“Shit!” whispers the deputy as he steps in behind us.

A whimper sounds from the hall. It’s a terrible sound in the silence of the house. The cry of a dying animal. My Glock leading the way, I follow the blood trail through the kitchen and into the hall. There, I see Irene Mast lying on the floor. Her hands are free. She’s using her elbows to drag herself toward the basement door. With each movement, that terrible sound erupts from her mouth. It’s as if she’s a mindless thing that must reach some destination before she can die.

“Stop right there.” My throat is so tight, I barely recognize my own voice. “Stop.”

She continues on as if she hasn’t heard me, hands and elbows pulling her body along. Her hands are clawing at the hardwood floor, that terrible sound squeezing from her throat with every inch of progress.

In the periphery of my mind, I hear the deputy’s radio crack; he’s speaking into his mike, giving the paramedics the go-ahead to come up the driveway.

“Mrs. Mast?” I repeat. “Stop. There’s an ambulance on the way.”

She’s sustained at least one bullet wound to the head. I don’t know how it is that she’s still conscious. That she somehow survived that kind of trauma. Her kapp and the hair beneath it are blood-soaked. Her left ear is missing. She’s lost a lot of blood. But she doesn’t stop. Her hand claws at the floor, a mindless, brain-damaged action. Her nails are broken to the quick. Her legs remain unmoving, part of a broken body being dragged along behind her.

I kneel next to her, set my hand on her shoulder. “There’s an ambulance on the way.”

That’s when I notice the bullet hole in her back. It’s small and there’s not much bleeding. I wonder if the bullet struck her spine and that’s why her legs aren’t moving.

“Mrs. Mast, hold still. Help will be here any moment.”

She uses her left hand to turn onto her side. A sound squeezes between her lips as she rolls onto her back. Her eyes find mine, and I realize she’s cognizant. She knows she’s been shot. She knows I’m here.

“Who did this to you?” I ask.

Her eyes focus on mine. Her mouth opens and blood and saliva form a bubble between her lips. She whispers something unintelligible and then the breath rushes from her lungs. Her body jerks twice and goes slack. I hear the paramedics come through the door, but I know they’re too late.

“She’s done,” Tomasetti says.