A groan escapes me when I push myself to a sitting position. Pain knifes up my left wrist. I glance down, try to move it, and I’m rewarded with another jolt. Broken, I think.
I glance at the loft door above, but there’s no one there. I look around for my .38, but it’s nowhere in sight. The pen is about forty feet square, poorly kept, and crowded with dozens of hogs. The volume of the grunting and squealing is deafening. Several of the animals are scuffling over fallen bits of hay.
I get to one knee and struggle to my feet. Dizziness sends me sideways, but my balance quickly levels out. I look around for Kaufman. He’s lying on the concrete ten feet away, not moving. There are several hogs between us. I can’t see his face; I don’t know if he’s conscious. I don’t even know if he’s alive.
I speak into my shoulder mike. “Ten-thirty-three. Ten-fifty-two. Kaufman farm,” I add and recite the address.
The radio crackles as several agencies respond to my emergency call for assistance. “Ten-seventy-six.”
Relief rushes through me at the sound of Skid’s voice, and I know the first responders are on the way. When a cop gets into trouble, jurisdiction ceases to matter. You drop everything and you go.
I speak into my shoulder mike. “Abigail Kline may be armed.”
“What’s her twenty?”
“The old barn at the rear of the property. Half a mile in. Send an ambulance.”
“Ten-four.”
I start toward Kaufman. I’ve only taken two steps, when one of the hogs bumps my leg hard enough to knock me off balance.
I lash out with my boot. “Back off!”
I miss and the animal shies away. The boar trots past, snuffling, watching me. Its tusk juts two inches from its lower jaw. Most hog farmers trim the tusks once a year. The teeth can get caught on fences and cause injury. Without trimming, the teeth can grow to several inches in length. The animal becomes a danger not only to other hogs but to its handlers.
Trying not to agitate the hogs, I sidle through the herd. The animals’ bodies are hard against my legs. My knee brushes against one of the sows. Squealing, the animal spins and nips my calf. Pain shoots up the back of my leg.
Bending, I slap the hog hard on the back. “Get back! Go! Get out of here!”
The sow grunts and shuffles away. I glance down at my leg, dismayed to see blood seeping through the fabric, and a chill lodges at the base of my spine. “Shit. Shit.”
I reach Kaufman and kneel. His eyes are partially closed and rolled back white. His mouth hangs open. Blood from a broken tooth that’s pierced his lower lip trickles down his chin. At first glance I think he’s dead, then I notice the rise and fall of his chest. Blood coming through his shirt on his left side just above the waistband of his trousers. A gunshot wound.
“Don’t try to move,” I tell him. “There’s an ambulance on the way.”
His lids flutter. His eyes focus on my face. “Heeda der saus,” he whispers.
Beware the hogs.
The back of my neck prickles. I look over my shoulder. The larger hogs are devouring the fallen bits of hay, threatening the younger animals with snapping jaws when they dart in to steal a scrap.
“What the hell’s wrong with them?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. But I already know. They’re starving. And the reality of the situation sends a quiver of fear through my gut.
“Can you walk?” I ask.
He tries to sit up. His face contorts with pain, and he only manages to flop around like a fish. “My legs … broken, I think.”
“Mr. Kaufman, we need to get out of this pen.”
“The gate.” He motions to a steel gate secured with a chain. “There.”
I look around for his rifle, but it’s nowhere in sight. Bending, I grab his right wrist and start to drag him across the concrete. Kaufman cries out, but I don’t stop. He’s not a large man, but he’s dead weight, and it takes every bit of strength I possess to move him. Progress is excruciatingly slow. I try to avoid the pigs and the patches of stinking black muck, but the pen is crowded and filthy and I don’t quite manage.
I’m fifteen feet from the gate when a shot rings out. I look toward the loft door to see Abigail Kaufman with the rifle to her shoulder, her eye on the sights. Releasing Kaufman’s wrist, I duck down. “Abigail! No! Put down the rifle!”
She doesn’t comply. Gives me no indication that she even heard me. Another shot cracks. A ricochet zings off the concrete inches from Kaufman’s head.
I have no cover. She’s at a high vantage point, thirty feet away, close enough even for someone unaccustomed to firearms to hit their mark. “Put down the gun!” I scream. “Do it now!”
Bending, never taking my eyes off her, I reach for Kaufman, grip his wrist, and pull. “Help me, damn it,” I tell him.