Ever aware that Mattie is less than ten feet away with a shotgun, I ignore him, try instead to engage her. Get her talking, bring her back to a place where I can reach some small part of her. “Do you want me to give him the key?”
She looks at me, and for an instant she looks like her old self. As if she’s going to lower the weapon and burst into laughter. She’ll tell me this is a big joke and we’ll spend the next ten minutes laughing our asses off.
But there’s an icy glint in her eyes. A sheen I’ve seen before in the course of my career. She has the dead eyes of a killer. And I can’t help but think: Please don’t make me kill you.
Armitage is staring at Mattie, his eyes narrowed, his expression anxious and sharp. “Everything’s going to be all right, Matt,” he tells her. “Just get the key from her and take these cuffs off me. We’ll take care of her and then we can go. Just you and me. Like we planned.”
Like we planned.
Until this moment, I’ve been able to keep a handle on all those gnarly suspicions trying to claw their way into my brain. Keep my emotions at bay. I’m in cop mode and focused on staying alive, stopping this by whatever means necessary. But the realization that Mattie knew, that she was a willing participant in the murders of her husband and children, knocks me off kilter.
A thousand memories of her rush my brain. Mattie, my big sister and best friend rolled into one. Mattie, the instigator of mischief. The girl who could make me laugh until I cried and ease my hurt with a single word. She was the one person in this world I’d trusted and admired. Looking at her, I know that girl, the person she’d once been, is gone, replaced by a stranger I’ve never really known at all.
“Mattie, I’ll do whatever you want.” I raise my hands, making sure she gets a good look at my injured hand. “I’m going to give him the key, okay?”
With my left hand I reach for the compartment on my belt. Next to me, the banker’s lamp atop the desk casts soft light onto the blotter where slivers of glass glint like diamonds. No one turned on the overhead lights so it’s the only source of light in the room. The lamp’s electrical cord dangles less than a foot from where I stand.
Snapping open the handcuff compartment, I make a show digging out the key. “Everything’s going to be all right.” But my focus is on my .38, which is on the floor, next to Armitage.
“Hurry up.” The doctor glances at Mattie. “Matt, honey, get the key from her. Quickly, before the police arrive. Take these cuffs off—”
I kick the power cord. The lamp flies off the desk. Light plays crazily on the ceiling and then the lamp crashes to the floor. The room goes black. I drop and dive toward the .38.
Armitage shouts, “Kill her! Shoot her!”
On my hands and knees, I scramble for the gun. Armitage kicks at me, but his foot just grazes my shoulder. My right hand brushes the gun. I grapple for it, grip it hard, ignoring the pain. Armitage lashes out again, so I bring the gun around and fire blind.
He howls like a dog on fire. I hear him rolling around, feel him moving against me. Too close. Still dangerous. No time to do anything about it. I glance toward the French door. In the faint light, I can just make out Mattie’s silhouette, shotgun raised to her shoulder.
“Mattie! Don’t!” I scream the words as I raise the .38, take aim.
Time stops. My eyes meet hers. For the first time in the course of my career, I freeze. I see her finger on the trigger. I know she’s going to kill me if I don’t stop her. I see intent on her face. I brace for the inevitable blast.
Suddenly I can move. I drop and roll toward the desk, my only cover. The blast deafens me. Tiny missiles of wood and pellets and debris pelt me. But I feel no pain. All I know is I’m alive.
Somehow I get my hands and knees under me. Pieces of wood and glass fall from my hair and shoulders as I struggle to my feet.
The shotgun clatters to the floor.
“Mattie!” Armitage screams her name, but I barely hear him.
I stare at the dark shadow of her standing motionless just inside the French door. Not trusting my legs, I lean heavily against the desk, holster my .38.
“Nobody move.” I’d intended the words as a command, but they’re little more than a whisper. “Don’t move.”
On the wall next to the ruined door, I see a wash of headlights and the flashing red and blue strobes from T.J.’s cruiser. I choke out a sound; I don’t know if it’s a sob or a laugh of irony because even though no one was killed here tonight, he’s too late to save any of us.