“Shit. Shit.” I feel his eyes on me, drilling into me, seeing too much, and I’m annoyed because this isn’t about me. “He’s too old for this. I shouldn’t have—”

“Chief, he’s a cop. And he’s tough. He’ll be okay.” Then his eyes narrow. “You’re bleeding pretty good yourself.”

Vaguely, I’m aware of the warmth of blood streaming down the left side of my face. “Let’s go see Pickles.”

As we approach the ambulance, I spot two uniformed paramedics carrying a litter toward a waiting gurney. I can just make out Pickles’ form, his uniform wet and black-looking in the flashing lights. His face isn’t covered, and suddenly I feel like crying. I reach them, but they don’t stop, so I keep pace with them and look down at my most senior officer. An oxygen mask covers his nose and mouth. His eyes are open, but unfocused. I say his name, but he doesn’t respond; he doesn’t look at me or give me any indication he heard me. I see a blood smear on a pale, gnarled hand.

I make eye contact with one of the paramedics. “How is he?”

“He sustained a single gunshot wound to the armpit area, penetrated the chest. Vitals are stable. We’re transporting him to Pomerene. That’s all I can tell you at this point.”

“Can I ride with him?” I ask.

He hesitates, then I see him looking at the blood on my temple and he nods. “Sure, Chief. Hop in.”

*   *   *

An hour later I’m sitting in the surgical intensive care waiting area of Pomerene Hospital in Millersburg, worried and pacing and trying in vain not to acknowledge the headache gnawing at my temple. The paramedics allowed me to ride in the ambulance with Pickles. I’d known there wasn’t anything I could do to help, but I wanted to sit with him or maybe hold his hand. I never got my chance and ended up spending most of the ride trying to stay out of the way.

Upon arrival, Pickles was quickly assessed by the ER physician and, after some tests, rushed to surgery. At that point, I called Glock and asked him to notify Clarice that her husband had been shot. In typical Glock style, he was already en route. I feel incredibly lucky to have such a good team of officers and know they have my back.

I couldn’t escape the doctor’s notice of my own injury, a gash I must have sustained when my head struck the driver’s-side window. And while Pickles was in the OR, the ER doc cornered me and put seven stitches in my head. He had the nerve to try to admit me for observation in case I had a concussion, but I assured him I had someone to keep an eye on me for the next twenty-four hours.