He nods, but his mouth is pulled into a grimace.

"I appreciate your time, Dr. Armitage, especially so late."

"No problem." He motions toward the hall. "I'll walk you to the door."

He takes me down the hall and through the reception area. At the front door I extend my hand and we shake. "Don't work too late, Doc."

"Twenty minutes and I'm out of here."

I hear the door close as I descend the steps. Flipping on my Maglite, I traverse the lot to where I parked the Explorer. I'm rounding the front end when something metallic glints in the beam of my flashlight. I glance down to see part of a large steel pin lying in the gravel beneath the bushes. I kneel for a closer look. I almost can't believe my eyes when I see that the pin has been sheared in half.

A tingle of recognition moves through me. "What the h.e.l.l?"

I've seen the other half of that pin. I've held it in my hand. Pondered its existence. It's the missing half of the pin found at the scene of the hit and run. How did it get here?

Tugging an evidence bag from a compartment on my belt, I use it to pick it up. It's L-shaped, with a cotter pin intact and still in place. I stare at it, trying to make sense of it. But my heart is pounding because my brain has already made the connection. I don't want to give voice to the thoughts running through my head. Once I unleash that beast I won't be able to contain it. The last thing I want to do is overreact and make an accusation that can't be taken back.

But I don't have the luxury of sticking my head in the sand. It's possible the driver of the truck that hit the Borntrager buggy, for whatever reason, pulled into this lot the night of the murders, perhaps to hide. It's possible that the pin, having been somehow loosened during the impact, fell out and landed here in the gravel.

I look around, my eyes gravitating to the old barn and detached garage. Both buildings were originally part of the farm before the house was donated to the clinic. I don't know if Ronald Hope retained ownership, intending to use them to park his tractor and farm implements or if they're now part of the clinic. The one thing I do know is that either building would be the perfect place to stash a vehicle you didn't want found.

I glance right to see the slant of light coming from the French doors of Armitage's office. He told me he would be working another twenty minutes. Enough time for me to move the Explorer and have a quick look-see in those outbuildings.

Tossing the evidence bag onto the pa.s.senger seat, I start the engine, back out of my parking s.p.a.ce, and make a right onto the street. Twenty yards down I find a two-track entrance to a hay field that's shrouded by trees. I pull in and cut the engine. Grabbing my Maglite, I slide out and, sticking to the shadows cast by the trees that grow alongside the road, I backtrack to the clinic.

Once again in the rear lot, keeping an eye on the French doors, I jog to the nearest outbuilding, which is a dilapidated two-car garage. The area is overgrown with weeds and scraggly young trees that have sprouted through the gravel. I stop at the window, set my Maglite against the gla.s.s, and peer inside. I see two rusty fifty-gallon drums. An old rotary push mower. A workbench that runs along the wall to my right. Rotting peg-board that hangs at a c.o.c.keyed angle. No vehicle in sight, so I start toward the barn.

The ma.s.sive wood structure was once painted red, but the years and elements have faded it to the color of old blood. Much of the siding has rotted and fallen away. The window gla.s.s is long gone. To the right of the barn, an old wood gate has fallen onto its side. I can see where a horse once cribbed at the top rail and gnawed it nearly through. I'm surprised to see evidence that a vehicle has been back here, the gra.s.s crushed beneath tires, and I wonder who would be driving around here and why.

It takes a good bit of effort to shove open the ma.s.sive sliding door, but I take the time to close it behind me. Inside, I flick on my Maglite. Dust motes fly in the beam. The interior smells of dust, moldy hay, and rotting wood. Part of the loft has caved in and boards are scattered about the dirt floor. Above me a startled pigeon takes flight, sending a shower of dried bird s.h.i.t to the ground. I look up, see the stars through the hit-or-miss boards of the roof. I can hear bats squeaking from the rafters.

I step over a pile of wood, bent nails sticking out like rusty claws. My beam illuminates falling-down stalls, the wooden rails broken and lying on the floor in heaps. Cobwebs cover every surface. I fan the beam in a three-hundred-sixty-degree circle. That's when I spot the newish-looking silver tarp in the corner. Threading my way around the fallen boards and other debris, I make my way toward it.

I suspect there's an antique vehicle under the tarp. Maybe a vintage car or farming implement. After my mamm pa.s.sed away, my siblings and I sold an antique manure spreader for five hundred dollars to one of the tourist shops in town. It sits on the front lawn of the shop to this day.

From ten feet away, I see newish rubber tires peeking out from beneath the tarp. I reach for the corner and pull it off. Dust billows in the beam of my flashlight. I barely notice as the gray Ford F-250 looms into view.

CHAPTER 22.

I'm so stunned by the sight of the truck, I take a step back. I run my beam along the side of the vehicle. It's an older model, but not vintage. Late nineties, maybe. Then I'm around the hood, my eyes seeking out the grille. Something twists in my chest when I spot the snow blade affixed to the front end. The slab of steel where the b.u.mper should be.

"Oh my G.o.d." In the silence of the barn, my voice is wispy and high.

I kneel for a closer look. A sound escapes me when I see black paint on the blade. Buggy paint. There's no doubt in my mind that this is the vehicle that hit the Borntrager buggy.

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h." I hit my lapel mike. "Six two three."

"Go ahead," comes Mona's voice on the other end.

I hear a sound behind me. I spin and catch a glimpse of someone standing there. A burst of adrenaline sends me scrambling back. Simultaneously, I reach for my revolver, yank it out. Before I can bring it up, something slams into the left side of my head.

White light explodes behind my eyes. Pain streaks from my temple to my chin. I careen sideways, lose my balance. My shoulder hits the floor. My head bounces against the hard-packed dirt. Stars fly in the periphery of my vision, but I don't let go of my weapon. Disoriented, I roll, blink to clear my vision, bring up the .38.

The second blow comes down on the crown of my head. The impact snaps my teeth together. I hear my scalp tear. My vision dims. The next thing I know I'm laid out on the floor, looking up at the rafters. I don't know how much time has pa.s.sed. I have no idea if I'm injured. The one thing I do know is that I screwed up and it's probably going to cost me my life.

Dr. Michael Armitage stands over me, my .38 in his right hand, my flashlight in his left. He's red-faced and sweating profusely. His hair is mussed and pasted to his forehead. But a cold calm resides in his eyes. The transformation from mild-mannered doctor to violent thug stands in such stark contrast that I almost can't believe my eyes.

I taste blood, feel it pooling in the back of my throat, and turn my head to spit. I start to sit up, but he jabs the gun at me. "Stay down. Don't get up."

I lie on my back, look up at him. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing?"

"Everything I swore I wouldn't." He uses the muzzle of the gun to tap on his temple, one side of his mouth curving into a smile. "That happens when we don't exercise our best judgment, doesn't it?"

"I'm a cop." I intended the words as a reminder that he can't do this to a police officer and get away with it. But my voice is little more than the chirp of a baby bird.

"I know what you are."

"You can't do this. You won't get away with it."

"I guess we'll see about that, won't we?"

I can tell by the way he's holding my weapon that he's not proficient with a firearm. He's high on adrenaline. His hands are shaking. But his finger is inside the guard, snug against the trigger. That's the thing about revolvers; they're idiot proof. Proficient or not, he's close enough so that he could easily get off a lucky shot.

There's still a chance I can regain control of the situation and end it before anyone gets hurt. But it's not going to be easy.

"It's not too late to stop this right now," I say quietly.

"So if I let you up, we can just shake hands and forget about all of this and be best friends again?" He barks out a laugh. "Please. You insult my intelligence."

"A good lawyer could get this knocked down to a lesser charge. You could get off with probation. You can afford the best."

"Here's a news flash for you, Chief Burkholder: I'm not going to prison because of you."

I fall silent, use the time to take a quick inventory of my injuries. My left ear is ringing. Pain thuds at the top of my head. Something warm runs down my cheek. I touch my temple with my fingertips and they come away red.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this, you know," he says.

When I look at him, he's frowning at me. "Come on, Mike. This isn't you. You're a doctor, for G.o.d's sake. Look at all the good you've done. For the kids. Don't throw it away."

"Word of this gets out and I'll never practice medicine again," he tells me.

"Probably not." I glance down at my belt, but my phone and radio are gone. "There are other things you can do. Research, like what you're doing here. Come on. Let's go inside. Talk things over. You haven't done anything that can't be undone."

His mouth twists into a parody of a smile. "You can't undo murder."

Images of Paul Borntrager's b.l.o.o.d.y and broken body flash in my mind's eye. I see the dead children, their pale and tender faces upturned to me. They'd wanted to live; they'd deserved the opportunity to live their lives. This man took that away from them.

I envision myself rushing him, grabbing my weapon from his shaking, sweating hands, jamming the muzzle against his chest, and putting a bullet through his heart. If anyone deserves to die, it's this man. This chameleon. This child-killing son of a b.i.t.c.h.

"Did you kill them?" I hear the words as if someone else spoke them. Someone whose hands aren't shaking, whose heart isn't beating out of control. All the things I am not at this moment.

"Perhaps we'll save this discussion for another day. Unfortunately for you, we've run out of time here." He gives me that strange half smile again. "Roll over for me."

I barely hear the command over the thunder beat of my heart. "How could you?" I ask. "How could you murder those innocent children?"

"Shut up and turn over. Facedown. Now."

When I don't obey, he kneels beside me, drops the Maglite to the ground with the beam on me. Then is hand is on my bicep, forcing me onto my stomach.

I keep my head raised, maintain eye contact. He's still holding my .38, the muzzle leveled at my face. "What are you going to do?" I ask.

"I'm going to fix this situation we've found ourselves in." He pulls a sc.r.a.p of fabric or scarf from the waistband of his slacks. "Put your hands behind your back for me."

I try to get my hands under me to rise, but he sets the muzzle of the .38 against my back and pushes me back down. "I will kill you where you lie if you don't do as I say," he snarls. "Am I clear?"

When I don't obey, he reaches for my left wrist. There's no way I can allow him to tie me up. He's already killed three people. There's no doubt in my mind he'll do it again to cover his tracks. I twist, make a grab for the .38. My fingers close around his hand, but he yanks it away. I bring up my knees, get them beneath me. I ram his midsection with my shoulder. He reels backward. I reach for the gun with my right hand. I know he's going to hit me with the Maglite an instant before it slams down on my forearm. Pain zings up my arm with such intensity that I cry out. He swings again. I try to get out of the way, but I'm not fast enough and the blow glances off my collarbone.

His hand snakes out, clamps around the back of my neck. Grunting with effort, he shoves my face to the ground, grinds my cheek into the dirt. "b.i.t.c.h."

I try to twist around, lash out at him with my feet, but he's stronger than me and I only manage to graze his thigh with my heel. He climbs on top of me and yanks my hands behind my back. I feel something soft being wrapped around my wrists and drawn tight.

He gives the tether a final yank and then slides off me. "There. That wasn't so bad now, was it?" Rising, he brushes at his slacks. "Get up."

I spit dirt from my mouth. As inconspicuously as possible, I test the binds at my wrists, but they're tight enough to cut off my circulation. When I raise my gaze to his, I find the .38 pointed at my chest. He holds the Maglite in his left hand. I glance around for my radio and cell but he shines the beam in my eyes, blinding me. "Get up. I won't ask nicely again."

I get my knees under me and struggle to my feet. "What are you going to do?"

"We're going to go inside and figure this out." He motions with the gun toward a side door. "Walk."

Up until this point, I'd been operating under the a.s.sumption that I could talk my way out of this. That at some point, rationality would intervene and he'd give himself up. Or maybe make a mistake that would cost him the upper hand. Looking at him now, I realize I'd underestimated him.

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 s.p.a.ce, 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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. Gla.s.s 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. s.n.a.t.c.hes 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 b.u.mp 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?"