Only then do I realize I’m sobbing. Loud, wrenching cries that fill the house with the sound of pain. I need my radio to call for help. But I want my cell phone. I need Tomasetti.

Somehow I make it to my feet. I stumble around in the dark. In the light from the window, I glance down to see my left arm hanging uselessly at my side. Blood dripping off my fingertips. A steady roar of pain climbs all the way up to my shoulder. My hand is numb.

I find my cell phone and radio in the living room where Barbereaux must have set them. I hit the radio first. “Ten-thirty-three.” My voice is little more than a whisper.

T.J.’s voice crackles, but I don’t reply. Unconsciousness beckons, a big dark hole tugging me down. Don’t pass out, a little voice inside my head warns. One more thing to do . . .

I hit the speed dial for Tomasetti. I hear his voice, but I’m not sure if it’s in my head or if he’s really there. “I got him.” The weakness of my own voice surprises me. “I got the motherfucker.”

“Kate, where are you?”

“Zook . . . farm.”

“How bad are you hurt?”

“I’m not sure.” My voice cracks. “Hurry. I need you . . .”

I need you . . .

Her words rang inside his head like the echo of a lover’s scream. Tomasetti could tell by the sound of her voice she was injured. That she didn’t know the extent of her injuries told him it was bad. The thought sent a bare-fisted punch of terror right through the center of him.

His hands shook so violently, he nearly dropped his cell as he dialed the Painters Mill PD. The night-shift operator picked up on the first ring. He quickly identified himself. “I need an ambulance out at the Zook farm. We’ve got an officer down out there.”

Keys clicked. “En route.” The line hissed for a second. “T.J. called a moment ago. He can’t get Skid or Kate on their radios.”

“Goddamnit.” Tomasetti cranked the speedometer up to sixty as he sped through town. He blew the stoplight at Main and headed toward the Zook farm. “Get the sheriff’s office out there, too.”

“Roger that.”

Snapping his phone closed, Tomasetti floored the accelerator, burying the speedometer along a straight stretch of highway, then dropped it down at the turn that would take him to Hogpath Road. The Tahoe skidded on the wet pavement as he hauled the wheel right. His headlights flashed over yellow corn to the left and the tall trees of a greenbelt beyond. Somehow he maintained control, pointed the Tahoe north, pushed the accelerator to the floor.

You’re too late.