“They got one out there now.”

“He’s seventy-six years old.” Bending, I grab Ruth Weaver’s biceps and try to haul her to her feet. In that instant, I understand how a cop can get caught up in the high adrenaline of a chase, the rage of having one of your own cut down as if his life means nothing.

“Stand up,” I snarl.

The deputy goes to the other side of her and helps her rise. He’s tossing concerned looks my way, and I make a conscious effort to pull myself back from the edge upon which I’m standing.

This should be a good moment. I made my arrest. Got a dangerous killer off the street. But as the adrenaline ebbs, a hundred other gnarly emotions rush forward. Anger at the utter senselessness of the crimes. Relief that she can’t hurt anyone else. But worry for Pickles is at the forefront of my mind. At this point, I don’t know if he’s dead or alive, and that makes me angry all over again. The need to see him is a desperation I can’t contain.

“I need to check on my officer,” I tell the deputy. “Can you put her in your cage?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Go.”

Chapter 32

CHAPTER 32

A strange psychological phenomenon occurs in the seconds and minutes following a high-adrenaline event. I’ve heard it referred to as the “tachy-psyche effect” and “high-speed-pursuit syndrome.” I suppose both terms are apt, but only loosely correct. The shrinks haven’t yet coined a term for the emotions a cop experiences later, in the hours after a high-speed chase or physical encounter or officer-involved shooting. Those hours when the adrenaline ebbs and the intellect kicks back in. Most everyone gets the full-body shakes. Some cops get angry. Some laugh or joke in an almost giddy manner or act in some otherwise inappropriate way. I’ve seen some cops cry—and not just females—even the tough veterans who think they’re immune.

The ambulance has arrived by the time I get back to the Hochstetler place. When I get out of the Explorer, I realize my legs are shaking violently. My stomach is jittery. I have tunnel vision, and it’s focused on the red and blue lights of that ambulance. I see the silhouette of someone approaching. I don’t know who it is, but I don’t slow down. I have to reach Pickles because I’m suddenly terrified I’m too late.

“Chief?”

An odd sense of relief sweeps through me at the sound of Glock’s voice. “How is he?” I ask.

He falls in beside me, matching my long strides. “Paramedics are working on him now.”

“Bad?”

“I don’t know. Paramedic thinks the bullet went in through the arm hole at an angle, got him in the side.”