Page 2 of Blood Moon

I’m in that hazy place between wakefulness and sleep when my cell phone rattles against the night table. I reach for the phone, see DISPATCH on the display, telling me it’s Margaret, my graveyard shift dispatcher.

“Burkholder.” Despite my efforts, I don’t quite succeed in sounding fully awake.

“Sorry to wake you, Chief, but I just took a call from Levi Miller out on Dog Leg Road. He says a man in a buggy showed up at his farm a few minutes ago, bleeding and scared. The man claims he was mauled by an animal.”

I sit up, set my feet on the floor. I’ve known Levi Miller since I was a kid. He’s Amish. A solid citizen who leads a quiet life. He wouldn’t be calling the police if it wasn’t serious.

“What kind of animal?” I ask.

“Well, that’s the thing. The victim wasn’t sure, but thought it might be a bear.”

“A bear? How badly is he injured?”

“Miller said the guy’s got a gash on his leg that’s going to need stitches.”

Rising, I go to the closet, aware that my significant other, John Tomasetti, has overheard the exchange and is doing the same. “Who’s on duty tonight?” I ask.

“Skid,” she replies, referring to Officer Chuck “Skid” Skidmore. “He’s ten-seventy-six”—which is the ten code for “en route” to the scene—“but Mr. Miller asked for you.”

It’s not unusual for an Amish citizen to request my presence when there’s a problem. I was born Amish, after all. I left the fold when I was eighteen. A few in the community still won’t speak to me. But when the chips are down and someone needs a cop, I’m the one they ask for. Usually, I can handle things over the phone and delegate the situation to the officer on duty. Tonight, with a potentially dangerous animal on the loose, I opt to handle it myself.

“Get an ambulance out there,” I tell her. “Let Mr. Miller know I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Located in the heart of Ohio’s Amish Country, Painters Mill is a picturesque town of about 5,300 souls, a third of whom are Amish. It’s just after midnight when I make the turn into the long gravel lane of the Miller farm.

Next to me, John Tomasetti sips coffee, then passes the cup to me. “So, what’s the story with this guy?” he asks.

“He’s claiming it was some sort of animal attack.” Troubled by the notion, I take the cup and sip. “He thought maybe it was a bear.”

He arches a skeptical brow. “A bear in Ohio?”

“I know.” I shrug. “I think there’s been one or two sightings in Holmes County over the last twenty-five years,” I tell him. “A few more over in Tuscarawas County, but they are extremely rare.”

“I’ve never heard of an attack on a human in the state.”

“I think the statistics say you’re more likely to be attacked by a cow.”

I feel him looking at me, and despite the seriousness of the situation, I smile. “You’re such a city boy, Tomasetti.”

“My secret is out,” he says and takes the coffee from me.

The flashing lights of Skid’s cruiser bestow a red-and-blue glow to the fog. A horse and buggy are parked in the gravel area behind the farmhouse. Levi Miller is talking to a second Amish man I don’t recognize. The yellow light of a lantern flickers on the ground between them.

Skid approaches us, his Maglite and a first aid kit in hand. “Morning, Chief.”

Grabbing my flashlight, I get out. “Morning,” I say to him as we shake. “What do you have?”

Skid exchanges a quick handshake with Tomasetti. “Amish dude is Merle Beachy. Says he was a few miles east of here, out by the old covered bridge, and had a buggy mishap. He ended up on the ground, and before he could get back in the buggy, an animal attacked him.”

“What kind of animal?” I ask.

“I’m still trying to figure that out.” Skid scratches his head. “Beachy said it was a bear.”

“Has he been drinking?” I ask in a low voice.

“I don’t smell it.” He hefts the first aid kit. “I was getting ready to check him out. He’s bleeding pretty good. He says the thing put a gash on his leg.”

“Let’s see what he has to say.” Taking the kit, I start toward the two men. “Guder mariye.” Good morning.