ONE

The pager woke me.

In the dark, my hand reached for the nightstand and found the small, shrieking device. I was the on-call shooter that night, but not every page was something worth photographing.

I pushed my tangled curls out of the way and focused on the flashing display panel.

Possible 187. Valley Farms. Weedpatch HWY. Sheriff’s Dept. on scene.

“Crap.” My hand darted for the light switch.

I grabbed my jeans from the floor and slammed into them. No sign of my red shirt with the TV station logo. I threw on something from the hamper and ran down the hall to the living room.

Boots? Not under the coffee table. Not by the door.

I put on my blue coat and unzipped one of the bulging pockets. From the mess of batteries, antacids, mic cables, and who knows what else, I pulled out a large rubber band. I jammed my hair into a ponytail and searched for the hiking boots I wear to work.

A cell phone rang. I flew to my canvas gear bag at the front door. I grabbed the cell phone, and found the boots hiding underneath the bag.

I shoved a bare foot into the already tied boot while cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder. “I got the page. I’m on my way.”

“It’s a 187. Do you understand? Am I being clear? A 187.”

Walter Trent, my station’s news director, was in his early thirties, upwardly mobile, and just doing time in Bakersfield on his way to a better job in a bigger city. He had a habit of making a statement and then asking, in the most condescending way possible, if it had been understood.

“Yes,” I said. “I understand. I’m on top of it.”

“Because David’s ready if you can&rsq