Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel (31 page)

“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 God’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 bloody 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 bitch.

“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 scrap 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. “Bitch.”

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 assumption 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 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.”