On the south side of the Flemings' house a gate led to the garden, which gave way in turn to grass surrounding the small patio. Placing a hand over his radio to mute the chatter—agents were calling in as they raced here; police officers were surely calling in as well, on another frequency—Agent Nyler passed through the gate and picked his way across the garden. There was no movement in the back yard except that Paws, lounging in front of the side door, peeked up at him curiously, then roused himself to greet him.
"Shh," Nyler instructed the dog as he passed. Paws sniffed him and kept quiet.
"I'm at the side of the house," Nyler whispered into his radio. "There's a window here, into the kitchen. I'm going to take a peek—"
A gunshot rang out. Mrs. Fleming screamed.
Every weary muscle in Nyler's body went fully taut and he instinctively threw himself flat against the wall, his back pressed against the paneling, his firearm suddenly drawn and ready. Adrenaline already coursing through his veins now surged violently.
"Shot fired in the house!" he whispered sharply into his radio. "I'm going in! Get me that backup!"
He leapt away from the wall, set himself, and kicked the side door in. "FBI!" he roared. "DROP YOUR WEAPON!" In a breath, he took in the scene—Mrs. Fleming, hands and feet bound, scrambling toward Mr. Fleming on the floor, bleeding on his right side, while a man with white hair and beard climbed to his feet and looked up in shock as Nyler stormed into the house. Nyler immediately recognized the face from earlier years—Bill Lerwick.
Dr. Lerwick held a Beretta .22 in both hands and fired it. Nyler ducked; the bullet exploded through the side door behind him.
He recovered just in time to see Dr. Lerwick flee down the hall. "FREEZE!" the agent thundered, both hands on his own weapon as he pursued. Into his radio he yelled, "Suspect is armed and inside the house! We have a man down!" There was no time to check on Mr. Fleming, not when Dr. Lerwick could return.
Agent Nyler ran the length of the hall, set his back against the wall, and risked a quick look around the corner. The hall was L-shaped, and that swift glance told him the shorter leg of the L was clear. There was another room ahead—a laundry room, it appeared. He performed the same quick look into that room, but it, too, was empty. The back door there had been thrown open.
He shouted into the radio again. "Suspect has fled into the back yard!" With another safety-peek around the doorframe, he stepped into the grass and peered through the darkness and rain. Motion to his right caught his eye and, spinning, he leveled his gun on another man emerging around the corner of the structure, weapon drawn, his dark blue jacket declaring "FBI" in bright yellow letters that stood out in the dim light from the den windows.
Lowering his weapon—thank goodness for those yellow letters—Nyler waved across the grass. "Search the yard! Caucasian man in his fifties, armed and dangerous! I've got an injured man inside!"
The other agent nodded and called out Nyler's instructions to two more agents who raced in behind him. The three canvassed the yard as Agent Nyler hurried back into the house. "We need medical personnel!" he told the radio. Someone responded that an ambulance was already on its way.
Mrs. Fleming had reached her husband and held his head propped in her lap when Agent Nyler returned to them. The dog stood beside them, sniffing around the blood that had spilled onto the floor.
"It's his arm," Mrs. Fleming breathed. She touched near the place.
Nyler braced himself and looked. Bullet wounds always made him sick. The impact had put a hole clean through the arm; from the bleeding it didn't look as though the artery had been struck. But there was too much blood on Mr. Fleming's side; the shot had sliced through the arm and impacted his chest—Nyler couldn't tell how deeply.
"Is it bad?" Mr. Fleming managed through deep gasps. He was struggling against the pain, his face drained white.
"I've seen worse," Agent Nyler answered honestly. "But you have a bullet in your chest somewhere. Try not to move." Nyler tore a strip of cloth from Mr. Fleming's sleeve and worked to hamper the flow of blood.