A hundred thoughts hit my brain at once. I have no idea where the shot came from. There’s no cover. I know Pickles was wearing a vest, but that doesn’t mean he was completely protected from a bullet. I don’t know how badly he’s injured. I don’t know if he’s conscious—or dead. And I’m ever aware that he just toppled into water deep enough to drown him.

I hit my lapel mike. “Officer down!” I scream the words, barely recognizing my own voice. “Ten thirty-three! Fuck! Ten thirty-three!”

I fumble for my .38. The slicker hinders me, costing me precious seconds. Then my sidearm’s in my hand and I’m sprinting toward the place I last saw Pickles. “Police!” I don’t know where the shooter is, but I shout the words anyway.

Movement ahead and to my left draws my attention. I catch a glimpse of a figure in the periphery of my beam. “Drop your weapon! Police!” I take aim and fire three times.

Vaguely I’m aware of my radio lighting up with activity, telling me every cop within ten miles will be here in short order. I don’t think Pickles has that kind of time.

Two shots ring out. I hear a plunk! and actually feel the concussion next to my foot as a bullet plows into mud inches from where I’m standing. I douse my flashlight, making me invisible but blind. I think the shooter has taken cover behind the outhouse to my left, forty-five feet away. I drop low, moving fast, and head toward the opposite side of the pit, expecting a bullet to slam into my chest at any moment.

I don’t have much cover here, either. A few small trees growing out of the pit. The brick chimney. The ten-foot-high stump of a dead tree. The best I can hope for is that the piss-poor visibility will keep her from getting off a good shot.

Sidling right, never taking my eyes from the place where I last saw her, I get as close as I can to the pit. “Pickles?” I call out.

No answer.

It seems like hours since he went into the water, but it’s only been seconds. I know that if he were able, he would have answered. Panic clenches my chest, a fist twisting the air from my lungs. I can’t help but think: head shot.

I hit my radio. “Where’s my backup!”

“Sheriff’s office ETA five minutes, Chief.”

“Ten thirty-three! Ten thirty-nine!” I shout the codes, frightened because I know Pickles doesn’t have five minutes, and I’m not going to let him die.