Pain assaulted him from several angles, mostly bunched into his spine and twisting like a funnel cloud. He did not move right away—he was not sure he could or should. And as he lay there, the sharp cold of the night chewed through his uniform and jumpstarted his senses. Disorientation drained from him slowly, replaced by a sick realization: Ty had not killed him. The prisoner was now a fugitive—one with God knew how many hours head start. With a little luck, the trail of evidence Pruett left behind on McIntyre’s behalf might just keep the sheriff out of jail. As Pruett tried to roll from his side on to his stomach, the pain seared him, racing up his back, spreading like tendrils through sinew and bone. When he finally got to his stomach, he did a pushup and tried to get his boots under him, but he only got one before the dizziness put him back down. “Might want to stay down a bit,” Ty said, cracking the silence. He took a drag on a cigarette and blew the smoke into the black forest.
