The Sheriff digs into his pocket for something, his eyes dark. Clay face drops in alarm as if he knows what the Sheriff will pull out. He runs, winds up and smashes his fist into the Sheriff’s jaw.

There’s a snap as teeth shatter. A crack as the Sheriff’s head jerks back. A trail of blood arches from his mouth and the splatters on the floor. The Sheriff’s legs unhinge. He goes down on the tile like a sack of bones.

I stare at the Sheriff slumped on the ground. Clay pants hard, his fists now at his sides. His knuckles are bleeding, his jaw swelling. He swipes the back of his hand across his mouth and takes big breaths.

Slowly the Sheriff props himself up on his elbows and shakes his head drunkenly.

Clay stands over him, panting. “You done, old man?”

There’s a long pause. Slowly the Sheriff pushes himself onto his feet and licks blood from the corner of his mouth. As his grimace turns into a sneer, his hand digs for his pocket. This time Clay’s too slow to stop him. He draws out a slim black pipe like a narrow flashlight. What’s he doing?

“No,” he says, popping his spine into place. “Not done.”

The Sheriff snaps his wrist. Smaller sections slide out of the handle until the Sheriff’s holding a two-foot baton, shiny and lethal.

Dr. Vandewater screams, “Marlin, stop!”

He draws it back and smashes it into Clay’s knee.

The crack is sickening, like snapping a dry tree branch. Clay screams and tumbles onto the tile, reaching for his smashed kneecap.

“No!” That’s it. I’m not watching anymore. I run forward.

The Sheriff raises the baton.

I spring on the Sheriff and claw for the baton. He shrugs me off. I stumble back and he turns. His smile’s gone, replaced by one of the angriest sneers I’ve ever seen. I grab again for the baton, my fingers slipping over the smooth surface. The Sheriff swings his free hand. There’s a blur in my periphery and then his fist cracks into my cheekbone.

There’s an awful pop deep in my head. Stars explode across my vision. Then I’m falling. Falling. Falling.

Next thing I know I’m face down on the tile. Heat spreads across my cheek. I can’t focus my eyes. Someone’s crying. The Sheriff’s face bobs before me. My eyes lock on the puckered C-shaped scar that keeps dancing in front of my eyes.

“No meddlesome piece of trash tells me what to do.”

The pain throbs through my cheek, but I glare into the Sheriff’s eyes. “Looks like a woman’s been telling you what to do all along.”

The Sheriff raises the baton. He’ll crack my skull with it. I try to cover my head with my hands.