“Shit shit shit!” Harry cried, his foot pressing down so hard on the brake it was a wonder it didn’t go through the floor. He put the vehicle into reverse and rolled back to safety, off the first track and ahead of the gate, where he should have stopped in the first place.

It was a long train, a mile long at least.

“We got anyone north of the tracks?” he barked into the receiver, shouting to be heard over the racket made by the passing train.

Dispatch came back: “Bloodworth.”

That would be Officer Ben Bloodworth. Stick.

“Get him to Guildwood!”

Harry scanned the freight cars, his frustration growing with each one that passed. A long line of tanker cars, linked together in the middle of the train, rumbled past. Going way too fast, Harry thought. A freight train barreling through the center of town should be required to slow down. A derailment of those cars, carrying God knows what kind of deadly chemicals, would be a catastrophe.

The end of the train was in view. Harry got ready. When the last car rolled by and the gates began to rise, Harry floored it.

When Harry reached Guildwood Street, he saw another Lucknow Police Department car was already there. Stick had beat him to the scene.

The front door of the house, a stately two-story that had likely been built in the last couple of years, was wide open. Harry screeched to a stop and got out of his car. He heard no gunfire, but that didn’t mean the situation was under control. Hand resting atop the firearm at his side, he proceeded up the driveway and was almost to the front door when Stick walked out, holding a gun, the barrel pointed toward the ground.

From where Harry stood, it looked like a Smith & Wesson CSX, one of the smaller handguns on the market.

Stick looked stricken.

“Stick?” Harry said.

“Situation’s under control, Chief,” he said, working to control his voice, keep it from shaking. “No civilians hurt. Don’t need the paramedics.”

Harry said, “Whose gun is that?”

He held it out to Harry, who took it from him and put it into his jacket pocket. “Belongs to Mrs. Wilford. Betty Wilford. She’s inside.”

“Anyone else in the house?”

“Her son. Tyler. Upstairs. He’s seven, home from school today because he’s got an upset stomach.”

“What happened?”

“Mrs. Wilford shot Dougie.”

“Dougie?”

“The dog. Big one. A Lab. Five shots. Dougie was moving fast. First two missed him.”

“You go stay with the son. I’ll talk to Mrs. Wilford.”

He found her in the kitchen, but not before seeing Dougie, motionless on his side on the gray broadloom next to the coffee table in the living room.