My slicker comes to my knees, and the lower half of my slacks and feet are soaked in seconds. Usually, if I’m approaching a scene and I don’t want to be visible, I wouldn’t risk using a flashlight. But nights are incredibly dark in Amish Country. No streetlights or porch lights. With the thick cloud cover, visibility is nearly down to zero. The last thing I want to do is end up in some hole or ditch, so I pull out my Maglite and we start toward the barn.
I train the beam on the ground, looking for tire tracks or footprints, any sign that someone has been here, but all I see are weeds and mud, stands of saplings, and the occasional piece of trash. The old round barn has stood on this spot for over a century. But for the last three decades, the structure has gone without maintenance and looks every bit of its hundred years.
“I remember when this was a showplace,” Pickles says as we go around the side of the building toward the rear. “Old Willis Hochstetler and his pop worked their tails off. Made some damn nice furniture, too. Not the kind of stuff you find today.”
We reach the back of the barn. The door has been torn off its hinges and hangs at a perilous angle. I enter first. The smells of rotting wood and rodent piss greets me. I shine my light along the perimeter of the room. Broken windows—either from hail or vandals or both—allowed the elements to invade. The once-gleaming oak floors are warped and rotting in places. The support beams show signs of termites. Mindless graffiti has been spray-painted on one wall in fluorescent orange. A pile of what looks like coyote shit sits on the seat of a rail chair that has the back rest broken off.
“Hate to see this place go to crap like this,” Pickles mutters.
“Me, too.” I sigh. “I think we’ve struck out. Let’s go.”
We take the same route out of the building and start toward the Explorer. We’re midway there when Pickles calls out, “I’m going to take a quick look-see in all that brush over there, Chief.”
I glance to my left to realize he’s referring to the place where the house once stood, which is little more than a partially caved-in pit now. The once-manicured landscaping is overgrown, some of the bushes jutting twelve feet high. A tangle of vines hang down from the branches of a pear tree.
I’ve got my beam trained on Pickles when I notice the tire ruts in the grass. They’re pounded down by the rain, but I don’t think they’re very old. “Pickles! I’ve got—”
The crack! of a gunshot cuts off my words. It’s not loud, and almost drowned out by the rain. Ducking slightly, I jerk my beam back to Pickles, surprised that he hasn’t moved to take cover. Then I noticed that he’s stooped at an odd angle. The realization that he’s been hit registers like a punch to my forehead. “Pickles!”
His Maglite drops to the ground next to him. He looks down at it, staggers left as if he’s trying to pick it up, then goes to one knee. His right hand reaches out to me. His eyes meet mine. His mouth opens, but he doesn’t speak. Then he reels sideways and falls into the pit.
A hundred thoughts hit my brain at once. I have no idea where the shot came from. There’s no cover. I know Pickles was wearing a vest, but that doesn’t mean he was completely protected from a bullet. I don’t know how badly he’s injured. I don’t know if he’s conscious—or dead. And I’m ever aware that he just toppled into water deep enough to drown him.
I hit my lapel mike. “Officer down!” I scream the words, barely recognizing my own voice. “Ten thirty-three! Fuck! Ten thirty-three!”
I fumble for my .38. The slicker hinders me, costing me precious seconds. Then my sidearm’s in my hand and I’m sprinting toward the place I last saw Pickles. “Police!” I don’t know where the shooter is, but I shout the words anyway.
Movement ahead and to my left draws my attention. I catch a glimpse of a figure in the periphery of my beam. “Drop your weapon! Police!” I take aim and fire three times.
Vaguely I’m aware of my radio lighting up with activity, telling me every cop within ten miles will be here in short order. I don’t think Pickles has that kind of time.
Two shots ring out. I hear a plunk! and actually feel the concussion next to my foot as a bullet plows into mud inches from where I’m standing. I douse my flashlight, making me invisible but blind. I think the shooter has taken cover behind the outhouse to my left, forty-five feet away. I drop low, moving fast, and head toward the opposite side of the pit, expecting a bullet to slam into my chest at any moment.
I don’t have much cover here, either. A few small trees growing out of the pit. The brick chimney. The ten-foot-high stump of a dead tree. The best I can hope for is that the piss-poor visibility will keep her from getting off a good shot.
Sidling right, never taking my eyes from the place where I last saw her, I get as close as I can to the pit. “Pickles?” I call out.
No answer.
It seems like hours since he went into the water, but it’s only been seconds. I know that if he were able, he would have answered. Panic clenches my chest, a fist twisting the air from my lungs. I can’t help but think: head shot.
I hit my radio. “Where’s my backup!”
“Sheriff’s office ETA five minutes, Chief.”