A groan escapes me when I push myself to a sitting position. Pain knifes up my left wrist. I glance down, try to move it, and I’m rewarded with another jolt. Broken, I think.

I glance at the loft door above, but there’s no one there. I look around for my .38, but it’s nowhere in sight. The pen is about forty feet square, poorly kept, and crowded with dozens of hogs. The volume of the grunting and squealing is deafening. Several of the animals are scuffling over fallen bits of hay.

I get to one knee and struggle to my feet. Dizziness sends me sideways, but my balance quickly levels out. I look around for Kaufman. He’s lying on the concrete ten feet away, not moving. There are several hogs between us. I can’t see his face; I don’t know if he’s conscious. I don’t even know if he’s alive.

I speak into my shoulder mike. “Ten-thirty-three. Ten-fifty-two. Kaufman farm,” I add and recite the address.

The radio crackles as several agencies respond to my emergency call for assistance. “Ten-seventy-six.”

Relief rushes through me at the sound of Skid’s voice, and I know the first responders are on the way. When a cop gets into trouble, jurisdiction ceases to matter. You drop everything and you go.

I speak into my shoulder mike. “Abigail Kline may be armed.”

“What’s her twenty?”

“The old barn at the rear of the property. Half a mile in. Send an ambulance.”

“Ten-four.”

I start toward Kaufman. I’ve only taken two steps, when one of the hogs bumps my leg hard enough to knock me off balance.

I lash out with my boot. “Back off!”

I miss and the animal shies away. The boar trots past, snuffling, watching me. Its tusk juts two inches from its lower jaw. Most hog farmers trim the tusks once a year. The teeth can get caught on fences and cause injury. Without trimming, the teeth can grow to several inches in length. The animal becomes a danger not only to other hogs but to its handlers.

Trying not to agitate the hogs, I sidle through the herd. The animals’ bodies are hard against my legs. My knee brushes against one of the sows. Squealing, the animal spins and nips my calf. Pain shoots up the back of my leg.

Bending, I slap the hog hard on the back. “Get back! Go! Get out of here!”

The sow grunts and shuffles away. I glance down at my leg, dismayed to see blood seeping through the fabric, and a chill lodges at the base of my spine. “Shit. Shit.”