“He’s over at Nell Ramsom’s place with a 10-14.” She pauses. “We’ve had six prowler calls tonight.”
People are nervous about the murders, I realize. Wishing I’d gone home for a few hours of decent sleep, I rise and shrug into my parka. I’ve been lenient with Isaac Stutz, letting him off with warnings. With my resources stretched to the limit, I resolve to cite him this time. I don’t have time to chase cows. Dreading the cold, I head for the door.
In the Explorer, I turn the heat on high and drive through town well over the speed limit. Around me Painters Mill sleeps. Tonight, I sense it is the uneasy slumber of a child prone to nightmares.
Dog Leg Road is a narrow road lined by a forest on the north side and a plowed field to the south. The hundred-year-old covered bridge that spans Painters Creek is a tourist attraction during the summer. I pass through the wood structure doing fifty.
On the other side of the bridge, I spot the cow in the bar ditch, a Jersey munching on the tall grass poking up through the snow. Grabbing my Mag-Lite, I shine the beam along the fence until I find the place where the stupid beast pushed through.
Hitting my emergency lights, I hail Mona. “I’m 10-23.”
“Roger that, Chief. You find the cows?”
“One cow.” I run the beam along the fence. A dozen yards beyond is the spot where Amanda Horner’s body was found. I can see a few scraps of the crime scene tape fluttering in the breeze. “I’m going to put the damn thing back in the pasture and call it a night.”
“10-4.”
The blast of cold takes my breath away as I disembark. A few feet away, the cow rolls her eyes at me and pulls another tuft of yellow grass into her mouth. I grew up around cattle, but I’m not a fan. They’re brutish and contrary for the most part. I spent many a cold winter morning pulling teats, and I got kicked more times than I like to recall.
Opening the trunk, I pull out a length of rope and approach the cow. “Come on, you cud-chewing T-bone.”
The animal turns away, but I cut her off. She grabs a few more dry blades of grass, and I make my move, tossing the rope from a yard and a half away. The loop sails over her head and settles around her neck. The cow can do one of two things at this point. She can drag me around and make a fool of me or she can cooperate and let me lead her back into the pasture. Much to my relief, she acquiesces when I tug the rope.
I tromp through a snowdrift and reach the fence. Peeling back the wire where the cow escaped, I lead her through and release her. I’m in the process of repairing the fence when a flash of light in my peripheral vision snags my attention. At first I think Isaac Stutz saw my light and is coming over to help. Then I realize the flicker of light originated near the crime scene, not the Stutz house. What the hell is someone doing out here in the middle of the night?
I jog to the Explorer, cut the lights and hail Mona. “I’ve got a 10-88. Send T.J. Expedite. No lights or siren.”
“Roger that. Be careful, Chief, will you?”
“I always am.” Grabbing my Mag-Lite, I quietly close the car door. Keeping low, I traverse the ditch and scale the fence. The darkness thickens when I enter the woods, but I don’t turn on the flashlight. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness. My feet are silent on the snow as I wend through trees and over deadfall. Overhead, a milky half moon casts just enough light for me to see my shadow. Cold stings my face. The steel Mag-Lite makes my fingers ache with cold. But those minor discomforts are nullified by my need to know who’s out there and why.
Twenty yards from the crime scene, I stop and listen. Around me, the wind sighs. In the distance, a dog barks his outrage at being left outside on such a cold night. The snap of a breaking branch sounds behind me. Startled, I spin. I see movement within the trees and flip on the Mag-Lite. I set my other hand on my sidearm and thumb off the leather catch.
“Stop!” I call out. “Police. Stop right there!”
Holding the flashlight steady, I break into a run. My quickened breaths puff out in front of me as my adrenaline surges. I glance down, see footprints in the snow and follow them. Trees whiz by. I’m almost to the crime scene. The cornfield is to my left; I hear the hiss of dry stalks. The beam of my flashlight illuminates movement ahead. The silhouette of a man. It’s gone in an instant, but for the first time I know without a doubt I’m not pursuing a deer.
“Stop now! Police!” I rush forward, my revolver leading the way. “Halt!”
I have a good sense of direction, and I’m well aware that I’m being led away from my vehicle. I don’t feel threatened; it doesn’t even cross my mind to be scared. Tonight, I’m the predator.