A Dark Path #5
As his eyes adjusted to the near-total darkness, Kevin took in the scene.
The cabin was off to the right, a hulking form nestled in the trees.
Farther out, Henderson’s pickup truck was parked in the gravel lane.
Junk littered the area. Old farm implements surrounded by high grass.
A rusty stock trailer sat at a cockeyed angle.
A tractor tire lying on its side. A fifty-gallon drum.
“Lookit.” Aaron pointed. “There’s the pen.”
Kevin looked past the barn and saw the silhouette of the chain-link pen. It was too dark to make out any details; he couldn’t tell if the buck was inside.
“Come on,” Aaron whispered. “This way.”
The Amish boy ducked left. Sticking to the shadows of the trees, they skirted the cabin and barn. Not for the first time, Kevin wished to God he’d never gotten himself into this. If Henderson came out and saw them, they were dead meat.
“What if he’s got dogs?” Kevin squeaked.
Aaron was so intent on their quest, he didn’t even look at him. “I think we’d have known by now.”
The crunch of leaves beneath their feet seemed inordinately loud in the silence.
Kevin followed Aaron, pushing through thick brush, ducking the occasional branch.
All the while, he kept his eyes on the cabin, expecting at any moment for a light to go on and a dozen junkyard dogs to come rushing out and tear them to pieces.
He nearly ran into Aaron when he stopped.
“There he is.” Awe echoed in the Amish boy’s voice.
Kevin looked past him. The sight of the buck was otherworldly in the falling snow, like something right out of one of his graphic novels.
A massive buck with a rack of antlers like he’d never seen stood in the center of the pen, head high, tail raised, staring at them.
Snow flew sideways between the boys and the deer, and Kevin thought he’d never seen anything so cool in his life.
“Whoa,” he murmured.
“Never seen a deer like that,” Aaron said quietly.
For the span of a full minute, the boys simply stared. The deer stared back, snorting, breaths puffing from its nostrils.
After a moment, Aaron set his knapsack on the ground, opened it, and pulled out the wire cutters. Two pair. He turned to Kevin, his expression solemn and determined as he handed the wire cutters to his friend.
“You know what to do, right?” Aaron asked.
Kevin reached for the wire cutters, hoping the darkness covered the fact that his hand was shaking. “Yeah.”
Aaron studied the pen a moment. “Too dark to tell for sure, but it looks like there’s a gate.
If there is, we open it. If it’s chained or locked, we go to the back and cut the fence.
Four feet wide. As high as we can reach.
Hopefully, that buck is smart enough to find his way out. ” Aaron looked at him. “You ready?”
Kevin tried to speak, but couldn’t find his voice, so he nodded.
Aaron started toward the pen. “Keep an eye on the cabin.”
Kevin’s heart pounded a hard rhythm as he followed. The snow was coming down profusely now. He hoped it would help conceal them if the old man woke up and looked out the window.
As they neared the pen, the buck began to pace, snorting an alarm, its tail high. The closer they got, the more frantic the animal’s pacing, until it was running back and forth along the deep trench its hooves had dug over the months of its captivity.
The boys reached the pen. The buck trotted to the far corner, eyeing them warily. Aaron sidled to the gate. Sure enough, there was a padlock and chain.
“Let’s cut it,” he whispered.
The pen was about ten feet high, with chain link strewn across the top to keep the buck from jumping out. The support posts were a combination of two-by-fours and steel pipe. Taking a final look at the cabin, Kevin followed his friend. He was so scared he almost couldn’t breathe.
Aaron knelt and began to snip. It wasn’t easy cutting through chain link. He tossed a look at Kevin. “Over there.” He motioned to a place about four feet away. “Hurry.”
Kevin dropped to his knees and pulled the wire cutters from his pocket.
His hands were so cold he almost couldn’t get his fingers around the wire cutters.
It took every bit of strength he possessed to cut, but he did.
Starting at the ground level, he worked his way up.
Snip. Snip. Snip. Aaron finished first and came around to help him, starting at the top, working his way down.
“You see the rack on that buck?” Aaron whispered as he worked.
“Never seen anything like it,” Kevin replied.
For the span of a full minute, they didn’t speak. Kevin’s fingers ached from the exertion and cold, but he kept going. Finally, their cuts met and the chain link sprang loose and curled.
“Got it.” Taking the fence in both hands, Aaron pulled it outward, opening the pen.
“Holy cow, we did it,” Kevin said.
In tandem, the boys walked to the other side of the pen. “Go on, boy,” Kevin whispered.
Aaron raised his hands and clucked as if to a horse. “Go!”
The buck held its ground, frozen. Kevin looked into the animal’s eyes. The buck stared back, and he thought he’d never seen anything so magical. After a moment, the deer lunged across the pen, soared through the opening, and bounded into the woods.
Kevin stood there, awed by what they’d just witnessed. He was proud of what they’d done. At that moment, he felt more powerful than he’d ever felt in his life.
“That was awesome,” he whispered.
He was so caught up, he didn’t notice when the light flicked on at the back of the cabin. He didn’t even look over until he heard the door slam.
“What the hell are you punks doing out there!” roared a deep male voice.
“Holy shit!” Kevin squeaked. “Old man Henderson!”
“Run!” Aaron whispered, and they sprinted into the woods in the same direction the buck had gone.
I find John Tomasetti’s Tahoe parked on the gravel pullover when I emerge from the woods. We meet next to the Explorer. I can tell he’s tempted to greet me with a kiss, but a Holmes County deputy is parked on the other side of the road, so we settle for a quick handshake.
“Hell of a night for two boys to go missing,” he says, huddling more deeply into his coat.
I update him on our search and tell him about Kenneth O’Neil. It’s premature for me to be overly concerned that O’Neil is involved, but RSOs are always high on my list of suspects, and at this point I’m bound to do my due diligence first.
“O’Neil did twelve years in Mansfield for trying to lure a ten-year-old boy into his vehicle,” I tell him. “Currently on probation. He lives just a few miles from where the boys went missing.”
Tomasetti gives me a dark look. “In that case, let’s go ruin his day.”
A few minutes later we’re in the Explorer, heading south on the township road. Snow patters the windshield, my wipers barely keeping up. Next to me, Tomasetti has the GPS pulled up on his phone.
“Gotta be it right there.” He motions toward a narrow lane that cuts into a skeletal jungle of trees.
“No number on the mailbox,” I murmur.
“Convenient.”
I make the turn. The Explorer bumps over uneven road, mounds of earth, and ruts deep enough to swallow a tire.
My headlights slice through a wall of darkness and snow and I try not to think about two kids out in the cold without shelter.
We pass a large Quonset hut made of galvanized steel that’s gone to rust. An overhead garage-type door demarks the front.
A window the size of a shoebox. I wonder what the hell O’Neil does with all that dark interior space.
I continue on and a mobile home looms into view, the windows glowing.
The exterior is robin’s-egg blue striped with rust. A porch lamp throws a dome of light over a wood deck covered with Astroturf.
The yard is unkempt and littered with junk.
An old swing-set frame with a rickety slide sits in the side yard.
I park next to a beat-up Toyota pickup truck and we get out. It’s quiet back here; I can’t hear the highway. The trees offer a thousand hiding places. An owl hoots from somewhere at the back of the trailer.
“Creepy place,” Tomasetti says.
“Creepy guy.”
He looks at me. “Eyes open.”
I hit my lapel mike and hail Dispatch. “I need a ten-twenty-eight,” I say, using the ten code for “vehicle registration information.” I recite the license plate of the Toyota.
“Stand by,” Mona tells me.
A moment later she confirms what I already know. The truck belongs to O’Neil.
Tomasetti and I cross to the deck and ascend the steps. The blare of a TV sounds from inside. I see the curtains twitch at the window to my left.
“He knows we’re here,” I say quietly.
“I saw it,” Tomasetti replies.
Standing slightly to one side, I knock. “Painters Mill Police Department!” I call out. “Kenneth O’Neil. Can you come out here and talk please?”
The door swings open and I find myself facing O’Neil.
The first thought that strikes my brain is that he looks far older than fifty-two.
Rheumy blue eyes shot with capillaries, something crusty in the corners.
His hair is grizzled and unkempt, his beard yellowed.
His complexion is the color of a ripe tomato.
I can smell the alcohol on his breath from two feet away.
“Mr. O’Neil?” I have my badge at the ready and show it to him.
He squints at it; then his eyes sweep past me to Tomasetti and back to me. “What’d I do now?”
“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” I say. “May we come inside?”
An instant of hesitation. His eyes flit left. In the back of my mind I wonder what he’s doing in there besides drinking.
“We won’t take up too much of your time,” I add, keeping my voice conversational.
“I got all night.” He moves to the door, obstructing my view, blocking our entry. “I think I’ll just come out there.”
He passes through the doorway and steps onto the porch. I move back, keeping a prudent distance between us in case he does something stupid. I’m glad I’ve got Tomasetti with me.