shape, hadn’t mushroomed as it passed through her body. A round with a full metal jacket, Cork guessed. Jacketed rounds were generally used in order to penetrate body armor, which Dross wasn’t wearing.
Cork had choices to make and he had to make them quickly. If he tended to Dross’s wounds, he ignored the threat of an advance from the shooter-or shooters-and risked both their lives. But if he spent time securing their position, the delay could mean his deputy’s life.
He weighed the possibility of more than one assailant. The shots had come one at a time, from a distance. When he considered how Dross had fallen, the trajectory of the bullet that had pierced the windshield, and where the final round had hit the engine, he calculated they’d all come from approximately the same direction: from somewhere high on the hill across the road. The shooter was above them and a little forward of their position, with a good view of the driver’s side but blind to where Cork crouched. If there’d been more than one assailant involved, a crossfire would have made the most sense, but so far that hadn’t happened.
So many elements to consider. So little time. So much at stake.
He chose.
He holstered his revolver and leaned toward the deputy. “Marsha, can you hear me?”
Her eyes drifted to his face, but she didn’t answer.
“Hang on, kiddo, I’ll be right back.”
In the back of the Land Cruiser was a medical kit that contained, among other things, rolls of gauze, sterile pads, and adhesive tape. Cork crept toward the rear of the vehicle. If he was right about the shooter’s location, he should be able to grab the medical kit without exposing himself significantly to gunfire. If he was right. It was a big gamble. Dross gave a low moan. The blood had spread across the whole of her uniform, seeped below the belt line of her trousers. Still she looked at him and shook her head, trying to warn him against anything rash. Cork drew a breath and moved.
He reached around the back end of the Land Cruiser, grasped the handle, and swung the rear door open. He stood exposed for only a moment as he snatched the medical kit and the blanket, then he spun away and fell to the ground just as another round punched a hole in the vehicle and drilled through the spare tire, which deflated with a prolonged hiss. He rolled into the cover of the Land Cruiser.
While he put a compress over Dross’s wounds, the radio crackled again.
“Dispatch to Unit Three. Over.”
Cork glanced up from the bloody work of his hands. At the moment, there was no way to reach the mike. He tore another strip of tape with his teeth.
“Unit Three, do you copy?”
He finished tending to both wounds, then turned Marsha gently and tucked the blanket underneath her along the length of her body. He crawled to the other side, pulled the blanket under her, and wrapped her in it tightly like a cocoon.
“Unit Three, backup is on the way. ETA is twenty minutes. Are you still taking fire?”
Despite the blanket, Dross was shivering. Cork knew that shock could be as deadly as the bullet itself. In addition to keeping her warm, he had to elevate her feet. He opened the front passenger door and wormed his arm along the floor until his hand touched a fat thermos full of coffee he’d brought along. He hauled the thermos out and put it under the deputy’s ankles. It elevated her feet only a few inches, but he hoped that would be enough.
Then he turned his attention to the son of a bitch on the hill.
He drew again his. 38, a Smith amp; Wesson Police Special that had been his father’s. It was chrome- plated with a six-inch barrel and a walnut grip. The familiar heft of it, and even the history of the weapon itself, gave him a measure of confidence. He crawled under the Land Cruiser, grateful for the high clearance of the undercarriage, inching his way to the front tire on the driver’s side. From the shadow there, he peered up at the wooded hill across the road. The crown still caught the last direct rays of the sun and the birch trees dripped with a color like melting brass. After a moment, he saw a flash of reflected sunlight that could have come off the high polish of a rifle stock plate or perhaps the glass of a scope. If it was indeed from the shooter, Cork’s target was 250, maybe 300 yards away, uphill. He thought about the twelve-gauge Remington cradled on the rack inside the Land Cruiser. Should he make an attempt, risk getting himself killed in the process? No, at that distance, the shotgun would be useless, and if he were hit trying for it, there’d be nothing to prevent the goddamn bastard from coming down the hill and finishing the job he’d begun. Better to stay put and wait for backup.
But his backup, too, would come under fire. Cork knew he had to advise them of the situation. And that meant exposing himself one more time to the sniper.
He took aim at the place where he’d seen the flash of sunlight, which was far beyond the effective range of his. 38, but he squeezed off a couple of rounds anyway to encourage the sniper to reconsider, should he be thinking about coming down.
He shoved himself backward over the cold earth and came up on all fours beside the front passenger door. He gripped the handle and tried to take a breath, but he was so tense that he could only manage a quick, shallow gasp. He willed himself to move and flung the door open. Lunging toward the radio unit attached to the dash, he wrapped his fingers around the mike dangling on the accordion cord and fell back just as a sniper round slammed through the passenger seat back.
“Unit Three to Unit One. Over.”
“Unit One. Go ahead, Sheriff.”
“We’re still taking fire, Duane. A single shooter, I think, up on a hill due east of our position, directly in front of the cabin. Which way you coming from?”
“South,” Deputy Duane Pender said.
“Approach with extreme caution.”
“Ten-four, Cork.”
“Unit Two to Unit Three. Over.”
“I read you, Cy.”
“I’m coming in from the north. I’ll be a couple of minutes behind Pender.”
“Ten-four. Listen, I want you guys coming with your sirens blasting. Maybe we can scare this guy.”
“We might lose him, Sheriff,” Pender said.
“Right now our job is to get an ambulance in here for Marsha.”
“Dispatch to Unit Three.”
“Go ahead, Patsy.”
“Ambulance estimates another twelve to fifteen minutes, Sheriff. They want to know Marsha’s situation.”
“Single bullet, entry and exit wounds. I’ve got compresses on both. I’ve put a blanket around her and elevated her feet. She’s still losing blood.”
“Ten-four. Also, State Patrol’s responding. They’ve got two cruisers dispatched to assist.”
“I copy that. Out.”
Cork crawled toward Dross. Her face was pale, bloodless.
“A few more minutes, Marsha. Help’s on the way.”
She seemed focused on the sky above them both. She whispered something.
“What?” Cork leaned close.
“ Star light, star bright…”
Cork lifted his eyes. The sun had finally set and the eastern sky was turning inky. He saw the evening star, a glowing ember caught against the rising wall of night.
From a distance came the thin, welcome howl of a siren.
Cork looked down at his deputy and remembered what she’d said: that he loved this work. At the moment, she couldn’t have been more wrong. Her eyes had closed. He felt at her neck and found the pulse so faint he could barely detect it.
Then her eyes opened slowly. Her lips moved. Cork bent to her again.
“Next time,” she whispered, “you drive.”
