I’m checking to see if there’s a bullet in the chamber when she turns toward the stove.

“I will shoot you!” I scream. “Get down on the floor!”

She yanks the pot from the stove. Water sloshes over the side as she spins toward me. The jars clank together as she hurls the pot at me. Boiling water spews onto my clothes, my face and neck. I know I’m being scalded, but there’s too much adrenaline for me to feel pain. I use the rifle like a bat, slam it against the side of her head with such force that she’s knocked off her feet.

Somewhere in the periphery of my consciousness, I hear a mason jar shatter as it hits the floor. Blood spatters the counter as Irene Mast goes down. The sensation of heat streaks down my neck, my right shoulder, my breast.

Irene Mast is lying on her side, not moving. Glass crunches beneath my feet as I cross to her, nudge her with my toe. She’s deadweight. Her eyes are open, but she’s not quite conscious. The blow opened a gash the size of my index finger just in front of her ear.

My hand shakes as I reach for my cuffs, only I’m not wearing my uniform belt. I look around for something with which to secure her hands, spot a towel on the floor. Using my teeth, I tear it into three strips and tie them together. Kneeling, I roll her over, pull her arms behind her back. As I secure her wrists, I glance toward the basement door behind me, half-expecting an armed Perry Mast to burst out shooting. I don’t think I’m in any condition to go another round.

I get to my feet, give Irene Mast a final look. “Don’t go anywhere,” I mutter. Picking up the rifle, I start toward the back door.

Midway through the mudroom, I pull out my phone, punch 911. Standing to one side, I move the curtain with the muzzle and peer out. I notice two things simultaneously. My Explorer is nowhere in sight. And a Trumbull County Crown Vic is parked in the same place my Explorer had been parked just a short time earlier. Where the hell is the deputy?

“Nine one one. What’s your emergency?”

Once more, I identify myself and tell her the sheriff’s cruiser is here but that there’s no sign of the deputy. “He could be down. Perry Mast is armed with a rifle and shooting at cops.”

“Ten-four. Stand by.”

The cruiser is too far away for me to discern if the deputy is inside, injured or otherwise. He could be in the barn or one of the outbuildings, searching for me. Unless Mast shot him . . .