SIXTY-FOUR
We’re in the clinic. Dalton and Kenny have gotten Sutherland’s limp form onto the examining table. Anders is taking out the stomach pump. I’m undoing Sutherland’s left boot.
“You don’t need to check,” Dalton grunts as he heaves Sutherland into place. “He had the benzo.”
Which is true. He didn’t just randomly grab an overdose of sleeping pills or painkillers. He’s got the very drug someone dosed Diana and Nicole with. That should prove it. The rest should prove it—the story fits, the description fits. Jacob’s description too, of the guy who’d once “offered” him a hostile woman, the guy who’d followed his father down south a couple of years ago. A guy he’d known as Benjy.
Benjamin Sanders.
It still isn’t enough. I keep thinking of his last words, declaring his innocence, and it’s easy to check, so I must.
So I pull off that boot. I pull off that sock. And there it is. The burn tissue, just as Mary described.
“Satisfied?” Dalton says. “Now, get up here and help us keep this bastard alive.”
I get into position to assist Anders, and Dalton moves across the room, staying out of the way.
I’m struggling to focus. Part of my brain stays stuck on the pointlessness of his final proclamation of innocence. All I had to do was check his foot.
Focus, damn it. If we lose him, we lose Nicole.
I have the tube, and I’m getting into position while Anders presses his fingers to Sutherland—
No, not Sutherland—Benjamin.
I have to remember that. This is not the guy we knew. Not the victim I hauled in from the forest. This is a killer who doesn’t deserve another name to hide behind.
Anders presses his fingers to Benjamin’s neck, a quick vitals check. I’m reaching to open Benjamin’s mouth when Anders frowns. He’s got his fingers still pressed there, and he’s frowning, and I’m saying “What is it?” and he’s reaching to open Benjamin’s eye. His fingers touch the eyelid as Benjamin springs up. His arms sweep wide, knocking everything from the tray, and there’s a moment when I think Anders’s fingers on his eyelid jolted him back to consciousness.
That’s what we all must think, because there’s frozen shock as Benjamin springs up and those instruments clatter, and then Dalton’s leaping in, shouting, “Restrain—”
Benjamin has my upper arm in an iron grip as he’s rolling off the table. I lash out. I feel pain. A sharp jab. It’s not enough to stop me. It is enough to startle me. That’s all he needs. I’m distracted for a split second, and then there’s a gun at my head—my own damned gun—and Benjamin’s backing up, shouting, “I’ll kill her. You know I’ll kill her.”
I back up with him. I have to. There’s a gun at my head—an unsteady one—and so I stay with him, doing nothing to make him pull the trigger.
Across the room, Dalton has his gun out. Anders doesn’t. He’s off to the side, assessing. His gaze drops to the table, as if trying to see what he can use. The tray of instruments is on the floor, and there’s nothing left on that table. Nothing useful.
“You can’t get out of here,” Anders says. “People saw us rush you in, and it doesn’t matter how cold it is, they’re curious, so they’re hanging around, hoping to hear what’s going on. If you run, there’ll be thirty people between you and the forest.”
“That’s why I’ve got her,” he says. “She’ll come along peacefully. I know she will.”
“Detective Butler isn’t some innocent bystander,” Anders says. “Even without her gun, she’ll take you down before you reach that forest.”
“No, she just thinks she will. That’s why she’ll come along peacefully. She’s sure she’ll get the jump on me, so she’s not going to fight.” The gun barrel presses cold against my scalp. “Am I right, Casey? That’s what you’re doing right now, isn’t it? Playing good hostage. Waiting for me to make a mistake. Knowing I will, because no one’s as clever as you. Except…” He lowers his lips to my ear and whispers, “There’s a problem, isn’t there?”
There is a problem. I feel it coursing through my veins. Literally coursing. That jab when he grabbed me. He’s injected me with something.
I glance over at Anders. He’s still assessing, working through scenarios. It’s a good thing he’s there, because Dalton is paralyzed with indecision. There’s a gun to my head, and that’s all he sees, a wobbling gun at his lover’s head, and he’s holding a gun himself and that seems to be the answer, but he knows it’s not. Yet he can’t bring himself to lower it, as if that would be surrender.
“We’re going to back down this hallway and out the rear door,” Benjamin says. “The sheriff and the deputy will go on ahead to clear the way. They’ll warn that any sudden moves will seal Casey’s death warrant. I’ll fire and run.”