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.