Klesczewski studied him for a beat before asking, "You okay? Did he point it at you?"

There was a moment's hesitation, as if Ron had asked a trick question. All traces of initial swagger vanished at last in the response. "No. I mean, yeah, I'm all right, but no, he didn't point it at me. It was a little scary, is all. Not what I was expecting. But I'm fine… And she's fine… I'm pretty sure… The woman, I mean."

Brattleboro's police department was known either as a lifer colony, where laid-back older veterans spun out entire careers, or as a turnstile agency, where baby cops hung around just long enough to decide between a flashier law enforcement job elsewhere and getting out.

Ron wondered if the latter option wasn't circling this one's head right now. As it was, he was so new that Ron couldn't remember if his name was Paul or Phil. His name tag just read "P. Kinney."

"How long ago did this start?" he asked him, deciding he looked like a Phil.

Kinney checked his watch. "Maybe half an hour ago." He keyed the mike clipped to the epaulet of his uniform shirt and muttered into his radio, "Jerry? It's Paul. You remember when I called for backup?"

"Twenty-three fifty-three," came the brisk reply.

Okay, Ron thought, so it's Paul. Things better improve from here. "The scene secure?"

Kinney nodded. "Only three sides to worry about. Jerry's covering the west and north. We're on the east, and Henry's got the south. Good thing the trailer park's half empty. Makes life a lot easier."

That last line was delivered with pale, leftover flair. Ron shivered slightly. Even summers in Vermont could get chilly, especially if you were fresh from a warm bed. "You've got more coming, though, right?"

"Oh, sure. The state police are sending a couple. The sheriff, too. I asked Dispatch to get hold of the chief and Billy Manierre, but no luck so far."