Page 6 of Blood Moon

The crack of breaking branches. The pound of feet against the ground. Something moving through the weeds, darting between the trees. Big enough to bend a sapling onto its side.

“Stop!” I know the culprit isn’t human; for safety’s sake, I call out anyway. Always a good idea to make yourself known on the chance some clown is playing tricks.

The thing keeps coming.

I stumble back, my .38 at the ready. “Painters Mill police! Halt! Halt!”

I catch a glimpse of the topline of a black body. Fur raised. Low head. Small ears. The size of a bear, but not a bear.

“There!” Tomasetti shouts.

I jog toward it, my beam illuminating the back end of a dark form an instant before it plunges into thick underbrush and disappears into the fog.

Then I’m running full out, Tomasetti parallel with me a few feet away. Beams playing crazily on the trunks and brush and tall grass. I’ve only gone a few yards when my feet tangle in bramble. Stickers poke me through my trousers. I nearly go down, regain my footing just in time to keep from falling headlong.

We’ve only gone a few yards when I realize our quarry has outrun us and disappeared into the night.

For a full minute, we stand there, listening, trying to catch our breath, as much from adrenaline as the sprint.

Tomasetti bends, sets his hands on his knees. “I’m getting too old for this.”

“Speak for yourself.” But my breaths are labored. I can’t stop looking at the place where I saw the animal disappear. “Did you see it?”

“I saw something.”

“What the hell was it?”

“Whatever it was, it’s big and fast.” He shrugs. “Might be a good idea to get the game warden out here.”

The crack of my radio startles me. “Chief, I got a ten-eleven out at Isaac Stutz’s place.”

A 10–11 is the ten code for “animal trouble.”

Tilting my head, I speak into my shoulder mike. “What kind of problem?”

“Reporting party said something went after his livestock.”

“I’m on my way.” I think about that a moment. “Margaret, contact DNR,” I say, referring to the Ohio Department of Natural Resources. “Get a wildlife officer out here. I’m ten-seven-six.” En route.

“Ten-four.”

I look at Tomasetti. “Stutz’s place is half a mile down the road.”

“Why am I not surprised?” he mutters, and we jog to the Explorer.

I make use of my spotlight, which is attached to the exterior of the driver’s side of the Explorer, as I take the gravel lane to the Stutz house, but there’s nothing unusual lurking in the tall grass. We catch Isaac as he’s exiting the barn. He’s in his midforties with the long beard of a married Amish man. He’s hatless, wearing trousers with the suspenders over a sleep shirt, which tells me he was roused from sleep and dressed hastily. He’s got an old Ruger rifle slung over his shoulder, a kerosene lantern in his hand.

“We received a call about an animal problem,” I call out as I stride toward him.

Next to me, Tomasetti keeps pace, eyeing the rifle. “Hello, Ruger,” he mutters beneath his breath.

The Amish man reaches us and stops. “Something tried to get my calves.”

Only then do I notice that he’s visibly shaken. The lantern flickers because his hand is trembling. His eyes dart repeatedly toward the woods behind the barn. “I put the cows in the barn,” he says. “And I asked my son to run down to the pay phone and call you.”

Tomasetti motions to the rifle. “Did you get it?”

The Amish man grimaces, shakes his head. “It was too foggy and dark. It ran into the woods.”