“Get in the back,” Fisher Cat said. “We’re going for a ride.”

No way was I getting into the truck. The gun was scary. The truck was death. I rolled out and jerked away from him. He fired off a shot and I felt the bullet bite into my arm. I turned and ran and he ran after me, snagging the back of my shirt, throwing me off balance. I went down to one knee, pulling him down with me, and the gun dropped out of his hand.

And that’s when I snapped. I was suddenly really pissed off. I whacked him with my purse, a good solid whump on the side of his head that jarred his mouth open and had his vision unfocused. I probably should have hit him with my bag again, but I wanted to get my hands on him. I wanted to gouge his stupid eyes out. This little creep killed people for a game. And one of them was a cop. My sister was in the hospital having a baby and this jerkoff was trying to kill me. How tacky is that?

I grabbed him by his ridiculous green hair and banged his head into the truck a couple times. He was flailing out with his arms, kicking at my legs. We both went down to the ground and rolled around, locked together like a couple squirrels, scratching and clawing and hissing. We weren’t bitch slapping, trying to make a statement like Lula and Mrs. Apusenja. This was real life-or-death combat. Luckily, while we were rolling around, my knee connected with Fisher Cat’s crotch and I shoved his gonads halfway up his throat.

Fisher Cat went dead still and, almost in slow motion, somebody’s fist smashed Fisher Cat’s nose. Looking back on it, I suppose it was my fist. At the time, the fist didn’t seem to be connected to my brain. The nose gave with a sickening crunch and blood spurted out, killing my outrage.

“Oh crap!” I said. “I’m really sorry.” I don’t know why I said it because I wasn’t all that sorry. It was one of those female reflex things.

His right hand blindly struck out at me, he made contact with my arm, and lights exploded behind my eyes.

WHEN I CAME around I was on my back on the sidewalk. The misting rain felt good on my face. It was dark, but there were lights everywhere. Red and blue and white. The lights were haloed in the rain, giving them a surreal quality. The fog cleared from my head. I blinked and Ranger and Morelli swam into my field of vision. There were a lot of other people behind them. A lot of noise. Cops. Yellow crime scene tape, slick with rain.

“What happened?” I asked.

“It looks like you took a few volts,” Morelli said. His lips were tight and his eyes were hard.

It took a beat for me to remember . . . Fisher Cat’s arm reaching out to me. “Stun gun,” I said. “I didn’t see it until it was too late.”