I toss the phone onto the desk and look at Armitage. I feel like kicking him after what he did to me. He's watching me, his expression telling me he might try to talk his way out of this, so I put my temper aside and recite to him his Miranda rights. "Do you understand those rights?"

He nods, then sighs, puts his forehead against the floor as if he's considering pounding it against the wood. "It wasn't supposed to happen this way."

"What way is that?"

"No one was supposed to get hurt."

I hear my molars grinding. "What the h.e.l.l did you expect when you rammed that buggy with your truck?"

"It wasn't like that. It was an accident. I was frightened. I hit my head and I suspect I was in shock. I panicked."

"You killed an Amish man and two children. You devastated a family."

He chokes out a sound of indefinable emotion. "I know what happened. Like I told you, it was an accident. Once I came to and realized what had happened, I felt ... it was the worst feeling I've ever experienced in my life."

"I guess that's why you stopped to render aid while that man and two innocent children were lying on the shoulder dying. That's why you called nine one one. And that must be the reason why you tried to kill me tonight. Because it was an accident, right? Because you care?"

He shakes his head as if disbelieving I could be so callous. "You don't understand."

"I don't want to understand." Disgusted, I glance toward the hall, watching for the flash of police lights through the front window. "Is that your truck I found in the barn?"

The look he gives me is so cold, so devoid of anything human, that I feel the hairs on my arms p.r.i.c.kle. "I'm not going to answer any more questions until I have an attorney."

"That's your right." I force a smile that feels like broken gla.s.s on my face. "You know we've got you dead to rights, don't you? No matter what you say or do, you're going down."

Closing his eyes, he sets his forehead against the floor.

Movement outside the French doors draws my attention. I glance over, expecting T.J., wondering why he's come around the rear. Shock jolts me when I discern the slender figure in the black dress and ap.r.o.n. The pale face and white kapp. I catch a glimpse of the shotgun an instant before the blast shatters the door.

Gla.s.s and fragments of wood pelt me. I drop to a crouch, but not before something hot tears through my right hand, knocking the .38 from my grasp. I watch in horror as the weapon clatters away. I start to retrieve it, but shock freezes me in place when Mattie steps through the destroyed French door, a shotgun in her hands, the muzzle leveled at me.

The room falls silent. Papers from Armitage's desk flutter down. Pain thrums in my hand and shoots like a hot wire to my elbow. I glance down to see blood dripping on the floor next to my foot. A sliver of wood the size of my thumb sticks out of the top of my hand and through the palm.

My .38 lies on the floor to my right four feet away. "Mattie." My voice is so low and rough I barely recognize it. "What are you doing?"

Her expression chills me. There's no shock. No emotion. Her demeanor is calm, her eyes filled with purpose and deadly intent. Armitage wriggles toward the gun, uses his foot to slide it closer to him. "Give me the key to these handcuffs, Burkholder."

I can't tear my eyes away from Mattie; I can't make sense of her being here. Disbelief is a bullwhip snapping at my back, laughing at me, flaying my flesh, drawing blood, slicing me open so that some vital part of me pours onto the floor like entrails.

"Mattie," I say, "put the gun down."

"Shoot her," Armitage says. "Kill her. Do it!"

"For G.o.d's sake, don't." I look at him, motion toward Mattie with my eyes. "Backup is on the way. Stop this or you're going to get her killed."

"The key." His lips peel back in an animalistic snarl, and for an instant he looks as if he's going to pounce and tear me to shreds with his teeth. "Give it to me. Now."

I turn my attention to Mattie, try to break through the sh.e.l.l of whatever she's surrounded herself with to get to the warm and caring person beneath. The woman I've known for half of my life. The girl I'd once loved more than my own sister.

"Mattie," I whisper. "Honey, don't do this. Think about David. He'll be alone without you. Please. He needs you."

She looks at me, but her eyes skim over me as if I'm not there. "David doesn't matter anymore."

Something sick and ugly moves through me. "What do you mean?" I ask.

"He saw us."

"Saw what?"

"He's the only one who knew," she tells me. "He was going to ruin everything."

"What did you do?" Panic and urgency and cold, hard fear echo in my voice. "Mattie, for G.o.d's sake what did you do? Where's David?"

My words have no effect. When she looks at me, her eyes are devoid of everything that had once made her a human being, a mother capable of love and compa.s.sion. Her mind has fractured and something evil has crawled out of the crevice. I'm no longer her friend, but an impediment to her goal. And I know that no matter what I say or do, this is going to end badly. It's only a question of who will die and at whose hand.

The shotgun is an old break-action, double barrel, probably handed down to her from her father. A deadly weapon to be sure. But there's only one shot left....

I try to flex my injured hand. Fresh pain sends red streaks across my vision. I don't think any bones are broken, but it's badly damaged. Even if I can reach my .38, I'm not sure I can grip it or pull the trigger.

Armitage gets to his knees, his eyes on me. "I'll happily take that key off your dead body. Give it to me!"

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 a.s.ses 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 partic.i.p.ant 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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.

"n.o.body 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.

In the dim light I see Armitage lying on the floor, looking at me, his hands still secure behind his back. "I've been shot," he croaks.

I see blood on his shirt, but I don't know where it's coming from. I don't go to help him. I'm not sure I can move, even if I wanted to. My arms and legs are shaking violently. I can feel my heart pulsing in my throat. The pound of it making me dizzy. I stumble to the light switch by the door, flip it on. Stark light rains down. Gla.s.s and bits of wood from the French doors cover the floor. The shattered lamp lies in pieces next to the desk. Drops of blood from my injured hand glitter like tar against the hardwood floor. The shotgun lies just inside the French doors. I see Mattie standing on the deck outside, unmoving, looking like the dazed survivor of some natural disaster.

Using the desktop for support, I start toward her. Gla.s.s crunches beneath my boots as I cross to the door. I open it, step onto the deck. "Mattie."

Slowly, she turns to me. Her face is pale. Eyes that had once been so lovely and full of mischief are cruel and level on me.

I know better than to feel anything at this moment, especially for a woman who doesn't deserve compa.s.sion, least of all mine. But some emotions are so powerful, some losses so profound, that they can't be stubbed out by logic or will. My brain orders me to go through the motions and do my job. Cuff her. Make the arrest. Be done with it.

Since I used my cuffs to secure Armitage's hands, I tug the zip ties from my belt. "Turn around and give me your wrists," I tell her.

When she doesn't move, I reach out, turn her around, and slip the ties around her wrists, pull them tight. It doesn't elude me that while my hands are shaking, hers are rock steady.

Once the ties are in place, I turn her to me. "Where's David?" I ask.

She looks at me, but there's nothing behind her eyes. It's like looking into the face of a mannequin and expecting to see life. "I had to do it," she says. "He wasn't supposed to live, you know. He was the only one left who knew."

Using my forearm, I push her against the wall, hold her in place. "What did you do?"

"Chief?"

The sound of T.J.'s voice spins me around. He's standing at the door, his .38 in his hand. "You okay?" He starts toward me, his eyes flicking from me to Armitage to Mattie. "What happened?"

"Get someone out to the Borntrager farm," I tell him. "Fast. I think she hurt the boy. Ambulance, too. Hurry."

Never taking his eyes from mine, he hits his lapel mike and puts out the call. When he's finished, he crosses to me. "What the h.e.l.l happened?"

Somehow I get the words out. It's as if someone else is speaking them. Someone stronger than me. Someone who isn't coming apart on the inside.

The radio cracks to life as the call goes out and I know every cop on duty within a ten-mile radius is making tracks to the Borntrager farm.

"I need to get out there. Check on the boy." I start toward the door only to realize I don't have a vehicle.

"No offense, Chief, but you're looking a little shaky on your feet."

He's right. I don't know if it's from my ordeal in the water, the alcohol that was injected into my bloodstream, or the shock of learning my childhood friend is a monster, but I'm shaken and dizzy. That's not to mention the shard of wood sticking out of my hand, which is starting to hurt in earnest now that my adrenaline has ebbed. But I'm worried about David. I can't help but think of all the terrible things that could have happened to him.

T.J. squats next to Armitage and begins checking him for weapons. I turn toward Mattie. She's looking at me, as if trying to figure out how to work the situation to her advantage, how to play me. Never taking my gaze from hers, I place her under arrest. She remains silent as I Mirandize her. "Do you understand your rights?"

Before she can reply, a communique crackles over T.J.'s radio. The Borntrager farmhouse is in flames. I listen, horrified and outraged, on the verge of a panic I can barely contain. I wait, expecting the worse.

I turn back to Mattie. I feel my eyes crawling over her, and I understand how a police officer could step over the line. "How could you do that to your own child?"

She regards me with a cool resolve. "David saw us together. Michael and I. At the clinic. I told him it would be our little secret, but I knew eventually he'd tell someone. He was a stupid, stupid child."

"What in the name of G.o.d happened to you?" I ask.

"You think you know what it's like." Her voice is so cold I feel the rise of gooseflesh on my arms. "Being Amish. Having three special-needs children. A weak, ignorant husband who was so afraid of G.o.d he could barely bring himself to touch me. They were a burden. They relied on me for everything. Everything. I was a slave to them. To the Amish and all of their self-righteous morals. I wanted more. I deserved more."

"You could have left."

"That's so easy for you to say." Venom leaches into her voice. "You got out. You found your life. I stayed and they were killing me. I hated them for it."

Sirens wail in the distance. Somewhere in the periphery of my consciousness I hear T.J. moving around. His boots grinding broken gla.s.s against the floor. The hiss and chatter of his radio.

I glance over my shoulder to find him looking at me expectantly. I don't know what he sees in my eyes, but I'm compelled to say, "I'm okay."

"I know you are," he replies.

He's barely gotten the words out when a Holmes County Sheriff's deputy's voice comes over the radio to report that he's found David Borntrager unharmed.

Casting a final look at Mattie, I walk away.

CHAPTER 25.

The next hours pa.s.s in a flurry of activity of which I don't seem to be a part of because I'm not partic.i.p.ating. I'm not in shock, but as I answer a barrage of questions from T.J. and two deputies from the Holmes County Sheriff's department, I feel as if I'm operating from inside an airtight jar. I hear my voice, I see their responses, hear their words. But somehow we're not quite connecting.

Within minutes of T.J.'s initial call, Glock and a young social worker with Children Services were sent to the Borntrager farm. A second deputy was dispatched to the quarry where my vehicle sits in sixty feet of water. I'm standing on the sidewalk in front of the clinic with a blanket over my shoulders when Mattie is taken into custody. Time slows to a crawl when her eyes meet mine. I don't know what she sees on my face, but she can't seem to stop looking at me. I'd wanted a few minutes alone with her. I want to know how much she knew. When she knew it. I need to know if she's as guilty as Armitage. But I let the moment pa.s.s and then she's gone.

I was given an obligatory physical exam by an EMT at the scene. I balked, of course, but because of my ordeal in the water, the injury to my hand, and the injection administered earlier by Armitage, I was taken by ambulance to the ER at Pomerene Hospital, where a young resident took two vials of blood, removed a four-inch sliver of wood from my hand, and spent an hour bandaging, prodding, and making jokes that weren't quite funny. I appreciated the attempt at humor nonetheless.

Sheriff Mike Rasmussen showed up shortly after my arrival and stuck by me like a two-year-old to his mommy. I don't know if he was there in a law enforcement capacity or if he was there to support me. It didn't matter; I was glad for the company. Once I was given a clean bill of health, he whisked me to his cruiser and did a decent job of making small talk during the drive to the Sheriff's Department in Millersburg. Once there, I was given coffee, offered a cigarette-which I accepted despite the fact that the office is a smoke-free environment. I was taken into the largest and most comfortable interview room and spent the next hour going over every detail, from the moment I found the pin in the gravel behind the clinic to when T.J. arrived on scene. I answered every question posed, laughed when appropriate, and basically played the role to which I'd been cast. By the time we're finished, I'm exhausted and numb and want badly to go home, shower, and fall into bed.