Lou could not recall the name of even one of the killers, no matter how many lives they had taken. But this killer was different. This killer was John Meacham—for nearly four years, his client, and more recently, his friend.

Flipping the tuner on the radio of his Toyota, he checked in on a series of stations. The story was front and center on many of them, and a bulletin on most of the rest. Within fifteen minutes, there was nothing new, and Lou settled back on 103.5 FM, the all-news station.

“… Meacham, a fifty-two-year-old internal medicine specialist had been practicing in Kings Ridge for three years. His partner, sixty-two-year-old Carl Franklin, was one of the seven victims. At this moment, Meacham is listed in critical condition at DeLand Regional Hospital. Police speculate that the recoil of his pistol jerked his shot off line enough to keep it from being immediately fatal.

“They report that all seven victims were pronounced dead at the scene of the carnage, Meacham’s medical office on Steward Street in the Kings Ridge Medical Park. Only one of the victims, a female, whose name is still being withheld, survived long enough to say anything to authorities. A source in the department has told reporters that all she said before she died was, ‘No witnesses.’”

No witnesses.

Lou shrugged and shook his head. Seven dead and one life hanging by a strand.

No witnesses.

What in the hell does that mean?

Emily had gone home with Renee, and the chief of the ER department at Eisenhower had rushed over to finish out Lou’s shift. The severe weather, which had been on and off stormy all day, was on again—fog, wind, and a chilly, pelting rain.

From what Lou knew, Kings Ridge, population maybe ten or fifteen thousand, was a bedroom community for D.C., surrounded by expansive farms, mostly corn. He had driven through it a couple of times, and remembered the downtown as being fairly affluent and well maintained, with a quaint village green, coffee shops, and restaurants spaced along on the main street.

DeLand Regional, a few miles west of the town, was a level-two trauma center, which meant that orthopedics, neurosurgery, and plastics were covered, although not necessarily in house all the time. According to the news, John Meacham had survived a gunshot wound to the right temple. Under usual circumstances, patients with such an injury would have been transported by chopper to the nearest level-one facility, in this case, Eisenhower Memorial itself. Perhaps a neurosurgeon was available at DeLand, Lou speculated, and didn’t want to lose a juicy case. Or perhaps the weather was too chancy.

Poor goddamn Meacham.

What in the hell happened out there?

John Meacham was tightly wound, but not this tightly wound. In fact, he had a better-than-decent recovery program, and had mellowed considerably. Word was bound to get out that he had been attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings for four years, and a few hundred alcoholics and drug addicts in need of the program would decide that they were better off going it on their own.