A Dark Path #3
At the sound of my voice the dog starts toward me, picking his way down the steep incline, weaving through the thick brush, his tail wagging a hundred miles an hour.
I’ve had my fair share of encounters with not-so-friendly dogs.
But one look at this animal’s demeanor and I know he’s sweet-tempered.
I sidle past a tree, use a branch to help myself along.
A moment later, the dog reaches me and I bend to him.
A whiff of wet dog and a soft, fleshy body greet me.
He’s got gentle brown eyes and a mauve-colored nose.
No collar. He’s soaking wet and muddy, but he doesn’t seem to mind, the grinning mouth and wagging tail dead giveaways.
He nuzzles my hand and I laugh. “What in the world is a guy like you doing in a place like this all by yourself?” I murmur.
He answers with a playful bark.
Squinting against the rain, I look around, realize with dismay I’m not going to be able to get the Explorer out of the gulch without a wrecker. With the dog in the lead, using the saplings and brush to pull myself along, I climb out of the ditch.
Rain pelts me as I walk to the crumbling asphalt and mud-covered road to assess my predicament.
The Explorer is twenty feet off the shoulder and nose down at a forty-five-degree angle.
The hood is crinkled and raised. I can hear the steam still rushing from the radiator.
I’ve got at least one flat tire in the rear.
Fishing in an inside pocket, I pull out one of the traffic flares, light it, and toss it onto the center line to forewarn any oncoming traffic, which isn’t likely on this desolate stretch.
Using my radio, I hail Dispatch. “I’m ten-twenty-three Cemetery Road,” I say, letting Jodie know I’ve arrived on scene.
“Roger that.”
“The Explorer’s in a ditch.”
“Oh no, Chief. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just … stranded.”
“Do you want me to pull Skid off that high-water rescue and send him up?”
“He’s got his hands full,” I tell her. “I’ll call Tomasetti.”
“Ten-four.”
“Jodie, did anything come back on Tyler O’Connor?”
“He’s clean, Chief. No outstanding warrants. He does have an OVI from last summer,” she informs me, using the police term for the operation of a vehicle while intoxicated.
“Thanks for checking.”
“Be careful out there.”
“Will do.” Next, I reach for my cell. Relief sidles through me when I see two bars. I hit the speed dial for my husband.
John Tomasetti picks up on the first ring. “You know I’ve got a bottle of Carménère breathing on the counter.”
“French?”
“Chilean.” He pauses. “Everything okay, Chief?”
I give him the lowdown.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine,” I say. “The Explorer … not so much.”
“The mayor is going to love you even more.”
I laugh; my being hard on my official vehicle is a running joke within the department. “I’m going to need a wrecker.”
“I know a guy,” he says. “What are your GPS coordinates?”
I glance at my phone, scroll to my map app, and rattle off the location. “I still need to do a welfare check on an Amish couple.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” The cadence of his voice tells me he’s already grabbing his keys and slicker. “Do me a favor?”
“You know I will,” I say.
“Stay out of trouble until I get there.”
“Piece of cake,” I tell him.
I hear an exaggerated groan and then he’s gone.
The farm Tomasetti and I share is located in Wooster, which is about thirty minutes north of Painters Mill, and another ten from Cemetery Road. That gives me some time to look around for the Petersheims.
I’m clipping my cell onto my belt when another bark sounds.
I turn to see the Labrador standing in the center of the road thirty feet away, staring at me as if he’s got somewhere to be and I’m slowing him down.
Looking agitated, he trots another thirty feet down the road in the direction I’d been traveling, then stops and looks at me as if expecting me to follow.
When I make no move to do so, he barks again, this time with so much enthusiasm his front paws leave the ground.
“You got someplace to be, big guy?” I call out.
The animal bounds over to me. With painstaking gentleness, he takes my hand in his mouth, as if to pull me along.
As a lifelong lover of animals, I’ll freely admit I’m as guilty as the next guy of attributing human emotions and intentions to our furry friends.
Intellectually, I know that doesn’t always correspond with reality.
But this … Is it possible this dog is trying to tell me something?
Is he trying to show me something? Does it have anything to do with the Petersheims?
“What is it?” I say aloud.
He gives another enthusiastic bark and starts down the road. This time, I follow.
The final vestiges of daylight are a gray smudge on the western horizon, so I switch on the Maglite, adjust the beam, and shine it all around as we walk.
Wind and rain pummel us. The trees sway like hands reaching for the sky.
I’m keenly aware of the Explorer’s location behind us as we take the first curve and start up a hill.
Distant thunder rumbles with such power that the ground vibrates beneath my feet.
By the time we reach the next switchback, the rain is coming down so hard visibility has dwindled to just a few yards.
I’m thinking about turning around to wait for Tomasetti in the Explorer when I notice the hoof marks on the muddy shoulder.
They’re fresh, not yet pounded down by the rain.
Shod hooves. Amish, I think, and I sweep the beam left and right.
That’s when I see the horse droppings. Also fresh.
The dog lumbers over to me and barks twice.
Spinning, he keeps going, galloping in the same direction as the hoof marks.
Keeping the beam of my flashlight on the ground, I follow.
We’ve gone another dozen yards when I spot the shattered guardrail.
Deep buggy wheel ruts mar the ground. I’m focusing the flashlight on the precipitous drop beyond when I hear the blow of a horse.
I whirl. Across the road, nestled in the trees on the other side of the ditch, a bay mare nibbles at the overgrowth.
The animal is harnessed, but there’s no buggy in sight—and only a single line attached to the bit in her mouth.
I traverse the ditch and cross to her, run my hands over her topline and rump. As far as I can tell, she’s uninjured.
“Where did you come from?” Perplexed, I look around. “And where the hell is the buggy?”
The only answer is the roar of wind through the treetops and the pound of rain against the ground.
Fighting my way through the downpour, I pick up the leather line and lead the animal to a level area a little farther off the road. There, I tether her to a branch so she can continue to forage. I pull another flare from my pocket, light it, and toss it onto the roadway.
A series of shrill barks draws my attention. I glance toward the road to see the Labrador standing next to the shattered guardrail, looking down into the ravine. I think about the horse, the missing buggy, and the hair at my nape stands on end.
“Oh, no,” I whisper.
I jog over to the dog, set the flashlight beam on the jagged drop-off below.
Something cold scrapes up my spine when I spot the buggy wheel.
I shift the beam. Dismay sweeps through me at the sight of the splintered shaft, part of the bench seat, the shattered remains of the body panel.
Farther, I see an axle and two more wheels.
Dismay transforms into alarm when I see a woman’s black Amish bonnet.
“Mr. and Mrs. Petersheim!” I call out. “Are you there? Is anyone hurt?”
Wind tears at my raincoat, driving rain into my face like tiny slivers of ice.
I squint against it as I study the scene, my eyes seeking a route down to the base.
I don’t want to think about what a fall of that distance would do to an elderly couple and their granddaughter.
Are they lying at the bottom of the ravine, injured or unconscious?
How is it that the horse escaped unhurt?
The dog’s barking fades to background noise as I sweep the beam left and right. It doesn’t take long for me to realize there’s no easy way down. Not without a rope, which I keep in my equipment box in the Explorer.
“Mr. and Mrs. Petersheim!” I shout. “Painters Mill Police Department! Answer me if you can!”
I’m reaching for my cell when I spot the length of harness leather at my feet.
It’s the other line. Bending, I pick it up, find one end tied to an undamaged pier of the guardrail.
The other end dangles over the edge. I go to the cliffside and for the first time, I notice the marks in the mud, the trampled grass and weeds.
Did someone use this piece of leather to rappel into the ravine?
A cold nose nuzzles my hand. I glance down to see the dog, staring up at me, whining and anxious.
“What is it, boy?”
Once again, he mouths my hand. He then bounds down the road in the same direction we’d been traveling. Turning back to me, he emits a single, heartfelt bark, and then rushes back to me to take my hand again, as if urging me to follow.