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I WAITED ON THE STREET in front of the Eckhart Medical Center, on the clinic side.
The building was two stories with thick windows tinted black. I imagined that was to protect the occupants from sunlight. The clinic was attached to the largest building, and the rest of the complex was surrounded by the barbed wire fence. The back of it faced the lake. At the end of the street were a boat launch and a shabby little pier with one boat tied to it. It rocked slowly on the water.
I waited outside of the squad car, my back planted against the rear on the driver’s side. The P30L rested on the trunk lid next to me.
I had switched the light bar on so that the red and blue lights lit up the night sky. The colors reflected off the storefront windows and parked cars as the lights spun in a clockwise rotation. A long extension of the lights fell across the lake like a lighthouse beacon and rotated back across the street. A low fog rolled across the top of the water. The red and blue lights were magnified in the mist.
Minutes later, I heard distant police sirens blaring through the quiet town like a banshee on the moors. The wailing noise was deafening in the silence. Eight and a half minutes after that, Sheriff Grady pulled up in an old department-issued Chevy Tahoe. The light bar on the roof wailed and flashed in sync with a set of smaller lights buried deep in the front grille, and the tires squealed as he braked to a stop. They died off in a quick hiss as they screeched to a stop across the road in front of the Eckhart Medical Center.
Two seconds later, his deputies rolled up in their patrol cars. Both had one driver and no passengers. The two cops jumped out of their vehicles. The only one who wore a shred of his uniform was Sheriff Grady. His deputies wore department-issued jackets with sheriff badges patched on the right arms, but none of them wore the proper uniform. I guessed they hadn’t had time to change. They were probably in their pajamas when Grady had called them.
Sheriff Grady jumped out of the Tahoe with his Glock drawn. He stretched his arms out across his hood and pointed the gun at me from about thirty yards away. His deputies followed suit. The sirens had stopped the moment all three vehicles stopped.
Grady yelled, “Stand up with your hands up and walk toward us.”
I said, “Sorry, Sheriff. I’m not doing that.”
Grady said, “Widow, this isn’t a game. Now follow my directions.” He waited a moment and then repeated his orders.
I stayed behind the cover of the police car. I looked at him and shook my head. I said, “Not going to happen.” Silence, and then I said, “Grady. Your man is dying. I didn’t shoot him. Another guy attacked me in my cell. He had Gemson’s keys. He tried to kill me, but he must’ve shot Gemson first. You’re wasting time. He’s losing blood.”
Grady looked at Gemson. The guy wasn’t moving, but he was pressed up against the closed passenger door.
I peeked in on him. His coloring wasn’t good.
I said, “Tick tock, Sheriff. You can try to come and get me, a course of action that none of you will survive. That I can promise. That I can pretty much damn guarantee. Or you can holster your weapons and help me get Gemson inside the clinic before he bleeds to death.”
Grady remained where he was.
One of his deputies looked at him. The guy said, “Gemson looks bad.”
I said, “I’m telling you the truth. Faye Matlind is missing. And now someone just tried to kill me. You need to believe me, or this is going to turn bad for you, Gemson, and a whole lot of other people.”
At that exact moment, in the silence of a standoff, I heard the most recognizable sound in modern police combat. It was the ultimate conversation stopper — the last word.
A pump-action shotgun had cocked not far from us. We all froze as we heard Crunch! Crunch!
The four of us looked over toward the clinic’s entrance.
Grady said, “Doctor, go back inside.”
I saw a pair of small, feminine hands holding a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun with a pistol grip and a collapsible stock. One of the best shotguns ever made. Beyond the barrel of the shotgun was a beautiful woman with long blonde hair and a muscular frame like a fitness model.
Sheldon.
She said, “Widow. Grady. You boys stop all this nonsense and bring Gemson inside before he bleeds to death. And before I shoot all of you.”
Grady said, “Dr. Eckhart. Now don’t do anything stupid.”
Sheldon was a doctor? And an Eckhart? She had said that she worked at the clinic. What she should have said was that it was her clinic. Her last name was on the sign.
Sheldon said, “Ty, I’m not asking. I’m telling.”