Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

the Explorer out of sight from the street. Armitage isn’t a suspect; he’s not even on the radar. No, I think darkly. No one’s going to come. If I want to survive, I’m going to have to get my hands on the gun.
    Keys jingle and I glance over to see Armitage unlock one of the exam rooms. He opens the door and then steps back. “Inside.”
    “You can’t—”
    He grabs my arm and manhandles me into the room. The light flicks on. It’s a small space, about twelve feet square, with a colorful mural on the wall depicting an Amish boy playing with a Labrador. To my left, there’s a sink and counter. A glass canister of tongue depressors. Another filled with cotton-tipped swabs. A Dr. Seuss calendar hangs on the wall. Wood cabinets painted country white. A single window covered with blinds. A frilly valance at the top.
    Armitage goes to the counter, pulls a key chain from his pocket, and unlocks an upper cabinet. He’s holding my .38 in his right hand and uses his left to remove a small plastic medical kit from a shelf. Glancing at me, he sets it on the counter and begins rummaging inside.
    I concentrate on loosening the scarf at my wrists, but I’m not making much headway. There’s no phone in the room, but I recall seeing one in the reception area. I wonder if I can reach it before he shoots me in the back.
    Armitage is still standing at the counter, pulling items from the kit and setting them next to the sink. Rubber tubing. Packages of needles. A glass vial, the label of which is too small for me to read. A prepackaged syringe. I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
    “What are you doing?” I ask.
    “I think I’ve landed upon a solution to the problem. A little ingenuity and some luck and I might just pull it off.”
    I visualize myself rushing him, knocking him off balance, grabbing the gun with my bound hands, turning and firing blind. Emptying the cylinder into him, his body jerking with every slug. But while I’m proficient with a firearm, hitting a target with my hands bound behind my back isn’t a realistic scenario.
    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