A Dark Path #4
Pulling gloves from my utility belt, I go to the pack and kneel.
It’s small, the kind a boy might take to school.
Camo print on canvas. My eyes land on the smear of what looks like blood next to a zippered pouch, and my concern notches up.
I slide my cell from my pocket and snap several photos of the backpack from different angles.
“Skid, take some photos of those footwear marks and blood,” I call out. “I got a backpack over here.”
There’s a bottle of water strapped to the exterior.
I unzip the pack. Inside, I find a pair of rolled-up jeans.
A wadded-up T-shirt. A pair of gloves. A lighter.
A graphic novel. The cover depicts a flying deer and two brooding superheroesque figures.
A bag of chips. Deeper, I find a folding pocketknife. A flashlight and extra batteries.
I startle when a rock song blares—“Heathens” by Twenty One Pilots. I fumble the bag, find a zippered pocket, yank it open. Sure enough, a sleek iPhone is lit up and vibrating. I snatch it up, hit the green button, and wait.
“Kevin?” Monica Dennison’s voice comes at me, filled with panic and relief. “Kevin! Honey, where are you?”
“Mrs. Dennison, it’s Kate Burkholder.”
“But … how…” She chokes out a sound of anguish. “Where’s Kevin? Did you find him?”
“Skid and I found a campsite. The boys aren’t here, but there’s a trail. Looks like he’s with Aaron Kuhns.”
“He left his phone behind?”
“He left his backpack. The cell phone was inside. Either he dropped it or he forgot it.” Or someone—or something—was chasing him, and in his haste to leave he didn’t go back for it.
“But how…”
“Mrs. Dennison, do I have your permission to look at his phone?” I ask. “Maybe he sent a text—”
“Yes!” She gives me a password and I’m in.
Quickly, I scroll through recent calls. Sixteen calls from his mother. The last outgoing call was to her cell phone number this morning. Next, I check texts. “There was a text sent to Kathy Baker at noon,” I tell her. “Something about a game this weekend. Is he close with Kathy?”
“No, but he’s got a crush on her. She’s cute as a button.” A breath shudders out of her. “I know her mom. We take yoga classes…”
I’ve already decided not to mention the blood. Not only do I lack an explanation, but I suspect the information will cause her undue worry. “Mrs. Dennison, would you give Kathy’s mom a call and see if Kevin has been in touch?”
“Okay.” Her voice brightens. “Maybe she knows where he is.”
“Call me with any news, even if it doesn’t seem important. Try not to worry. We’ve just begun looking.”
I hear the crunch of leaves and underbrush and I look up to see one of my other officers approach. T.J. Banks is our departmental rookie—an honor that will be undertaken by Mona once I get a dispatcher hired.
“Any sign of the kid, Chief?” he asks.
I tell him about the blood and backpack. “We’ve got at least two sets of prints.” I motion to where the backpack lies. “It looks like the boys left their campsite in a hurry.”
Skid calls out. “Chief, I’ve got more prints back here.” I look over to see him round a thick bramble forty feet away.
T.J. and I start toward him. Skid motions to a place where damp soil is exposed. Sure enough, several sneaker-type sole imprints stare back at us.
“Looks like a couple more people were here.” Kneeling, Skid pulls a mini measuring tape from his equipment belt. “This one’s size ten or eleven.” He grimaces. “Could be an adult or a kid with big feet.”
The concern that’s been plaguing me since receiving word of the missing boys transforms into something darker and a hell of a lot more urgent.
“If there were others out here,” T.J. says, “might explain why they were running.”
“Get some photos of those prints, too,” I tell Skid, and turn to T.J.
“Call Pickles,” I say, referring to my only remaining officer, seventy-seven-year-old Roland Shumaker.
“Tell him to canvass the farms in the area. See if anyone has seen the boys or heard anything unusual. Call County, too. Tell them we need dogs and all the manpower they can spare.” I sigh.
“Skid and I are going to follow the trail, see if we can figure out where they went. If we don’t find those boys in the next few hours, we’re going to put out an Amber alert. ”
Turning away, I yank my cell from my pocket and call Mona.
“Hey, Chief.”
“Get me a list of RSOs for Holmes County,” I say, using the police acronym for “registered sex offender.” “Narrow it down to all males within a ten-mile radius of Painters Mill. Anything involving a juvenile.”
“I’m on it.”
“And find out who owns the properties east and west of Painters Creek, north of the Tuscarawas Bridge. Let Pickles know.”
“Got it.”
I end the call and hit the speed dial for Tomasetti.
He greets me with, “You’re working late tonight.”
I tell him about the missing boys. “Tomasetti, I’ve got blood. A backpack that was left behind along with a cell phone. A bunch of footprints that tells me they weren’t the only ones out here.”
He sighs. “Blood is ominous.”
“I’m officially worried.”
“Let me get on the horn,” he tells me. “I’ll get some resources out there. Meet you there as soon as I can.”
I thank him, but he’s already gone.
Three sets of tracks take us due north along Painters Creek.
Another quarter mile in, the path narrows to little more than a deer trail, the fallen leaves so thick we can no longer see the prints.
To make matters worse, the wind has shifted out of the north.
Drizzle floats down from a black sky, and the temperature has begun a precipitous drop.
“Why the hell don’t kids ever get lost when it’s seventy degrees and sunny?” Skid mutters as we run our beams along the trail.
“That would ruin all the fun for us,” I tell him.
We’ve seen no sign of the boys for some time. No prints. No broken branches or threads of clothing. Even so, there’s no indication they’ve left the trail or doubled back, so we press on.
By the time we reach the bridge where Hogpath Road spans Painters Creek, the wind is cranking. As I tromp through the ditch and onto the road, the first snowflakes are hurtling downward at a nearly horizontal angle.
I cross the road, shining my light into the greenbelt, which continues. My cell phone vibrates.
“Hey, Chief,” says Mona. “I’ve been working on the RSO list and I’ve got a name for you.”
“Lay it on me.”
“Kenneth O’Neil. Fifty-two years old. Get this: He was convicted of possessing child pornography in 2007.
A year after his release, he tried to lure a ten-year-old boy into his truck.
Did twelve years in Mansfield. Released eight months ago.
Currently on parole.” She rattles off an address that’s just a few miles away.
I’ve talked to O’Neil several times since I’ve been chief.
He’s an unpleasant individual with a fondness for whiskey, disdain for his fellow man, and a stone-cold hatred for cops.
I think about the shoe imprints and wonder: Is it possible he accosted the boys in these woods? Or befriended them to lure them in?
“I’ll go talk to him,” I tell her. “Anything else?”
“Sheriff Rasmussen has two deputies on the way to the covered bridge now. He’s working on getting tracking dogs out there. It’s already snowing up in Millersburg, Chief. They’re expecting the bridges and overpasses to ice in the coming hours.”
“Thanks, Mona. Keep me posted.” I end the call.
I look up to see Skid approach from the woods. “Looks like we’ve lost the trail, Chief. The trail ends as they travel deeper into the woods. No tracks. No broken branches. Not even a damn deer trail.”
None of this bodes well for finding the boys.
I look around, spot the pullover on the other side of the road, and another quiver of worry goes through me. “Someone in a vehicle could have picked them up here on the road,” I say.
“Damn, I hope that’s not the case.”
I tell him about Kenneth O’Neil. “I’ve got to talk to him.”
“I’d rather get hit by a bus than talk to Kenny.” The words are flippant, but his smile is forced, as if we’ve both just realized the situation could become exponentially more serious.
“Check that pullover for tire tracks, and get Glock out here. I want you guys to continue north along the creek.” I sigh. “Keep your eyes on the water, too. I’ll catch up with you when I’m finished with O’Neil.”
I hit the speed dial for Tomasetti.
This morning when Kevin left the house, the idea of running away with his best friend had seemed like a grand adventure.
Now, cold, hungry, and scared out of his wits, he figured it was the worst mistake of his life.
The good news was they’d lost whoever had been chasing them.
The bad news was he’d dropped his backpack—and his phone. How could he have been so stupid?
“How much farther?” he called out to Aaron.
“Seems like we should have been there by now.” Aaron didn’t slow down. “Stop worrying. We’ll get there.”
But Kevin was worried. They’d left the trail a ways back.
Everything looked different in these woods after dark.
He couldn’t stop thinking about his mom.
The house was probably nice and warm and smelled of whatever she’d fixed for supper.
Dang, his dad was going to be pissed. He’d likely get grounded for the rest of his life. What had he been thinking?
They trudged through the dusting of snow that whispered across the ground, catching on dead leaves and brush. Kevin was trying to figure out a way to tell his friend he wanted to turn around and go home—and still save face—when Aaron called out. “There it is!”
Aaron’s flashlight went black.
“Dude!” Kevin cried.
“Shhh! He’ll hear us!”
Kevin came up beside Aaron. Sure enough, the trees opened to a clearing. A small cabin sat in the darkness, smoke puffing from the chimney. No lights in the windows, but a porch light glowed yellow.
“Old man Henderson’s place,” Aaron whispered.