“Ten thirty-three! Ten thirty-nine!” I shout the codes, frightened because I know Pickles doesn’t have five minutes, and I’m not going to let him die.
I drop to my belly. Cold sinks through my clothes as I slither through mud and weeds to the edge of the pit. My line of sight is hindered by dead vegetation and trees that have taken root. Cursing, I look around for a way get into the pit, but it’s dark and raining and I can’t see shit.
“Pickles! Where are you?”
“Bitch … got me.”
Choking back a swell of emotion, of hope, at the sound of his voice, I crawl in the direction of the sound. “How bad are you hurt?”
“Bad…”
“Can you get out of there?”
“Negative.” The word is followed by a groaned, “Shit.”
“Help’s on the way.”
“Chief…”
I wait, but he doesn’t say anything more. “Pickles?”
I’m on my belly and elbows on the east side of the basement, facing west, toward the shooter’s last position, but I see nothing. I don’t know if she’s moving to a new location or if she’s running. All the while, I envision Pickles slipping beneath the water.…
Calling out his name, I wriggle closer to the edge. The ground falls away beneath my elbows as I draw near. I risk using my Maglite and flash it on and off into the pit. I get a snapshot of black water that’s thick with foliage, rotting wood, and trash of indiscernible sources. A slick of blood two feet away. Pickles facedown in the water.
I slide my legs over the side and jam my fingers into the mud. I try to lower myself slowly, but my fingers plow through mud and I plunge into four feet of icy water. I manage to keep my Maglite above the surface. My feet sink deep into mud and God only knows what else. When I move toward Pickles, I trip over a submerged object and nearly go under.
I lunge toward the place I last saw him. My right hand makes contact. His skin is cold to the touch. He’s trembling, thrashing weakly, trying to keep his head above water. “I’ve got you,” I say.
He tries to speak, but he’s choking and sputtering.
The crack of a gunshot rings out over the din of rain. I look around wildly, spot movement on the other side of the pit, a silhouette against the sky. I raise my .38 and fire once, conserving ammo, but in the process I drop my flashlight. Cursing, I drag Pickles through the water, stumbling over debris and squeezing through saplings and brush. He’s conscious and cries out several times, but there’s nothing I can do to ease his pain. My leg hits something solid. When I reach out, I realize I’ve found the stone steps that were probably part of the original house and led to the basement.
Using every ounce of strength I possess, I haul Pickles onto the steps. He’s too heavy to pull completely from the water, but I’m able to get his head and shoulders out. “Pickles, where are you hit?”
“Went in at my armpit … angled into my side…”
“I need to go get her,” I say. “Will you be okay?”
“Go,” he whispers.
I don’t want to leave him, but we’re sitting ducks here. If she spots us, there’s no doubt she’ll kill us both.
Giving his hand a final squeeze, I rush up steps that are slick with mud. At the top, keeping low, I go right, toward the place I last saw her. Brush tears at my slacks as I make the sprint. If I can get behind her, I might be able to surprise her. I hear sirens in the distance, but I can’t tell how close they are. My .38 is heavy and reassuring in my hand, but I’m ever aware that I have only three shots left. Better make them count.
The roar of an engine sounds to my left. I glance over and see headlights. At first, I think a sheriff’s deputy has arrived, but the position is wrong. Then I realize it’s Weaver. She must have hidden her vehicle in the trees beyond the outhouse, and now she’s making a run for it.
I hit my lapel mike, but quickly realize it’s dead from being immersed in water. I run to the Explorer, yank open the door, jam my key in the ignition. I grab my radio mike and flick on my emergency lights. “Ten eighty! In pursuit! Old Hochstetler place.”
The radio crackles with voices and codes. A sheriff’s cruiser is northbound on Old Germantown Road, less than a minute away. I’m turning my vehicle around when the cab is suddenly filled with light. I glance left to see headlights bouncing wildly. Coming directly at me. Too fast. Too close. I jam the shifter into reverse and hit the gas. The Explorer lurches backward, but not fast enough to avoid the collision. Headlights blind me. I see the front end of a pickup truck. Then I’m jerked violently left. The air bag deploys, punching my face and chest like a giant fist. My head slams against the driver’s-side window hard enough to shatter the glass.