Page 17 of Blood Moon

Paint Rock Hunting Preserve is located in a heavily wooded area off of Mechanic Township Road 122. I called their office number twice during the drive from Painters Mill, but no one answered. Hopefully, we’ll find an employee or one of the owners on the premises when we arrive and they’ll be able to tell us if a hog has escaped.

I’m creeping along at less than ten miles an hour, leaning forward, squinting to see into the impenetrable wall of fog. Tomasetti is navigating using his GPS. I’m wondering if it might’ve been wiser to wait until daybreak when I spot the sign for the preserve.

“There you go,” he says.

I make the turn onto a narrow dirt road, wincing when branches and brush scrape at the doors. We cross a cattle guard and, finally, the golden glow of a streetlamp appears. Beyond, a well-lit log cabin.

“Someone’s an early riser,” Tomasetti says.

A glance at the dash clock tells me it’s 4:30 A.M. I park in the gravel just off the front porch. A sign at the door tells me the office doesn’t open until 8:00 A.M., but I see someone moving around inside.

We get out and take the steps, cross to the door. Tomasetti knocks. An Amish man approaches, startles at the sight of us through the mullioned glass, and cracks open the door. “Can I help you?”

I have my shield at the ready and identify myself. “We have an animal situation in Painters Mill,” I tell him. “I need a few minutes of your time.”

The door swings open. Amos Lambright is a corpulent man of about fifty years. He’s wearing brown trousers with suspenders and a blue work shirt. His salt-and-pepper beard reaches all the way to his waistband.

“You gave me a start.” He presses his hand to his chest, his eyes flicking from me to Tomasetti and back to me. “Come in.”

The Amish man motions toward a sofa and chair that’s set up living room style. Beyond, is a doorway that leads to an office. Inside, an Amish woman sits at the desk, running a calculator, looking at us.

“I have coffee if you’d like some,” the Amish man says.

“Actually, Mr. Lambright, we’re working on what’s become a rather urgent situation this morning. A large hog has found its way to Painters Mill.”

“The wildlife officer suggested, because of the animal’s size, it may have escaped a hunting ranch,” Tomasetti adds.

The woman rises and comes to the doorway. She’s dressed in a blue dress, a white kapp, with a gray cardigan draped over her shoulders. She tosses an uneasy look at her husband, her expression telling me she knows exactly why we’re here.

“We might be missing one,” the man admits.

“That would be Elmer,” the woman puts in.

“I discovered his pen empty last night.” Lambright shakes his head. “I was hoping I’d find him out in the woods this morning.”

Tomasetti looks from husband to wife. “What is Elmer exactly?”

Another nervous exchange of glances, then Mr. Lambright nods grimly. “He’s a two-year-old Russian boar. One of our most prized animals.”

“Too smart for his own good is what he is.” The Amish woman huffs. “If there’s a rickety fence or gate left unlatched, he’ll find it. Been that way since he was a little thing.”

“He can be cranky, too.” Mr. Lambright shakes his head.

“Real cranky,” his wife adds.

“We were going to harvest him, of course, but…” He shoots an annoyed look at his wife and sighs. “We made the mistake of naming him.”

“Bottle fed him from birth,” the woman puts in. “He was orphaned, you know. His own mamm disowned him.”

“Personality flaws aside, he’s quite a magnificent creature,” Mr. Lambright adds. “He’s sort of a mascot around here, I reckon.”

“How large is Elmer?” I ask.

The Amish man looks down at the floor. “Well … I reckon he’s three hundred pounds by now.”

“Three fifty,” his wife corrects. “All those scraps, I guess.”

Tomasetti coughs into his hand.