Around us several more responders arrive. Men in pickup trucks who are volunteers for the fire department. I hear shouting. Voices filled with urgency and stress. Orders being given. A second ambulance pulls up, and two more paramedics disembark. Twenty yards away, a large truck with the electric company logo emblazoned on the door pulls up to a downed telephone pole where a transformer crackles and pops. In the midst of it all, I can still feel the echo of warmth where the tiny body was pressed against me.

“Kate.”

I turn my attention to Tomasetti, blink at him, pull myself back.

“I just heard from Glock,” he tells me. “The Maple Crest Subdivision got hit, too.”

In the back of my mind a little voice demands to know, Isn’t this enough? “Casualties?” I ask, instead.

“He didn’t know. Plenty of damage, though.”

“Shit.” My phone has been vibrating nonstop. I yank it out and snap my name.

“Chief!”

It’s Chuck “Skid” Skidmore, one of my other officers. He’s usually the cocky one, the one who always seems to find some smidgen of inappropriate humor in just about any situation, no matter how dire. Alarm rings hard in his voice. “I got power lines on top of a vehicle out here on Hogpath Road. A woman with a bunch of kids inside.”

“You call the power company?”

“They’re on the way.”

“Keep them in the vehicle, Skid. Tell them to roll up the windows. Don’t get too close.”

“Roger that.”

I end the call and look down at my phone to see I have six messages and a dozen texts. I reach for calm, force my emotions back. Two of the calls are from dispatch, so I press the speed dial for Lois. “You okay?” I begin.

“I’m good.” But she’s breathless and sounds stressed. “Power’s out everywhere. Pickles started that generator, so we got radio and phones and both are going nuts.” She takes a deep breath, blows it out slowly. “You heard about Maple Crest?”

“I’m heading that way now,” I tell her. “Any word on casualties?”

“I checked with Pomerene a few minutes ago. They have two critical. One fatality. More coming in and lots of minor injuries.” A hysterical laugh bubbles up from her. “I just took a ten-fifty-four a half a mile south of town.”

The code 10-54 is for loose livestock on the road, a call I always take seriously due to the likelihood of a motor vehicle accident. “Dispatch Pickles.”

“Ten-four.”

“I’m ten-seventy-six Maple Crest.”

“Roger that.”

I end the call and take a deep breath. I look at Tomasetti. Behind him I see the ambulance with the baby inside pull onto the road, sirens blaring. I don’t let myself think about the tiny newborn I’d held in my arms just minutes ago. The one whose warmth I can still discern. The one who, of all of us, is an innocent and deserves to live.

CHAPTER 3

I long for my police radio, as Tomasetti and I head east toward the Maple Crest subdivision. Drizzle floats down from a granite sky, smudging the trees and fields into a gothic, impressionist-style painting. The storm that brought the tornado is already past and heading northeast toward Geauga County, where new tornado warnings have been posted.