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.