“Shit. Shit!” My hand shakes as I grapple for my shoulder mike. “Man down! In the pen! The hogs are mauling him!”

I step onto the lowest rail of the gate and scream at the animals. “Get back! Get away!”

But the animals are frenzied now. Injured and on the ground, Kaufman makes a feeble attempt to fend them off, slapping at them. For a split second I consider going in to help him. But I know the animals would turn on me, too.

“Back off!” I shout. “Back off!”

The Amish man’s screams are a horrible, high-pitched keening that opens a fist of revulsion in my gut. I look around for a weapon, something to throw, and I spot a piece of broken fencing on the ground. Part of a busted cinder block. I snatch up both, throw them one at a time as hard as I can at the hogs. Both objects hit home, but neither is large enough to stop the carnage.

Unhooking the chain, I swing open the gate. Several of the hogs swing their heads my way. One of the smaller animals starts toward me. I turn and run toward the barn. Kaufman’s screams follow me. The dreadful sound of a man being eaten alive …

I scale the first fence I come to, putting as many obstacles between me and the hogs as possible. Then I’m in an old stall on the underside of the barn. I spy the hay chute ahead, shove off the cover, and climb through.

A deputy with a shotgun and flak jacket rushes toward me. “Where’s the shooter! Where’s the shooter?”

“Loft,” I tell him. “Female. She’s got a rifle.”

He sprints toward the stairs that will take him up a level. I get to my feet and hit my lapel mike. “Man down! He’s being mauled! In the hogpen!”

“Ten-ninety-five.” A voice I don’t recognize tells me he’s taken Abigail Kline into custody.

“Chief!”

I turn at the sound of Glock’s voice, see him come through the front of the barn, face grim, moving fast.

“You hurt?” he asks.

“Kaufman’s down. In the pen. For God’s sake, the hogs are killing him!” I don’t wait for a response. Cradling my injured wrist, I go back to the hay chute and drop down to the stall below. Quickly, I jog to the aisle and rush to the pen. I know immediately something has changed. Kaufman has gone silent. The hogs have quieted.

I reach the gate, startling when a juvenile hog careers past and scurries toward open pasture. I look in the pen. Most of the pigs have fled. Shock and revulsion rise in my chest at the sight of Kaufman—what’s left of him—lying in a pool of blood.

“What the fuck?” Glock whispers behind me.