A Dark Path #8
“Don’t like it that someone got hurt.” The Amish man tsks. “I’ve been meaning to trim those tusks.”
“We’d appreciate it if you did,” Tomasetti tells him.
Nodding, the Amish man turns his attention to me and sticks out his hand, his gaze steady. “Thank you for driving all the way here in the fog, Chief Burkholder.” He nods at Tomasetti. “Thank both of you for safeguarding such a cantankerous animal.”
“We’re sorry he caused so many problems,” his wife adds.
I nod. “As long as you get that pen repaired and pay for any medical expenses, I think we’re good to go.”
Mrs. Lambright comes up beside her husband and takes my hand in both of hers. “We’ve heard you’re a good police chief, Kate Burkholder, even though you’re no longer Amish. Now that we’ve dealt with you in person, we know that for a fact.”
It’s 5:30 A.M. when Tomasetti and I arrive back in Painters Mill.
I cruise through a deserted downtown to Horseshoe Bend to see the emergency lights of Skid’s cruiser still flashing.
A second truck hauling a livestock trailer has arrived on scene.
Officer Hooper, another wildlife officer, and Skid are standing outside Hooper’s truck, staring down at a glowing monitor the size of an iPad.
“Good timing, Chief Burkholder,” Hooper says in a low voice.
“Just now got the camera working,” Skid whispers.
I look over the men’s shoulders to see a screen that shows the monochromatic image of a steel corral that’s been set up in a clearing.
“How far away is that?” Tomasetti asks.
“Hundred yards or so,” Hooper replies.
I tell them about the Amish couple who own the hog. “They’ll pick him up once we have him corralled.”
“Elmer, huh?” Shaking his head, Hooper whistles. “That’s one hell of a mascot.”
The other wildlife officer glances over at me. “We’re happy to deliver him to that couple if that would help them out, Chief Burkholder.”
“I’m sure they’d appreciate it very much,” I tell him. “Especially with all this fog.”
“Any sign of the perp?” Tomasetti asks.
“He’s close.” Skid indicates an area on the screen. “Saw him sniffing around a moment ago.”
“Definitely going to go in for all that corn,” Hooper says.
“Grabbed a bag of carrots out of the fridge when I left the house,” the second officer adds. “No way a hog can resist root vegetables.”
Hooper motions toward his vehicle, where the rear door stands open. “Coffee there on the tailgate.”
I’ve barely taken my first sip of coffee when I see movement on the screen.
I hand Tomasetti a Styrofoam cup and step up beside him for a better view. On the monitor, a dark shape with glowing eyes moves to the corral entrance. We watch as the animal sniffs the ground, roots in a couple of places, and tentatively enters the trap.
“He’s in,” Hooper whispers.
“Good job, Elmer.” The second wildlife officer thumbs in the text that will engage the gate and lock the animal inside. “Stay calm, big boy.”
I hear the clang! of the gate as it slams down.
To my surprise, the hog remains calm.
“It looks like Elmer is used to being penned,” Tomasetti says.
“And he knew he was going to get a meal out of the deal,” I tell him.
While the two wildlife officers start toward the trees where the trap was set up, Skid pulls out his keys. “Do you want me to escort them down to the Lambright place, Chief?”
“That would be great, Skid. Thanks. I’ll give them a call and let them know Elmer is on the way.”
Giving me a mock salute, Skid starts toward his cruiser.
I glance at Tomasetti, find him already looking at me. “Looks like Elmer gets a happy ending,” he says.
“Back to living high on the hog,” I tell him.
His mouth twitches. “What do you say we grab some breakfast, Chief?”
“The diner opens at six.”
He glances at his watch. “I hear they have a good bacon omelet.”
I smile at him. “You know, Tomasetti, we do have a few minor details to iron out in the coming weeks.”
He raises a brow. “We do?”
I take his hand and interlace my fingers with his. “How do you feel about getting married on my brother’s farm?”
He looks at me more closely, his eyes probing mine. “You and your brother have come a long way.”
“It was time.”
He takes a moment to consider. “You grew up on that farm.”
“For better or for worse.”
“Amish wedding?”
The magnitude of the question impacts me solidly. The importance of it. The implications. The weight of the decisions we’re about to make. I absorb all of it, digest details that bring a rush of joy, the kind of happiness that’s fresh and new, all of it tinged with a touch of melancholy.
“You know Bishop Troyer can’t marry us,” I tell him.
“I know that.”
“I’m Anabaptist,” I say.
“I know that, too.”
“I thought I’d look into finding a Mennonite pastor. I don’t know if that will work. But it feels like a good balance. Middle ground.”
“Middle ground is usually a good place to be.” He smiles. “Whatever you decide, I’m game.”
I smile back. “I’ll talk to my brother.”
He slips his arm around my waist. “You’ve been busy, Chief.”
“Tomasetti, you have no idea,” I tell him.
And we start toward the Explorer.