Tossing the evidence bag onto the passenger seat, I start the engine, back out of my parking space, 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 glass, 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 cockeyed angle. No vehicle in sight, so I start toward the barn.
The massive 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 glass 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 grass 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 massive 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 shit 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 passed 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 bumper should be.
“Oh my God.” 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 bitch.” 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 passed. 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 hell are you doing?”