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 h.e.l.l 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 gla.s.ses 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 h.e.l.l 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 b.i.t.c.h."

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 s.p.a.ce. 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?"

"n.o.body 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 a.s.sure 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 b.i.t.c.h."

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 pa.s.senger 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 pa.s.senger 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 sc.r.a.pe 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 b.i.t.c.h 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 b.i.t.c.h!"

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 pa.s.senger window hard enough to crack the gla.s.s, but I barely feel the pain.

His nails sc.r.a.pe 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 b.i.t.c.h," 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 gra.s.s whispers against the floorboards. Tree branches sc.r.a.pe the doors as we b.u.mp 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 f.u.c.king 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 pa.s.senger 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 pa.s.senger seat, they'll know this wasn't an accident."

"Nice try. But if you read up on the Chappaquidd.i.c.k 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.

Vaguely, I'm aware of him rising, lifting me, and carrying me back to the vehicle. He shoves me into the pa.s.senger 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.

"f.u.c.k 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 h.e.l.l is my gun? All the while the vehicle fills and begins to sink.

I jam my hands into the s.p.a.ce 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 gla.s.s.

I touch the window with my hand to orient myself. Then I bring up the .38 and fire twice. A m.u.f.fled 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 gla.s.s. 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 sh.o.r.e. 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 bypa.s.ses 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 ma.s.s. "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 f.u.c.k. 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 f.u.c.king move or I swear to G.o.d 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 b.i.t.c.h." 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 G.o.d, 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."