As I walk, I see a glint of metal in the open window. In one paralyzed moment adrenaline floods my body. I’ve been shot at before, and despite the darkness, I know what I’m looking at. ”Get down, Sonny!“ I scream, diving to the ground.

Night vanishes in a starburst of white light and thunder, the explosions coming too quickly to count. Automatic weapon.As the seconds dilate, I whip my head toward Sonny, who for some reason is still on his feet, standing in full view of the gunman.

He’s returning fire at the Lexus. Orange flame leaps from his pistol, but the reports are lost in the roar of the machine gun. I look back at the Lexus, and for one instant a screaming Asian face is revealed by a perfect circle of light. Two holes appear magically in the door below the face. Then another fusillade of bullets erupts from the rear window. An explosive grunt sounds behind me.

Sonny’s hit!

As the spinning tires scream, I roll back toward Sonny Cross. He’s lying on his back, his eyes wide, his mouth gasping for air. His right arm jabs his gun toward me.

”Take it!“

I do. But by the time I come to my knees with the pistol raised, the Lexus is fishtailing up the road. I empty Sonny’s clip at the fleeing car, then drop the gun and fall to my knees beside him. The blood on his white knit shirt tells me he’s been hit at least three times in the torso. His chest rises and falls erratically, and the wheezes coming from his throat and chest tell me death isn’t far away.

”My kids,“ he says in a guttural voice. ”Check on…my boys.“

”You first, Sonny.“ I pull my cell phone from my pocket, but as I dial 911, the front door of the house bangs open again.

”Daddy? Daddy, where are you?“

Panic in the voice. ”Daddy’s still out here!“ I shout. ”He’s fine! He’s coming in just a minute. Go back inside, boys!“

”911 dispatcher,“ says a woman’s voice in my ear.

”This is Penn Cage. I’ve got an officer down at two seventy-one Beau Pré Road. Multiple gunshot wounds. I need an ambulance, stat. Now, connect me to the sheriff’s department.“

Up on Sonny’s porch, two small silhouettes stand wavering in the yellow rectangle.

”Sheriff’s department,“ says another woman.

”Deputy Sonny Cross has been shot at his home. Multiple gunshots. Repeat, Deputy Sonny Cross. Get some paramedics out here. He’s critical. The shooter’s fleeing the scene on Beau Pré Road, headed toward Highway 61. It’s a black Lexus with at least three people inside. An older-model Lexus. You need to set up roadblocks immediately. The shooter is Asian, repeat, Asian ethnicity. Call Sheriff Byrd at home. Tell him Penn Cage reported it.“

”Hold on, Mr. Cage,“ says the dispatcher.

”I can’t. Two seventy-one, Beau Pré Road.“

One of Sonny’s children has left the porch and ventured about half the distance to his father. ”Daddy?“ he calls tentatively.

Even in his distress, Sonny manages to shake his head. ”Don’t let them see me like this. Don’t-“ A gout of blood erupts from his throat.

I jump up and run to the boy, snatching him into my arms and trotting back to the porch, where his brother waits. When I set him down, I try to reassure them both, but the faces in the glow of the porch light already know the worst. I drop to my knees and grasp a thin wrist tightly in each hand. ”Are either of you hurt?“

”No, sir,“ says the oldest, who looks like he might be eleven. ”Should I get my gun?“

”Where’s my dad?“ asks the other, who’s eight at the most. Tears are running down his face.

”Your daddy’s hurt, boys. But he’s going to be all right. The ambulance is on the way. I want you to go inside and call your mom. Tell her she needs to come right over here. Do you understand?“

”Yes, sir,“ says the older, who I now remember is called Sonny, Junior.

The younger boy doesn’t want to go, but Junior grabs his wrists and pulls him inside. I race back to the end of the driveway. For the first time, I notice a light lying on the ground beside Sonny. It’s not a flashlight. It’s a spotlight mounted beneath the barrel of his pistol. He must have flicked it on before he opened fire on the Lexus. That was the circle of light that showed me the gunman’s face. It may also have been what guided the shooter’s bullets to Sonny’s chest.

”Penn?“Sonny chokes, his hand grabbing at the air. ”Are you there?“

”I’m here, buddy.“ I use the gun light to illuminate my face. ”You hang on.“

His desperate eyes lock onto mine. ”My boys?“

”They’re not hurt. They’re both fine, and they know you’re fine.“

Somehow Sonny laughs, a wry sound that turns into a terrible coughing fit. ”Not…fine,“ he rasps. ”Not gonna make it this time around.“

”Bullshit.“ I take his hand and squeeze tight.

”Asian,“ he whispers. ”Shooter was Asian.“

”I saw him.“

”I’m cold, man. Just like the damn movies. Just like…“

”The ambulance is on the way, Sonny. Hang tight.“

”Too far. Know…response time. Tell ’em save the gas.“ With a sudden surge of strength, Sonny Cross raises his other hand, rolls into me, and grips my biceps like a claw. His eyes are straining out of their sockets, like the eyes of a dying martyr exhorting his torturers to have faith. ”It’s yours now, Penn. Cyrus…Marko…you gotta finish it. Do what you have to do…hear me?“

”I can’t do what you did today.“

He falls back on the ground, his eyes half shut now, but his grip still strong. ”Chris Vogel,“ he croaks. ”Mike Pinella…Kate. How many others? Family, man…all family.“

”I hear you, Sonny.“

His next words ride a deep exhalation of the kind I’ve heard too often before. ”Tell Janie I’m sorry, man. Tell her…I never meant-“

This time the silence is absolute. Not even the crickets disturb the transit of Sonny Cross’s troubled soul as it departs for wherever it is bound.

A high-pitched sob sounds behind me. I turn and see the two boys standing six feet away. They look at me, then run to their father and collapse with their heads on his chest. Then the crickets resume, and the high note of a siren wails Sonny Cross’s benediction.

By the time I reach the city jail, I’ve told the story of Sonny Cross’s death three times: first to sheriff’s deputies, then to sheriff’s detectives, and finally to Sheriff Byrd himself. Part of me wanted to hold back what Sonny told me about Kate visiting Cyrus, but I couldn’t in good conscience do that. All I could do was withhold my near certainty that Kate was buying those bottles of Lorcet for Ellen Elliott.

I also gave up the information Sonny tortured out of Marko, and that seemed to go a long way toward convincing Sheriff Byrd that Kate’s death might be more complex than a matter of a jealous older man. The fact that Cyrus had been tracking Kate’s GPS location through her cell phone was particularly convincing. Once Byrd and I were alone, I told him exactly how Sonny had extracted this information, and that this made it unusable in court. Nevertheless, I had a feeling that Marko Bakic was in for a long night.

Sheriff Byrd ordered roadblocks set up on all routes leaving the city, but his dragnet didn’t catch the black Lexus. Either the killers slipped out of town before the roadblocks were set up, or they were still hiding somewhere in the city, waiting for things to cool down. An army of deputies raided Cyrus’s known safe houses and rousted all their drug snitches, but nothing has produced results. Like the Asian killers he probably summoned here, Cyrus White has vanished.

Piled on the shock of watching Sonny die, the ordeal of being grilled for two hours exhausted me, and I was tempted to go home to bed. But I had to know one thing before I could sleep. Was I right about Kate’s errands to Cyrus?

Tonight the bench on the other side of the glass in the visiting cubicle is empty. Drew finally walks in and sits down, no guard visible behind him. His eyes have the empty look of a man in a fugue state.