Lyle’s pickup was T-boned behind Trudy’s Toyota. It was idling but no one was in sight. Fortin thought the dent in the Toyota’s left rear quarter was fresh, as was the fractured glass on the driver’s side window.

Lyle must’ve stopped her from leaving.

Growing concerned, Fortin reached for his cell, hoping he could talk to Trudy or Lyle, get a sense of the situation in the house, and calm things down. But the family’s line rang and rang, not even stopping at voicemail.

Not good. I know they’ve got voicemail. I used it when I called before.

Staring through the rain at the house, his mind raced with a million scenarios of what might be happening inside, and his heart beat faster.

I’m just useless sitting here.

Fortin caught his breath – a faint sound carried in the air.

What was that?

He cracked open his window. The rain hissed, then – there it is again – a child’s scream, an agonizing wail that tore at his heart.

Damn, I can’t sit here! I can’t wait for Wilson!

He climbed out of the car, stood next to it, clipped his portable radio to his belt, inserted his earpiece, then reached for his shoulder microphone.

“Six to Control. I’m going in to assess things; I’ll get back to you.”

“Ten-four, Six. Are you not waiting for backup?”

“Negative. I heard a scream from the house! I’m going in now!”

Before Fortin took his first step to the house, before he’d even heard the shot, the first bullet whizzed by his ear. As he crouched for cover behind his open door, the second shot shattered the window; shards scraped his cheek and temple above his eye. A third shot whizzed over the car’s light bar, a fourth smashed his windshield. He was exposed and couldn’t stay here.

Gasping for breath, he crawled through the mud behind Trudy’s Toyota and drew his Smith & Wesson semi-automatic 9-millimeter. Now he had a better view of Lyle, standing on his porch, a silhouette under the light, aiming to shoot at him again.

Fortin wiped at the blood trickling into his eye; his hand shook as he steadied it on the cold, wet hood of the car.

“It’s Will, Lyle! Put the gun down! Put your hands where I can see ’em!”

Lyle answered with two more shots. Fortin returned fire, getting off several quick rounds that put Lyle down.

Adrenaline pumping, his mind blazing, ears ringing, Fortin moved like he was underwater. His training kicked in and, with his gun drawn, he approached Lyle. He wasn’t breathing. He was spread-eagled on the porch, in dirty boots, jeans, T-shirt. His cap was next to him.

He appeared dead.