“Up against that wall or I blow his fucking head off!”

“Looks like that’s the plan, anyway, Frank,” Vince said. “You want to take the sheriff out.”

He purposely didn’t use Cal Dixon’s name. He didn’t use the word “friend.” Even though Farman and Dixon had been friends for years. In Farman’s eyes Dixon had betrayed him. No sense fanning that fire.

“We’ve all of us got guns, Frank,” Vince said. “You can’t shoot all of us at once. You plug the sheriff and you’re done, we drop you right where you stand. Is that what you came here for? Suicide by cop? The coward’s way out?”

“I’m no coward,” Farman said.

“Shoot the sheriff and you’re worse than a coward. You’re a coward and a killer. All these years in the uniform, Frank. All these years building your rep. You want to blow it all away because you’re pissed off?”

Farman didn’t seem to know what to say. This wasn’t going the way it had in his head when he’d been driving over, fantasizing about going out in a blaze of glory, Vince imagined.

His eyes were glassy and a little unfocused. He’d probably been drinking—probably a lot—just as he had been the night before—the night his wife went missing.

For a man who needed to be in control, losing control was a hell of a scary thing that called for a lot of alcohol to numb the fear and the pain.

“Talk to us, Frank,” Vince said, moving a little to his left. Half a step, no more. “You’ve got something to say or you wouldn’t have come here.”

Dixon’s face was almost purple, either from lack of oxygen or an impending stroke. It wouldn’t have been the worst thing if he passed out, Vince thought. Dixon might have been thinking the same thing, but his judgment would be complicated by the fact that he and Farman went back. He wouldn’t want to see Farman shot. He would want him disarmed.

“Come on, Frank,” Hicks said. “Put the gun down. You’ve had a little too much to drink. Nobody’s going to hold that against you.”

Hicks shifted a little to his left.

Farman shuffled his feet, moving to his left. He still had a clear enough view of the door if he turned his head a little.

Mendez had to be in the coffee room, watching this drama unfold on the monitor, Vince thought. He had gone to use the restroom not half a minute before this mess started.

“What is it you want to tell us, Frank?” Vince asked.

Farman said nothing, but Vince could see him chewing on the words in his head. He just had to get him to spit them out. If he was talking, he wasn’t shooting.