Page 16 of Blood Moon

“You look like you’re having a tough shift,” I say.

“Not to mention a sudden craving for stuffed pork chops.” He shakes his head, sheepish, and nods at Tomasetti as he comes up beside me. “I thought it was a frickin’ bear, Chief. Never seen a hog that size.”

“Hopefully, someone in the department has a decent-size smoker,” Tomasetti mutters.

Skid laughs outright. “Glock’s got that covered. Smokes a mean slab of baby back ribs.”

“That’s one way to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,” Tomasetti says.

“I hate to spoil your menu planning, but we have to find it first,” I point out.

Tomasetti grins. “You know you’re going to be hearing a lot of pig puns in the coming days.”

“I’ve no doubt.”

“Chief Burkholder.”

The three of us turn to see Hooper emerge from the fog. I introduce Skid and we get down to business.

“Do you know which direction the animal is traveling?” Hooper asks Skid.

“Last I saw he was heading east,” Skid replies. “There’s a deer trail that runs parallel with the creek.” He points. “Twenty or so yards inside that tree line.”

Hooper is thoughtful for a moment, then turns his attention to me. “On the drive over, I called one of the technicians in our feral swine management program. He’s on his way with a trap. He says we can have everything set up inside an hour.”

“How, exactly, do you get a three-hundred-pound hog with a bad attitude into the trap?” Tomasetti asks.

“That’s the easy part.” Hooper grins, his expression confident. “Swine may be smart, but they’ve got an inherent weakness for food. We lure them into the corral with corn. It’s cheap and plentiful. My tech will set up a motion-activated camera, which sends pictures to our cell phones. When we see the hog enter the enclosure, we send a text and it drops the gate.”

“You can do all of that tonight?” I ask.

“Within the hour, once the technician arrives.” Hooper glances at his watch. “Feral swine are nocturnal and dawn is still a few hours away.”

I look at Skid. “Get with the homeowners and the farmer who owns the cornfield that abuts the creek. Let them know we’ll be working in the area and that they should stay clear until we can get this animal contained.”

“You got it, Chief.”

A few minutes later, Tomasetti and I are sitting in the Explorer, watching Hooper as he lowers the tailgate of his truck.

“Hooper mentioned the possibility that our porcine perpetrator may have been released or escaped from a hunting ranch.” Tomasetti slants me a look. “Any ideas?”

“There’s a hunting preserve.” A name pings the back of my brain. “Paint Rock Lodge. Been around since I was a kid. Amos Lambright and his wife own it. They hold group hunts. For families. Corporate events.”

Tomasetti frowns. “Evidently, Pork-zilla figured his days were numbered and made a break for it.”

We sit there a moment, watch as a second ODNR truck pulls up behind Hooper’s vehicle and parks.

“Looks like our wildlife officers are going to be putting together that trap for a little while,” I tell him.

Tomasetti nods. “What do you say we drive over to the preserve and have a chat with Mr. and Mrs. Lambright?”

I glance at him and try not to smile. “I’m fresh out of pig puns.”

For an instant, we grin stupidly at each other and I’m reminded how much I love him. How lucky I am to have him in my life. And that if all goes as planned, we’ll be married in just a few weeks, a notion that both terrifies and thrills.

“Hogwash,” he mutters.

“Oh brother.” Smiling, I put the Explorer in gear and pull onto the street.