“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 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.”