Page 13 of Blood Moon

He entered the woods, annoyed because his new boots were getting wet. Visibility was nearly down to zero. Drizzle floated in the yellow beam of his Maglite. He was about to turn around and go back when he heard something move through the grass scant feet away.

“Stop right there!” he shouted. “Get out here!”

The sound that came back at him was part scream, part growl, part … he didn’t know what.

“Police Department!” he shouted. “Come here! Now!”

Something rushed him. Not a person. A black form. Three feet high. Shrieking. Lightning fast. Trying to maintain a safe distance, Skid stumbled back. He caught a glimpse of a large dark form coming straight for him. Some kind of animal.

“What the hell?”

Skid lashed out with his foot. The toe of his boot landed against a body that was as solid as rock. He was reaching for his service weapon when the thing rammed his legs. A curse flew from his mouth as he went down. He brought his Maglite down hard on the beast’s head. A scream-roar rent the air. The animal tossed its head and charged. Skid swung the Maglite again, scored another direct hit.

The animal pivoted. A final screech and it galloped into the forest.

Martin Hooper is nothing like the last wildlife officer who covered Holmes County. His predecessor had possessed a lumberjack persona. Hooper, on the other hand, is a youngish, scholarly looking man with cropped hair, a trimmed beard, and wire-rimmed glasses. He’s about my height with a stout build, wearing his official olive-green uniform and jacket, his badge prominently displayed at his left shoulder.

“Morning!” He calls out the greeting with the glee of a man who has little use for sleep.

Introductions are made and the three of us exchange handshakes. “We have yet to identify the animal,” I tell him.

Tomasetti motions toward the woods. “We actually heard it moving through the brush when we were here earlier, investigating the first attack.”

Hooper raises a brow, intrigued and maybe enjoying the mystery a little too much. “Did you see it?”

“Too dark and foggy,” I tell him. “But we heard it.”

“Low growls mostly,” Tomasetti says. “Heavy bodied, but not very tall. Fast as hell.”

“Hmmm.” Hooper pulls out a small spiral notebook and an old-fashioned lead pencil. “Has anyone gotten a look at it?”

“Not enough to give us a decent description.” I pull out my notebook and read my chicken-scratch notes. “Low to the ground,” I tell him. “Two or three hundred pounds. Pointed ears. Dark in color.”

“Tracks? Paw prints?”

I shake my head. “The only tracks we saw were from deer.”

“Ground was pretty trampled,” Tomasetti adds.

“Doesn’t help that it’s dark,” Hooper puts in. “Of course, nighttime is when these kinds of incidents usually occur.”

I pull out my cell phone and scroll to the photo I took of Merle Beachy’s injury. “As you can see, there was quite a bit of bleeding,” I tell him. “I suspect the injury was deep.”

Hooper makes a hissing sound at the sight of the gash. “Bet that hurt.” But he’s looking at the photo with the fascination of a surgeon who’s unperturbed by the sight of torn flesh and blood. “Was the victim knocked to the ground?”

I nod. “Mr. Beachy was thrown from the buggy. He was in the process of getting up when the animal came at him from behind.”

“Did he sustain any other wounds?”

“No, but he said the animal also bit down and shook him.”

Making a sound of concern low in his throat, he scribbles a final note and tucks the notebook back in his pocket. “Can you take me to the exact location of where it happened?”

“Sure.” I motion toward the trees. “Just a few yards this way.”

We take the same route Tomasetti and I took earlier. I point out the wheel ruts in the ground and the place where the buggy struck the tree.

“The attack took place here.” Using the beam of my Maglite, I indicate the area immediately ahead of us.