A Dark Path #4
Setting down the leather line, I trail him for fifty yards.
All the while, I keep the flashlight beam on the ravine to my right, looking for any sign of the missing trio.
The sound of an engine in the distance stops me in my tracks.
I glance ahead to see headlights approaching.
In the back of my mind, I’m hoping some Good Samaritan came upon the Petersheims and stopped to render aid or picked them up.
That hope is dashed as I take in the vehicle’s speed, the sight of it weaving left and right and barreling toward me far too fast. To get the driver’s attention—and make sure he sees me through the driving rain—I flick the Maglite on and off several times, and swing it in an arc.
Keeping an eye on the dog to make sure he stays safely out of the way, I move off the road and onto the shoulder.
A chill quivers along the back of my neck as the vehicle bears down.
The scream of the engine sounds above the din of rain.
Bright headlights blind me. I move farther off the road, but the vehicle tracks me, coming right toward me.
I’m reaching for the dog when abruptly the vehicle swerves toward us.
I see the slash of rain in the beams. The shadow of the driver inside the cab.
I hear the roar of the engine. The hiss of tires. Feel the heat of the engine …
Grabbing the dog by his scruff, I dive into the ditch, pulling him with me. I hit the ground on my shoulder, roll, and we land in a foot of water. The vehicle zooms past, so close I can smell the exhaust, feel the slap of water and mud from the tires. Next to me, the dog whimpers.
I jump to my feet, my eyes latched on to the red smear of taillights. The rain is coming down too hard for me to make out the plate number; all I can discern is that it’s a pickup truck. And I make a silent vow to find the son of a bitch and cite him for reckless operation of a motor vehicle.
I scramble out of the ditch. Next to me, the dog cowers, looking around uneasily, as if expecting the driver to come back and finish us off.
“You’re okay.” Kneeling, I run my hands over his body. “See? We’re fine. Not a hair out of place.”
He stares back at me, skeptical.
I want to believe the driver didn’t see us due to the inclement weather.
But my gut tells me this was no innocent close call.
Even taking into consideration the poor visibility, the near-darkness, and the curvy road, the driver should have seen my flashlight.
He had ample time to avoid us, but seemed determined to run us over.
I find myself thinking about the Petersheims’ assertions about Tyler O’Connor …
… if he catches her with another boy he’s going to kill her.
Tilting my head to my shoulder mike, I hail Dispatch. “I’ve got a wrecked buggy in a ravine,” I tell her. “Possible injury accident. I’m trying to locate the passengers. Can you ten-fifty-two?” I ask, requesting an ambulance.
“Roger that.”
“Get a deputy up here, too. I’ve got a possible intoxicated driver. Westbound on Cemetery Road. Dark-colored pickup truck. Driving erratically.”
“Got it.”
I think about that a moment. “Jodie, on that OVI report on O’Connor, was the make and model of the vehicle noted?”
Computer keys click. “Dodge Ram 1500, Chief. Blue. Quad cab.”
The pickup truck that nearly ran me off the road was a Dodge.…
“Roger that,” I say, and disconnect.
With Tomasetti and the ambulance another twenty minutes out, I make the decision to go into the ravine.
If someone is injured, I can at least render aid until the paramedics arrive on scene.
The leather line doesn’t seem secure, so I jog back to the Explorer.
Using my fob, I open the rear hatch and make my way down to the vehicle.
I retrieve a coil of rope and my first aid kit and clamber back up to the roadway.
I go to the guardrail and look down. Another surge of urgency tugs at me as I take in the pieces of the shattered buggy. I call out for the Petersheims again, but there’s no response.
Working quickly, I secure the rope to a good-size tree, test it with a hard tug. I loop the other end around my hips and jury-rig a rappelling system. With the wind tearing at my raincoat, I turn my back to the incline and begin to inexpertly rappel down.
As I descend, I’m aware of the dog watching me from above, agitated because he doesn’t want to be left behind.
The wind nearly blows me off my feet twice.
It takes several minutes for me to reach the base and disentangle myself from the rope.
Though I’m wearing a slicker, my trousers and shirt collar are soaked.
Water streams down my face. I have my hood up, but my hair is wet and dripping.
I take in the pieces of the buggy. The bonnet. The broken saplings crushed by the falling buggy. “Mr. and Mrs. Petersheim! Christina!”
I listen, but there’s no reply.
By all indications the buggy went through the guardrail, then rolled backward down the thirty-foot embankment.
It crashed at the base and broke apart. The one thing I can’t figure is how a vehicle as lightweight as a buggy could strike the guardrail with enough force to bust through.
And how is it that the horse was able to break free?
Was the accident the result of bad weather and a curvy road?
Or is this something else entirely? Is it possible there was another vehicle involved?
Questions churn in my gut as I walk the scene.
There’s not much left of the buggy. Scattered bits of wood.
One of the shafts is still intact. I see an afghan that’s soaked through.
A crushed wicker basket. A seat cushion.
All of it covered with mud and bits of debris.
The one thing I don’t find is an injured person.
“So where the hell are they?” I say aloud.
The dog whines. At some point, he found his way down into the ravine.
I glance over to see him bounding toward me.
When I reach down to pet him, he mouths my hand, then backs away.
The animal seems frantic now. Overexcited.
I start to turn away, but he takes the sleeve of my raincoat into his mouth and tries to pull me away from the wreckage.
All the while rain beats down on us like a thousand tiny fists.
I resist the dog’s efforts. With three people missing and possibly injured, I don’t have time to indulge this dog. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at me and the urgency with which he’s urging me to follow.
I’ve just called out for the Petersheims again when I notice the path cutting through the brush.
A deer trail, I realize. It runs parallel with the road above and ascends the side of the ravine at an angle that could eventually reach the top.
Giving a single bark, the dog starts along the path.
With no sign of the Petersheims here, I decide to follow.
We’ve only traveled a few yards when I spot the footprint.
It’s fresh, not yet beaten down by the rain.
It’s the size of a man’s work boot. The kind of boot an Amish man might wear. …
“Okay,” I murmur to the dog. “You have my attention. Where exactly are you taking me?”
Looking pleased with himself, the Labrador trots farther up the deer trail.
I follow, keeping my beam on the ground, sweeping it left and right.
Fifty feet in, I find another print. A sneaker this time.
A broken branch tells me someone has definitely come this way.
In the back of my mind, I wonder if the Petersheims were able to walk away from the crash.
Did they follow this path in the hope it would take them back up to the road so they could walk to their farm or flag down a passing motorist?
I traverse a fallen log, go around a rock the size of an armchair, fight my way through reeds as tall as a man. That’s when I spot the white handkerchief. It looks as if it caught on a branch and was pulled from a pocket. The fabric is soaked through and stained pink with what looks like blood.
I pick up the kerchief. Definitely blood, I think, and a fresh layer of concern washes over me.
A sharp bark rings out. I glance at the dog. He seems interested in the kerchief so I lower it to him. He sniffs vigorously, then lets out a series of excited barks, as if recognizing the scent.
“Do you belong to the Petersheims?” I ask. “Are you trying to help me find your owners?”
The eager canine doesn’t bother taking my sleeve this time. Turning on his heel, he takes off running up the deer trail as if someone’s life depends on it.
“I’m sorry, Dawdi. This is all my fault.”
Herman Petersheim stopped walking, looked down at his granddaughter, and thought his heart might just break.
She’d always been a smart little thing. Strong-willed like her grohs-mammi.
And responsible, too. Now, here she was, bruised and soaking wet, and blaming herself for something that wasn’t her fault.
Before he could respond, Esther stepped in. “Well, now that’s just foolishness,” she said gently.
Herman couldn’t agree more. “You just stop your worrying,” he grumbled.
The three of them had made it up the deer trail and were now walking along the shoulder of Cemetery Road toward their farm, which was just a mile or so ahead.
By the grace of God, Esther and Christina were unhurt in the fall; they’d landed on an outcropping of rock that kept them from tumbling into the ravine.
Herman had managed to cut the harness and free the horse an instant before the buggy plummeted.
He’d then used one of the leather lines to climb down.
To his relief, he’d found both women unhurt—aside from a few cuts and bruises.
The three of them had followed a deer path that eventually brought them back up to the road, and now they didn’t have much farther to go.