“I need to check on my officer,” I tell the deputy. “Can you put her in your cage?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Go.”

CHAPTER 32

A strange psychological phenomenon occurs in the seconds and minutes following a high-adrenaline event. I’ve heard it referred to as the “tachy-psyche effect” and “high-speed-pursuit syndrome.” I suppose both terms are apt, but only loosely correct. The shrinks haven’t yet coined a term for the emotions a cop experiences later, in the hours after a high-speed chase or physical encounter or officer-involved shooting. Those hours when the adrenaline ebbs and the intellect kicks back in. Most everyone gets the full-body shakes. Some cops get angry. Some laugh or joke in an almost giddy manner or act in some otherwise inappropriate way. I’ve seen some cops cry—and not just females—even the tough veterans who think they’re immune.

The ambulance has arrived by the time I get back to the Hochstetler place. When I get out of the Explorer, I realize my legs are shaking violently. My stomach is jittery. I have tunnel vision, and it’s focused on the red and blue lights of that ambulance. I see the silhouette of someone approaching. I don’t know who it is, but I don’t slow down. I have to reach Pickles because I’m suddenly terrified I’m too late.

“Chief?”

An odd sense of relief sweeps through me at the sound of Glock’s voice. “How is he?” I ask.

He falls in beside me, matching my long strides. “Paramedics are working on him now.”

“Bad?”

“I don’t know. Paramedic thinks the bullet went in through the arm hole at an angle, got him in the side.”

“Shit. Shit.” I feel his eyes on me, drilling into me, seeing too much, and I’m annoyed because this isn’t about me. “He’s too old for this. I shouldn’t have—”

“Chief, he’s a cop. And he’s tough. He’ll be okay.” Then his eyes narrow. “You’re bleeding pretty good yourself.”

Vaguely, I’m aware of the warmth of blood streaming down the left side of my face. “Let’s go see Pickles.”

As we approach the ambulance, I spot two uniformed paramedics carrying a litter toward a waiting gurney. I can just make out Pickles’ form, his uniform wet and black-looking in the flashing lights. His face isn’t covered, and suddenly I feel like crying. I reach them, but they don’t stop, so I keep pace with them and look down at my most senior officer. An oxygen mask covers his nose and mouth. His eyes are open, but unfocused. I say his name, but he doesn’t respond; he doesn’t look at me or give me any indication he heard me. I see a blood smear on a pale, gnarled hand.

I make eye contact with one of the paramedics. “How is he?”

“He sustained a single gunshot wound to the armpit area, penetrated the chest. Vitals are stable. We’re transporting him to Pomerene. That’s all I can tell you at this point.”

“Can I ride with him?” I ask.

He hesitates, then I see him looking at the blood on my temple and he nods. “Sure, Chief. Hop in.”

*   *   *

An hour later I’m sitting in the surgical intensive care waiting area of Pomerene Hospital in Millersburg, worried and pacing and trying in vain not to acknowledge the headache gnawing at my temple. The paramedics allowed me to ride in the ambulance with Pickles. I’d known there wasn’t anything I could do to help, but I wanted to sit with him or maybe hold his hand. I never got my chance and ended up spending most of the ride trying to stay out of the way.

Upon arrival, Pickles was quickly assessed by the ER physician and, after some tests, rushed to surgery. At that point, I called Glock and asked him to notify Clarice that her husband had been shot. In typical Glock style, he was already en route. I feel incredibly lucky to have such a good team of officers and know they have my back.

I couldn’t escape the doctor’s notice of my own injury, a gash I must have sustained when my head struck the driver’s-side window. And while Pickles was in the OR, the ER doc cornered me and put seven stitches in my head. He had the nerve to try to admit me for observation in case I had a concussion, but I assured him I had someone to keep an eye on me for the next twenty-four hours.

I’m on my second cup of vending machine coffee when I hear the chime of the elevator. I look down the hall to see Glock, Skid, and Mona shuffle out and start toward me. My chest tightens at the sight of them, and for the second time, I fight tears. They are my adopted family, my children and parents and siblings rolled into one, and I’ve never been so glad to see them in my life.

“How’s the old curmudgeon doing?” Glock asks.

“Stable.” I tell them everything I know, which isn’t much. “They took him in to surgery. Doc said bullet went low and damaged his spleen.”

“You don’t need your spleen,” Skid says quickly.

“My grandmother had hers taken out two years ago,” Glock says, “and she’s doing fine.”

“I thought your grandmother was in prison,” Skid says.

Our laughter feels a little forced, but I think all of us appreciate it because we’re worried and scared and no one can think of a better way to deal with it.

Mona touches my arm. “Clarice okay?” she asks.

“She’s waiting for him outside recovery,” Glock replies.

I turn my attention to Glock. “T.J. holding down the fort?”

“He wanted to be here, but there was no one else.”

“Where’s Ruth Weaver?” I ask.

“Holmes County transported her and booked her in.”

“I need to go talk to her.”

“Figured you would. We’ve got it covered here if you want to go.”

I had no business leaving my suspect or the scene of a shooting. But there’s an unwritten rule in law enforcement whether you’re the chief or a beat cop: When one of your own gets hurt, you drop everything and you go.

“Call me,” I tell him.

“The instant I hear anything.”

I’ve just started toward the elevator when the door swishes open and Tomasetti steps into the hall. My steps falter at the sight of him. His eyes take in the length of me, a grim, determined look on his face. His eyes narrow on the bandage at my temple, and he starts toward me.

“Kate…” He tries to frown, but only manages to look worried. “For God’s sake, are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

He reaches me, and his arms engulf me without hesitation. He squeezes too hard for too long, then sets me back and sighs. “I guess you’re going to make me ask what’s underneath that bandage.”

“You mean besides a mullet?”

He lets out a laugh.

I can’t help it; I smile. I’m happy to see him, relieved that he’s here. “It’s only seven stitches.”

“Only seven?” He leans close and kisses the top of my head. “You scared the hell out of me, you know that?”

Of all the things I expected him to do, that wasn’t it. “Driver’s-side window wasn’t that hard, I guess.”

“Not as hard as your head, evidently.” He smiles back at me. “Do you have a concussion?”

“No.”

He eases me to arm’s length, his hands grasping my biceps with a little too much force, and looks down at me. “You didn’t call.”

“I was about to.” The words sound automatic, so I add, “I didn’t want you to make a fuss.”

He looks past me at the rest of my team, who are standing in a group just outside the waiting area. “How’s Pickles?”

“Stable.”

“That’s a good sign.”

“I hope so. Seeing him … like that scared me, Tomasetti.”

“I’m familiar with that particular emotion.”

I move away from him and press the elevator down button. I know I should be more focused on him and what I just put him through, but I’ve got tunnel vision when it comes to this case. If anyone understands, I know Tomasetti does.

“Who called you, anyway?” I ask.

“Glock.” He comes up beside me, and we watch the lights as the elevator car makes it way to our floor. “I wish it had been you.”