. A slight build. Worried eyes.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Daniel.”