Page 9 of The Pact

“I’m on it.”

“And find out who owns the properties east and west of Painters Creek, north of the Tuscarawas Bridge. Let Pickles know.”

“Got it.”

I end the call and hit the speed dial for Tomasetti.

He greets me with, “You’re working late tonight.”

I tell him about the missing boys. “Tomasetti, I’ve got blood. A backpack that was left behind along with a cell phone. A bunch of footprints that tells me they weren’t the only ones out here.”

He sighs. “Blood is ominous.”

“I’m officially worried.”

“Let me get on the horn,” he tells me. “I’ll get some resources out there. Meet you there as soon as I can.”

I thank him, but he’s already gone.

Three sets of tracks take us due north along Painters Creek. Another quarter mile in, the path narrows to little more than a deer trail, the fallen leaves so thick we can no longer see the prints. To make matters worse, the wind has shifted out of the north. Drizzle floats down from a black sky, and the temperature has begun a precipitous drop.

“Why the hell don’t kids ever get lost when it’s seventy degrees and sunny?” Skid mutters as we run our beams along the trail.

“That would ruin all the fun for us,” I tell him.

We’ve seen no sign of the boys for some time. No prints. No broken branches or threads of clothing. Even so, there’s no indication they’ve left the trail or doubled back, so we press on.

By the time we reach the bridge where Hogpath Road spans Painters Creek, the wind is cranking. As I tromp through the ditch and onto the road, the first snowflakes are hurtling downward at a nearly horizontal angle.

I cross the road, shining my light into the greenbelt which continues. My cell phone vibrates.

“Hey, Chief,” says Mona. “I’ve been working on the RSO list and I’ve got a name for you.”

“Lay it on me.”

“Kenneth O’Neil. Fifty-two years old. Get this: He was convicted of possessing child pornography in 2007. A year after his release, he tried to lure a ten-year-old boy into his truck. Did twelve years in Mansfield. Released eight months ago. Currently on parole.” She rattles off an address that’s just a few miles away.

I’ve talked to O’Neil several times since I’ve been chief. He’s an unpleasant individual with a fondness for whiskey, disdain for his fellow man, and a stone-cold hatred for cops. I think about the shoe imprints and wonder: Is it possible he accosted the boys in these woods? Or befriended them to lure them in?

“I’ll go talk to him,” I tell her. “Anything else?”

“Sheriff Rasmussen has two deputies on the way to the covered bridge now. He’s working on getting tracking dogs out there. It’s already snowing up in Millersburg, Chief. They’re expecting the bridges and overpasses to ice in the coming hours.”

“Thanks, Mona. Keep me posted.” I end the call.

I look up to see Skid approach from the woods. “Looks like we’ve lost the trail, Chief. The trail ends as they travel deeper into the woods. No tracks. No broken branches. Not even a damn deer trail.”

None of this bodes well for finding the boys.

I look around, spot the pullover on the other side of the road, and another quiver of worry goes through me. “Someone in a vehicle could have picked them up here on the road,” I say.

“Damn, I hope that’s not the case.”

I tell him about Kenneth O’Neil. “I’ve got to talk to him.”

“I’d rather get hit by a bus than talk to Kenny.” The words are flippant, but his smile is forced, as if we’ve both just realized the situation could become exponentially more serious.

“Check that pullover for tire tracks, and get Glock out here. I want you guys to continue north along the creek.” I sigh. “Keep your eyes on the water, too. I’ll catch up with you when I’m finished with O’Neil.”