Giving his hand a final squeeze, I rush up steps that are slick with mud. At the top, keeping low, I go right, toward the place I last saw her. Brush tears at my slacks as I make the sprint. If I can get behind her, I might be able to surprise her. I hear sirens in the distance, but I can’t tell how close they are. My .38 is heavy and reassuring in my hand, but I’m ever aware that I have only three shots left. Better make them count.

The roar of an engine sounds to my left. I glance over and see headlights. At first, I think a sheriff’s deputy has arrived, but the position is wrong. Then I realize it’s Weaver. She must have hidden her vehicle in the trees beyond the outhouse, and now she’s making a run for it.

I hit my lapel mike, but quickly realize it’s dead from being immersed in water. I run to the Explorer, yank open the door, jam my key in the ignition. I grab my radio mike and flick on my emergency lights. “Ten eighty! In pursuit! Old Hochstetler place.”

The radio crackles with voices and codes. A sheriff’s cruiser is northbound on Old Germantown Road, less than a minute away. I’m turning my vehicle around when the cab is suddenly filled with light. I glance left to see headlights bouncing wildly. Coming directly at me. Too fast. Too close. I jam the shifter into reverse and hit the gas. The Explorer lurches backward, but not fast enough to avoid the collision. Headlights blind me. I see the front end of a pickup truck. Then I’m jerked violently left. The air bag deploys, punching my face and chest like a giant fist. My head slams against the driver’s-side window hard enough to shatter the glass.

I sit there for a few seconds, dazed, unable to move. As the air bag deflates, I regain my senses. I look right and see taillights disappearing down the lane. Weaver’s running, I realize, heading toward the road. The Explorer’s engine died on impact, so I restart it and stomp the accelerator to the floor.

The wheels hiss as they spin over grass and mud; then the vehicle jumps forward, crashes over something unseen that scrapes the undercarriage, but I don’t slow down. Flipping on the wipers, I squint through the rain-streaked windshield. Ahead, I see the red flash of brake lights.

I snatch up my radio. “In pursuit. White Chevy pickup.” The vehicle reaches the road and goes left. “Northbound Old Germantown Road.”

“Roger that.”

The Explorer bumps over potholes and debris and old vegetation. I’m fifty yards behind her. I reach the road, haul the wheel left, and floor the accelerator.

Another voice cracks over the radio. “I got a visual.”

A glance in my rearview mirror reveals flashing lights of a Holmes County cruiser. My speedometer registers 80 mph. It’s a dangerous speed in such poor conditions, but within seconds, I catch up with her. I nose the Explorer to within a few feet of the bumper. The road here is poorly maintained; the asphalt is pitted and uneven. The ditches on either side are filled with water. I’m thinking about attempting a PIT maneuver when Weaver takes the decision away from me.

The truck makes a hard left toward the gravel entrance of a field, but she’s traveling too fast. I stomp hard on the brake. The Explorer slides out from under me. My training kicks in, and I turn into the skid, keeping my eyes on the truck. It spins 360 degrees and slams into the ditch. Water cascades twenty feet into the air.

Jamming the Explorer into Park, I throw open the door. Then I’m running toward the truck, my .38 poised, finger on the trigger. “Get out of the vehicle! Get your fucking hands up! Get on the ground! Right fucking now!” I scream the words in rapid succession. Overwhelm the target. Take control of the situation. Stay alive.

“Drop that weapon!” I scream. “Show me your hands! Do it now!”

My pulse is a jackhammer inside my head. I’m vaguely aware that it’s pouring rain, but I don’t hear it. I don’t feel the wet or cold on my skin. Every ounce of my focus is on the driver’s-side door.

“Show me your hands!” I come up behind the vehicle, staying out of her line of vision. Out of the line of fire. My gun hand is steady, but my heart is like a fist punching my ribs from inside my chest.

I reach the rear of the truck, check the bed. Nothing there. Keeping close to the truck, I sidle to the driver’s-side door. I look through the window. I can see the silhouette of her inside. Reaching out, I try the door, but it’s locked.

“Open the door! Do it now!” My finger snugs more tightly against the trigger, my aim steady at her center mass. “Open the door!”

I hear a vehicle skid to a halt behind me. Lights glint off the truck windows. I don’t take my eyes off the suspect. “Open the door!”

Movement inside the cab. The passenger door flies open. I stumble back, keep my weapon steady. “Stop! Drop the weapon!”

Then she’s out of the truck. She looks at me over her shoulder, and I get my first glimpse of Ruth Weaver’s face. Features pulled into a snarling mask. Crazy light in her eyes. And I know she’s not going to obey my command.

“Stop or I will shoot you!” I scream.

She hauls ass toward the gravel lane that will take her into the field and, beyond, a wooded area. She’s not a bad runner for a woman, but I’m faster. And I’m pissed. I round the front of the truck, splash through the ditch, go up the other side. And then I’m six yards behind her, running full out and closing in fast. “Police!” I shout. “Stop! Now!”

She doesn’t slow. Doesn’t look behind her. It’s too dark for me to discern if she’s got the gun in her hand. But I know she’s armed. She’s already shot a cop. Tried to kill me. One wrong move on her part, and I’ll cut her down.

I catch her thirty yards into the field. I dive and throw my arms around her waist, ramming my shoulder into the small of her back. A scream tears from her throat as she goes facedown in the mud. She tries to turn over, but I’m faster and stronger and I’m able to use my body weight to pin her.

“Stay down!” I shout. “Give me your hands!”

She writhes, twisting in an attempt to get her knees under her, but she’s not strong enough to dislodge me. Holstering my weapon, keeping my eyes on her hands, I grind my knee into her back. “Stop resisting!”

A cry of rage erupts from her throat as I clamp my left hand around her left wrist. I reach for my cuffs with my right. “You’re under arrest.”

“Get off me!”

“You shot a cop,” I snarl as I crank the cuff down tight. “A friend of mine.”

“I hope he dies!”

I shove her face into the mud. I’m still trying to get a grip on her right hand when the deputy arrives. He’s panting like a dog as he drops to his knees beside me and helps me snap the cuff into place.

I sit back on my heels, go for my lapel mike, only to remember it’s dead.

Noticing I’m without communication, the deputy speaks into his own radio. “Ten ninety-five.” He looks at me, taps his left temple to indicate mine. “You okay?”

I get to my feet. “My deputy’s been shot. He needs an ambulance.”

“They got one out there now.”

“He’s seventy-six years old.” Bending, I grab Ruth Weaver’s biceps and try to haul her to her feet. In that instant, I understand how a cop can get caught up in the high adrenaline of a chase, the rage of having one of your own cut down as if his life means nothing.

“Stand up,” I snarl.

The deputy goes to the other side of her and helps her rise. He’s tossing concerned looks my way, and I make a conscious effort to pull myself back from the edge upon which I’m standing.

This should be a good moment. I made my arrest. Got a dangerous killer off the street. But as the adrenaline ebbs, a hundred other gnarly emotions rush forward. Anger at the utter senselessness of the crimes. Relief that she can’t hurt anyone else. But worry for Pickles is at the forefront of my mind. At this point, I don’t know if he’s dead or alive, and that makes me angry all over again. The need to see him is a desperation I can’t contain.