Tom had given up on religion decades ago, but looking down at Thornfield’s cyanotic fingernails, he felt his soul in peril. How different was this from finding Frank Knox dying on the floor of his surgery at Viola’s feet? Maybe not much. But something deep within him rebelled at the prospect of letting Thornfield die. Maybe he had been carrying so much guilt for so long that he couldn’t stand adding another death to his account. Not even the death of a killer.

Tom looked anxiously up at Walt, who was not a man to be easily swayed. “No matter how you stage this, they’re going to know someone else was involved. The second you destroyed that hard drive, you proved it.”

The Ranger’s eyes narrowed as he considered this. “Not if I leave the fragments behind. We’ll just have to chance them piecing it back together. They’ll never do it without FBI help. Besides, being on Eagle business, he probably found a way to switch off the camera.”

“What about our footprints? All that forensic crap?”

Walt set his jaw in frustration. “Goddamn it, Tom. Quit searching for excuses. There’s nothing pretty about this, but if we don’t do it, we won’t get out alive. Guys who kill state cops wind up cornered in barns somewhere. And when the meat wagon finally gets there, they have about thirty holes apiece in them. It’s time to buy ourselves some insurance.”

Tom slowly straightened up to his full height. He had three inches on Walt, and the new perspective reinforced his sense of moral advantage. “I know you just saved my life. But we can’t kill this man. This isn’t like the ambulance. This is cold-blooded murder.”

Walt looked down at the gray man on the floor. As the barrel of the shotgun drifted toward Sonny’s face, Sonny twisted up off the carpet and vomited on himself.

“For God’s sake!” Tom pressed. “Let’s move!”

With a wild grimace, Garrity carried the shotgun to the front of the van and settled into the driver’s seat. For a few seconds he sat in silence, still fighting his instincts. But to Tom’s relief, he finally started the Roadtrek and revved the motor in preparation for climbing back up the levee.

“Shut off his goddamn cell phone!” Walt shouted. “We don’t want his whole outfit coming down on us!”

As Tom moved to obey, the pain of his shoulder wound stabbed him, stealing his breath. He found the cell phone in Thornfield’s pocket, its LCD screen glowing blue. As he shut it off, he wondered if more state cops were already homing in on its periodic pings for a tower.

With a lurch, the van began to roll.

“Help me, Doc,” Sonny gasped, gripping his arm and imploring him with glassy eyes. “I’ll do anything you say.”

“Don’t talk.”