Someone rolled her onto her back and pushed a hot hand into her neck at her jaw. “She’s got a pulse!”

Pulse? She opened her eyes and met the frantic look of an officer she didn’t know. Other officers filled her field of vision, shouting, moving. Their boots causing the concrete to vibrate through her head.

“Her eyes are open! Thank God. You’re going to be okay, Agent. We’ll get the bleeding stopped.”

Abruptly, pain-laced fire raced from a hot spot in her left side and shot into her brain. She tried to touch the spot, but the officer held her arm down. “Am I shot?” she whispered.

“You’re going to be okay,” he repeated, his eyes rapidly scanning her face. “Stay with me.”

Someone applied pressure on her left side, and she nearly screamed as black dots filled her vision. A cowboy hat came into view along with Mason’s terrified eyes. “Ava? Holy fuck!”

It must be bad. The black spots expanded, filling her vision, and everything went quiet.

41

One month later

Mason glanced out the window at the darkening sky and then at the clock over the stove. Sure enough, Ava had been gone for over an hour. He put a lid on the panic that rose in the back of his throat and headed out the door in the direction of the park. She’d taken Bingo for a walk. Usually they all took walks together, but tonight he’d begged off, citing a pile of paperwork. She’d smiled, nodded, kissed him good-bye, and put on Bingo’s leash. A typical walk lasted thirty minutes.

The days were starting to shorten; the memory of the hot dry summer was slowly fading. He walked faster, shoving his hands in his pockets as a night chill floated by. At the end of their street sat a quiet city park that offered views of Mount Hood. He and Ava had spent hours sitting on a favorite bench over the last few weeks.

Physically she was healed. Travis Meijer’s gunshot had ripped through her left side, miraculously avoiding major organs but tearing an intestine that’d required immediate surgery. After the surgery she’d fought a deadly blood infection that had been worse than the injury. It’d been a long slow road for her to recover her strength after her weeklong war with the infection. She hadn’t returned to work. Yet.

Meijer had turned out to be an FBI profiler’s dream. A quiet man who kept to himself, he was a supervisor at a call center who took orders for several dozen companies. One of those companies sold T-shirts with police department sayings and logos. After a lot of digging, investigators discovered Anna Luther and Gabrielle Gower had both ordered police department fund-raiser T-shirts through the call center.

Records showed they’d both been unhappy with some issue with the shirts and had contacted the call center regarding refunds. Mason had listened to the recordings of both women’s complaint calls, feeling slightly spooked as the women seemed to speak from the grave. Both women had spoken with Meijer and the calls hadn’t gone smoothly; Mason had been surprised that a supervisor wouldn’t follow the “customer is always right” policy. Meijer had sounded extremely agitated during both women’s calls, especially when the women mentioned their previous law enforcement service. How Travis Meijer had decided this act made them worthy of murder, Mason couldn’t comprehend. Had simply the wrong phrase from each woman sealed her fate?

During their search of Meijer’s home, they’d found lists and photos of local female police officers in his computer, making them wonder who else had been targeted. The man clearly had an obsession. Flyers advertising “acting opportunities” for men who were six foot one and of lean build were also found on his computer.

Mason had watched the hours of prank footage on Meijer’s YouTube channel and held back his laughter several times. In college the man had known how to stage perfect pranks. He’d used his skills to bury his hit list of women officers, hiding his targets under the blood of innocent victims. How long could his deceptions have continued?

They were unable to connect Meijer to any other unsolved shootings over the past decade. His history revealed his mother had overdosed on alcohol and sleeping pills when he was eighteen. After reading the extensive list of domestic disturbance calls to Meijer’s childhood home, Mason and Ava had carefully studied the medical examiner’s report, wondering if Travis Meijer could have caused his mother’s death. His father had died while in prison, and neighbors claimed the mother had ruled her son with an iron fist after the father was taken away.

The truth would never be known. All parties were dead, and the questions would haunt Mason and Ava for years.

Especially Ava. Mason didn’t know if she could heal from her encounters with Travis Meijer.

Through the waning light he saw Ava’s silhouette sitting on their bench with Bingo’s beside her, his head in her lap. The slant of her neck and the arch of her shoulders told him she’d been crying. He walked faster. Her moods had been across the board for weeks. Effects from her painkillers and the emotional upheaval of being shot. Again.

And Jayne.

They hadn’t spoken about Jayne in over a week. Her sister had recovered from her damaged wrists and gash to her spleen. Through some stroke of supreme luck, Jayne had ended up in a facility that treated both her mental and drug issues, but part of the treatment was a long stretch of weeks without contact with her family. One silent week was left. Since the first day Jayne had checked in, Mason had dreaded the moment she could regain contact with Ava.

He knew when Ava had spotted him. Her head lifted and her shoulders straightened, her hand sinking into Bingo’s fur after a furtive wipe across her wet cheeks. He stopped in front of her bench. Bingo’s tail wagged madly, and Ava smiled at him, patting the space beside her. He gave the dog a head rub and sat on Ava’s other side, placing one arm around her shoulders as she leaned against him and looked toward the mountain. During the winter months, the mountaintop was white. Over the summer it faded to shades of gray as the snow melted away. Mason could barely make out its outline at the hazy late-evening hour, but seeing it always made him feel grounded. The mountain was solid. Unchanging.