“You sure?” T.J. takes my arm as I get to my feet.

“I didn’t get shot in the head, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You’ve got two bullet holes in your windshield.” The deputy approaches, his expression grim. “I don’t think he was aiming for the dash.”

T.J. blinks at me. “Any idea who it was?”

I shake my head. “No clue.”

The deputy curses. “We got no sign of the shooter. The son of a bitch booked. We’ll take a look around, see if we can find some brass and tire marks.” He turns his attention to me. “You get eyes on a vehicle? Lights? Anything?”

“I saw something. A vehicle or buggy. Then he started shooting.” I frown at the front of my vehicle. “Don’t know where that tree came from.”

The men’s laughter is interrupted by the arrival of two paramedics. I groan and the paramedic grins. “Don’t look so happy to see us.”

“I think I’m okay.”

“Yeah, I can tell by all the blood streaming down your face,” he says, unfazed by my resistance.

I’ve met him at some point. He’s competent and good-humored, and everyone calls him Fish. “Humor us, Chief. We’re kind of sensitive about rejection, you know.” Clucking his tongue, he frowns at the sight of my Explorer. “Anyone ever tell you you’re tough on vehicles?”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “Last time I wrecked one.”

He whistles. “Town council’s going to love you.”

“They already do,” I mutter, and I let myself be helped toward the waiting ambulance.

*   *   *

There are certain advantages to being the chief of police in a small town. Coffee on the house at LaDonna’s Diner. Free apple fritters at the Buckhorn Bakery. The occasional dinner or lunch that comes without a check. The generosity of local merchants is a benefit I never take for granted and rarely partake in. Tonight, however, I don’t argue when the doc at Pomerene Hospital gets me in and out of the ER quickly. I assure him I didn’t hit my head or lose consciousness, but like most medical professionals, he’s a stickler about the possibility of a traumatic brain injury, so they send me to radiology for a CAT scan. Then it’s down to the lab for blood work. A young nurse cleans the cut on the bridge of my nose, deeming it superficial and predicting two black eyes before butterflying it and leaving me with instructions for an ice pack and Tylenol.

I’ve reached for my phone a dozen times to call Tomasetti, but I haven’t yet made the call. I tell myself I’m too busy trying to stay abreast of the search for the as-yet-unidentified shooter. Besides, a few bruises don’t warrant getting him out of bed at one o’clock in the morning … do they?