A Dark Path #7
“That’s the easy part.” Hooper grins, his expression confident.
“Swine may be smart, but they’ve got an inherent weakness for food.
We lure them into the corral with corn. It’s cheap and plentiful.
My tech will set up a motion-activated camera, which sends pictures to our cell phones.
When we see the hog enter the enclosure, we send a text and it drops the gate. ”
“You can do all of that tonight?” I ask.
“Within the hour, once the technician arrives.” Hooper glances at his watch. “Feral swine are nocturnal and dawn is still a few hours away.”
I look at Skid. “Get with the homeowners and the farmer who owns the cornfield that abuts the creek. Let them know we’ll be working in the area and that they should stay clear until we can get this animal contained.”
“You got it, Chief.”
A few minutes later, Tomasetti and I are sitting in the Explorer, watching Hooper as he lowers the tailgate of his truck.
“Hooper mentioned the possibility that our porcine perpetrator may have been released or escaped from a hunting ranch.” Tomasetti slants me a look. “Any ideas?”
“There’s a hunting preserve.” A name pings the back of my brain. “Paint Rock Lodge. Been around since I was a kid. Amos Lambright and his wife own it. They hold group hunts. For families. Corporate events.”
Tomasetti frowns. “Evidently, Pork-zilla figured his days were numbered and made a break for it.”
We sit there a moment, watch as a second ODNR truck pulls up behind Hooper’s vehicle and parks.
“Looks like our wildlife officers are going to be putting together that trap for a little while,” I tell him.
Tomasetti nods. “What do you say we drive over to the preserve and have a chat with Mr. and Mrs. Lambright?”
I glance at him and try not to smile. “I’m fresh out of pig puns.”
For an instant, we grin stupidly at each other and I’m reminded how much I love him. How lucky I am to have him in my life. And that if all goes as planned, we’ll be married in just a few weeks, a notion that both terrifies and thrills.
“Hogwash,” he mutters.
“Oh brother.” Smiling, I put the Explorer in gear and pull onto the street.
Paint Rock Lodge Hunting Preserve is located in a heavily wooded area off of Mechanic Township Road 122.
I called their office number twice during the drive from Painters Mill, but no one answered.
Hopefully, we’ll find an employee or one of the owners on the premises when we arrive and they’ll be able to tell us if a hog has escaped.
I’m creeping along at less than ten miles an hour, leaning forward, squinting to see into the impenetrable wall of fog. Tomasetti is navigating using his GPS. I’m wondering if it might’ve been wiser to wait until daybreak when I spot the sign for the preserve.
“There you go,” he says.
I make the turn onto a narrow dirt road, wincing when branches and brush scrape at the doors. We cross a cattle guard and, finally, the golden glow of a streetlamp appears. Beyond, a well-lit log cabin emerges from the fog.
“Someone’s an early riser,” Tomasetti says.
A glance at the dash clock tells me it’s 4:30 A.M. I park in the gravel just off the front porch. A sign at the door tells me the office doesn’t open until 8:00 A.M., but I see someone moving around inside.
We get out and take the steps, cross to the door. Tomasetti knocks. An Amish man approaches, startles at the sight of us through the mullioned glass, and cracks open the door. “Can I help you?”
I have my shield at the ready and identify myself. “We have an animal situation in Painters Mill,” I tell him. “I need a few minutes of your time.”
The door swings open. Amos Lambright is a corpulent man of about fifty years. He’s wearing brown trousers with suspenders and a blue work shirt. His salt-and-pepper beard reaches all the way to his waistband.
“You gave me a start.” He presses his hand to his chest, his eyes flicking from me to Tomasetti and back to me. “Come in.”
The Amish man motions toward a sofa and chair that’s set up living room style. Beyond is a doorway that leads to an office. Inside, an Amish woman sits at the desk, running a calculator, looking at us.
“I have coffee if you’d like some,” the Amish man says.
“Actually, Mr. Lambright, we’re working on what’s become a rather urgent situation this morning. A large hog has found its way to Painters Mill.”
“The wildlife officer suggested, because of the animal’s size, it may have escaped a hunting ranch,” Tomasetti adds.
The woman rises and comes to the doorway. She’s dressed in a blue dress, a white kapp, with a gray cardigan draped over her shoulders. She tosses an uneasy look at her husband, her expression telling me she knows exactly why we’re here.
“We might be missing one,” the man admits.
“That would be Elmer,” the woman puts in.
“I discovered his pen empty last night.” Lambright shakes his head. “I was hoping I’d find him out in the woods this morning.”
Tomasetti looks from husband to wife. “What is Elmer, exactly?”
Another nervous exchange of glances; then Mr. Lambright nods grimly. “He’s a two-year-old Russian boar. One of our most prized animals.”
“Too smart for his own good is what he is.” The Amish woman huffs. “If there’s a rickety fence or gate left unlatched, he’ll find it. Been that way since he was a little thing.”
“He can be cranky, too.” Mr. Lambright shakes his head.
“Real cranky,” his wife adds.
“We were going to harvest him, of course, but…” He shoots an annoyed look at his wife and sighs. “We made the mistake of naming him.”
“Bottle-fed him from birth,” the woman puts in. “He was orphaned, you know. His own mamm disowned him.”
“Personality flaws aside, he’s quite a magnificent creature,” Mr. Lambright adds. “He’s sort of a mascot around here, I reckon.”
“How large is Elmer?” I ask.
The Amish man looks down at the floor. “Well … I reckon he’s three hundred pounds by now.”
“Three fifty,” his wife corrects. “All those scraps, I guess.”
Tomasetti coughs into his hand.
Mrs. Lambright clucks. “We’re sorry if he caused you any problems, Chief Burkholder. I know it’s an odd thing, but we’ve grown quite fond of him.”
“Elmer has kept us a little busy overnight,” I tell her.
The Amish man winces. “Where is he?”
“If all goes as planned,” Tomasetti says, “Elmer is about to be trapped by a wildlife officer with the Department of Natural Resources.”
Mrs. Lambright puts her hand over her mouth, her eyes darting to her husband. “Du sedda anna-gay.” You should go. “Greeya eem.” Get him. “Bringa eem haymet.” Bring him home.
I can tell by his expression he’s concerned, not only about his pet swine, but about traveling to Painters Mill via buggy or wagon in the fog.
“I’m assuming you have a livestock trailer to transport him?” I ask.
“Got a nice wagon we use to haul all our livestock,” he tells me. “Built it myself.”
I divide my attention between the two of them. “It’s likely going to take a few hours to get Elmer corralled,” I tell them. “With all this fog, it might be better to hold off on picking him up. I can call your business number when we’re ready.”
The woman nods. “I’ll be working right here next to the phone all morning.”
I look from Lambright to his wife. “The hog wounded an Amish man earlier. You may have some medical expenses or, if you carry insurance, you might want to check to see if that sort of thing is covered.”
Even as I explain the potential liability issue, I acknowledge the fact that the Amish rarely have insurance—or get involved with any sort of litigation. Likely, Mr. Lambright will seek out Mr. Beachy and offer to pay his medical bills.
“We’ll take care of it,” the woman says. “It’s our fault, after all.”