Page 9 of Blood Moon

It’s a minute past 2:00 A.M. and exactly the kind of night you don’t want to be on the road. Tomasetti and I are in the Explorer, parked on the gravel shoulder of Township Road 34 where it dead-ends at Painters Creek. The night is mild and warm, so I’ve opened my window slightly. Dusky rose-colored moonlight glints off the hood. Around us, the greenbelt along the creek hums with nocturnal sounds. A chorus of crickets and frogs and the last of the spring peepers. In the distance, the eerie cry of a screech owl raises gooseflesh on my arms.

Using my cell phone, I pull up a map of the area and hold it out so that Tomasetti can see. “The first incident happened here.” Using the tip of my pen, I indicate the covered bridge where Merle Beachy was mauled.

Tomasetti leans close, studies the map. “Right on Painters Creek.”

I shift the pen. “Isaac Stutz’s farm is here.”

“Locations are about a quarter mile apart.”

“Both back up to the creek.”

He looks at me over the tops of his reading glasses. “So Bigfoot is heading east and moving along the creek.”

I elbow him. “Urban legends aside, that greenbelt is thick with trees and offers a good bit of cover.”

He surveys the map, then indicates the area east of the Stutz farm. “What’s here?”

“A couple of Amish farms. Open fields mostly. A thicket of trees along the creek. Closer to Painters Mill, there are houses. Older homes. Big yards. A lot of trees.”

“May be a good place to take a look around. We can work our way toward town.” His eyes meet mine. “We might get lucky.”

“‘Lucky’ may not be quite the right word.”

His gaze holds mine. “Or we could fire up the radio,” he says. “Find a nice Norah Jones tune. Stay put for a while.”

“You’re not making a pass at the chief of police, are you?”

“Thinking about it.”

We hold gazes for a beat too long, then I look away, set my hands on the steering wheel. “I think Norah is going to have to wait.”

“Rain check?”

“Deal.” I’m smiling when I put the Explorer in gear and pull onto the road.

Visibility has dwindled to just a few yards. As I take the main road toward Painters Mill, the headlights play over billowing fog. Thick and silver-white within the trees on either side of the road.

“Any possibility these incidents are some kind of hoax or prank gone wrong?” Tomasetti asks.

I think about Isaac Stutz taking a shot at it and the gash on Merle Beachy’s leg. “If it is, they’re playing an awfully dangerous game.”

Tomasetti is thoughtful. “We both know there aren’t any wolves left in Ohio. That said, I recall reading about the possibility of coyote-wolf hybrids.”

“I’ve heard they exist. Even if they do, an attack on a human being would be extremely unusual,” I say.

“That’s not to mention the absence of paw prints.”

“The only tracks we saw were from deer,” I point out.

“And we both know there’s no such thing as gargoyles.”

I look over at him. “Tomasetti, you’re not making me feel any better.”

“Best case, our wildlife officer will—Kate! Look out!”

I catch a glimpse of movement just to the right of my headlight. A streak of blue. The pale oval of a face. I stomp the brake. Cut the wheel hard. The tires bark and the Explorer slides to a stop.

“Shit.” I grip the wheel, look over at Tomasetti. “You okay?”