Shepherd's Crook (2 page)

two

The sun had not
yet lifted the dew from the grass, and my socks wicked the moisture through the vents in my running shoes, turning the knit cotton cold and rough. Wild roses festooned the woven wire fence, alive with bright leaves, but they wouldn't bloom for at least another month. Mid-April is risky for all but the bravest wildflowers in northern Indiana, and the only scent I could find on the breeze was the musk of moist spring earth and greening grass.

Mine was still the only vehicle in the exhibitor parking area, but a shiny black SUV was turning in through the gate, followed by a green pickup hauling a
pop-up
camper. People were arriving. I stepped to the open back of my van and grabbed my cooler in one hand, slung my folding canvas chair over my other shoulder, and picked up the lightweight folding canvas crate I use for shows and other events. Whoever invented these things has my back's undying gratitude—I remember well the days of lugging heavy plastic and metal crates around. These days, the heavy one stays in the van, and that's where Jay stood, giving me a
full-on
Aussie wiggle.

“Down, Bub,” I said. “Let me set this stuff up, okay? I'll be back to get you.” He lay down and crossed his front paws, panting softly. I pulled his favorite chew bone out of my tote and slipped it between the bars of the crate, but Jay wasn't interested. He tasted sheep on the breeze, and knew there was better fun afoot.

By the time I reached the near end of the long pole building designated for crating, my left heel was sending out the barest whisper of a blister.
Should have worn my waterproof mocs,
I thought, adjusting my gait to minimize the friction and thanking my pesky inner fussbudget for making me throw an extra pair of socks into my tote. Hopefully I had a few plastic bandages in there, too.

I had skipped breakfast, and my stomach issued a loud reminder. Louder yet was the voice that rose into the sweet spring air just as I pulled on my second dry sock. I couldn't make out the words, but knew the voice. It was Summer Winslow, a farmer from DeKalb County who raised wool sheep, gave herding and weaving lessons, and often supplied the livestock for local herding events. I bit into a
gluten-and
-
sugar-free
cashew-and
-cranberry breakfast bar I'd bought at my friend Goldie's favorite health food store, slid the heavy door open, and hurried out of the building to see what was wrong.
Uck
. I dropped the rest of the bar into a garbage can.
They forgot to list Styrofoam on the ingredients list.

The rich fragrance of lanolin and fresh sheep droppings hit me as I rounded the building. Summer was still shouting. “Where in the hell are they?” was the first full sentence I could make out.

“What are you yelling about?” Summer's husband, Evan, arrived at a
long-legged
lope. “I'm getting the feed. Just give me a mi …” He slowed to a walk and stared at the pen behind Summer. “You moved them already?”

Summer threw her arms around like a demented windmill and let out a verbal stream that would have made a black sheep blanch.

“What's going on?” I asked, wondering how so much anger could be floating around on such a gorgeous morning. Maybe the call that ticked Ray off came from Summer? That would make sense, since he worked for her.

Summer ignored my question and patted her pocket. “Do you have your cell?”
Okay then, Summer didn't call Ray.

I worked my phone out of my jeans, glad they weren't any tighter.

“Call the sheriff.”

“What am I calling about?”

“There were a dozen ewes and wethers in here last night,” she said, pounding the gatepost with the bottom of her fist. “And now they're gone!”

three

When Summer said that
a dozen sheep were AWOL, I was sure it must be a misunderstanding. “They're down there,” I said, waving a hand toward the pen where I had watched Ray and Bonnie do their jobs.

Before anyone could respond, the Sheltie burst into sight, barking and spinning and doing her best to speed Ray along. He wasn't far behind her, and when he turned the corner, Summer shouted, “Ray! Did you move the sheep from this pen?”

“No ma'am, I did not.” His voice was borderline surly, but that seemed normal for Ray, at least from my limited exposure to him.

Summer flung her arms out and turned her gaze to the pen, as if she might have overlooked the flock somehow. “Then where the hell are they?”

Ray showed Bonnie the palm of his hand. The barking and spinning stopped and the dog fell into a trot beside him, but the wag never left her tail. Ray fixed a hard gaze on Summer and said, “You have a problem.” His intonation made it a statement, but Summer replied in the affirmative as if he were asking. Ray pulled a bandana from his pocket, took off his hat, mopped his shaved head, and replaced his hat in what looked like a
well-practiced
sequence.

“If you didn't move them, where in the hell are the sheep that were in this pen!” Summer's voice had a rough edge, as if it might turn to a scream with the tiniest push. I'd been around Summer and Evan enough to know they loved their animals, and although they used the sheep for herding lessons and harvested their wool, for the most part they treated them like pets. I had been to their farm and knew how well they cared for everyone in their charge. They even had one elderly ewe named Rosie who slept in their
screened-in
porch.

Evan was bent toward the metal latch, his head cocked and his fingers pulling something from the latch handle. “Summer, did you open this gate last night? After we—”

“No, of course not,” Summer said. She reached for my phone, poked it three times with her finger, and turned toward Evan. “You know I always … What's that?”

Evan held whatever it was toward Summer. From where I stood, he seemed to be holding thin air. Summer took a step toward Evan's hand, then turned away and spoke into the phone, so I took up the slack.

“What is it?” I asked, and moved closer. A clump of wavy dark hair fluttered between Evan's thumb and forefinger. “Hunh.” I wasn't sure what I was supposed to make of the find.
So someone got a strand of hair caught in the latch. So what?

Evan grasped the waving end of the hairs and stretched them to their full six or seven inches. “Weird,” he said.

Summer was still talking into the phone, and getting louder. “Ewes and wethers. You know, girl sheep and boy sheep … No, not rams. They're castrated … Very funny, but no, I don't think that's why they ran away.” She looked at me and rolled her eyes.

I spoke to Evan. “You brought the sheep last evening, right? So—”

He cut me off, held the hair toward me and stated the obvious. “It didn't come from any of us.” Evan had dark blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, and Summer's fiery braid hung past her waist.

Ray stepped up beside me and, when we both looked at him, he lifted his hat and said, “Ain't mine.”

“I'm sure it wasn't there last night,” said Evan. “I checked all the latches to be sure they were all sound. I would have noticed that.”

Summer handed me the phone and said, “Sheriff's on the way. I'm going to get Nell and take a look around.” She started away at a trot, and I thought I heard her say “catch whoever” and “hang rustlers.” She stopped and turned around. “Maybe someone should stay with the rest of the flock until we figure this out.” And then she was gone, her long braid spilling down her back like a stream of molten copper.

Ray mumbled something that sounded like, “Right,” and spat. I was starting to wonder how often he had to refill his reserves to keep from dehydrating. He turned back the way he had come and whistled for Bonnie, who was sniffing the gateposts and the ground between them, but Evan said, “I'll go. You have a long day ahead. There's hot coffee and some donuts at our trailer. Help yourself.”

Ray left without another word, and I walked to the gate for a closer look. A voice in my head whispered
stop that right now
, and I knew she was right, “she” being my pesky voice of reason. Truth be told, she does occasionally keep me out of trouble, but she's not nearly as much fun as that
other
little voice. You know, the one who counters,
Go ahead
, followed by those five little words that have come to make the back of my neck tingle.
How bad can it be?

four

Evan went to check
the other sheep, Ray and Bonnie went for donuts and coffee, and Summer went to search for the missing sheep with her dog, Nell. Curiosity had me well in hand, and I studied the latch where Evan had discovered the wavy dark hairs. When I found everything normal there, I slowly scanned the area outside the pen. Nothing screamed “out of place,” so I turned to look down the dirt drive that ran alongside the long red pole building where I had set up my crate.

Neither the other sheep nor the large arena were visible from where I stood, but I knew they were thirty or so yards beyond the building and off to the right. I also figured that, unless they were beamed up by aliens, the missing sheep must have gone that way. The heavy hanging door to the pole barn had been closed tight and latched from the inside until I slid it open, so they couldn't have gone through there unless someone shut and latched the door behind them. Summer and Evan were camped in the middle of the only other way out, and it was hard to imagine they had slept through a sheep drive. Even if they had, their English Shepherd, Nell, wouldn't have. Neither would Bonnie, but I had no idea where she and Ray had spent the night.

I was walking down the roadway toward the main part of the property, still thinking about ovine escape routes, when Summer yelled, “Get out!” My first thought was that she was talking to Nell, since “get out” tells a working dog to back off the stock. Then I heard more people yelling. I recognized Evan's voice and picked up my pace when he said, “The Sheriff's on his way. You're trespassing.” Then another voice, gaining volume, tossing out fragments. “… public property … cruel … liberate …”

Even before I cleared the end of the building, I knew what was happening. A
half-dozen
protesters, some of them sporting leashes and chains around their necks, waved cardboard platitudes at Summer and Evan.
What the heck is going on?
screamed a little voice in my head.
First stock rustlers, now a flock of wackos?

“This is not public property. It's privately owned,” said Evan, his voice strong and steady. “And we are asking you politely to leave. Now.”

Over the previous few weeks, there had been several incidents of animal rights extremists “liberating” animals around the state. Could this group have let the sheep loose during the night or early morning? Based on the reports I had heard, they focused mostly on dogs, often showing up at events, opening crates, and shooing the animals out. Two dogs had been lost and not yet found, and at least one other had been hit by a car. We all live in terror that it could happen to the dogs we love.

Dogs we love!
My heart skipped and I broke into a run.
Jay!
I had left him crated in the back of the van with the tailgate open. Had I padlocked his crate? I couldn't remember. I usually did if I had to leave him alone at a public event, but this early in the morning, at a stockdog event on private property … I didn't think I had. My legs seemed to sprout lead shackles.

A handful of vehicles snuggled up under the trees along the fence line where I had parked, and a couple dozen more were now parked closer to the arena. It was a typical
dog-event
assortment—lots of minivans, two RVs, the
pop-up
camper I had seen earlier, one or two tents. People were busy setting up portable canopies, folding chairs, exercise pens, and dog crates. Most of the dogs were herding breeds, although I spotted a Jack Russell Terrier walking beside a Border Collie at the far end of the field. There would be more variety, I knew, the next day. A couple of people waved at me, and my panic subsided a notch. There's safety in numbers and I knew that no one who knew me would let anyone mess with my dog.

I could see the front and side of my van, and someone walking across the parking area from that direction with two Aussies racing ahead, a flying disc shared between them.
Dog person.
Someone stepped out from behind my van and looked both ways before turning away from me and breaking into a run. Away from my van.
Running away, or just running?
If you followed the fence line to the back of property, you would hit the new Rivergreenway extension, a popular place for walkers and joggers. It could be someone out for a morning run.
Or it could be someone up to no good.
I boosted my speed and yelled “Hey!” but got no response. I ran faster, panic pulling its knot tighter around me. I tripped over something, or nothing, in the grass and almost fell, but momentum and fear kept me upright. I ran on, my heart thick in my throat and my eardrums threatening to explode from the pressure building up behind them. A frail voice whispered
he's fine, he's fine,
but when I finally rounded the back end of my van, the voice died.

Jay's crate door hung open. He was gone.

five

I am told that
I screamed. It may be true. I'm not much of a screamer, but as I stared at the empty crate in the back of my van, my world went black. If I did scream, it had to be my dog's name, because that was the word I clung to.

Jay
.

Jay Jay Jay
.

What I do remember is a woman I didn't know. She and her dog, a small
black-and
-tan
mixed-breed
with a bobbed tail and upright ears, had just entered my peripheral vision from behind me, and I
half-registered
their presence.

“Is something wrong?” The stranger was taller than I am, maybe five seven, and her face was a mask of concern framed by short silvery hair. Her dog whined and sank into a sphinx position. “Are you hurt?”

I spun around and looked up and down the field, unable to get anything out of my mouth beyond “no, no, no, no.”

“What is it? Can I help?”

I forced myself to focus on her face. “I … my dog.”

She looked past me at the empty crate and blanched. “Oh my God.” Her dog jumped up and barked twice, looking back and forth between us. “Edith Ann, down!” The dog lay back down, but kept her dark eyes riveted onto the woman in front of her. “What's she look like? She? He?”

“He. Blue merle Aussie, white and copper trim.” I walked to the other side of the van and looked up and down the fence line, but there was no sign of Jay, so I returned to the open field and walked a few yards out to scan the growing line of vehicles. I yelled, “Jay!”

“Like that one?” she asked, gazing at something behind me.

Hope spun me around. Disappointment nearly laid me flat. Billie Smithson, an Aussie breeder from Indianapolis, was walking toward the arena with her blue merle bitch Maggie. She smiled and waved and walked on.

“You go that way,” said my new friend, waving the back of her hand down the field behind me. “And I'm Kathy, in case you need to get my attention.” She turned and walked the other way, looking between vehicles as she went.

“I'm Janet,” I called as I turned the other way. My end of the field was shorter, and held only another van and a pickup truck hauling a camper. Beyond them was the unobstructed field hemmed by a
shrub-dense
tree line, an old farm fence still standing in parts of it. I called for Jay and told everyone I saw to be on the lookout for a loose dog. I also pointed out the demonstrators by the arena and warned them not to leave their dogs unattended.

In the distance, I could see Summer waving her arms and, apparently, yelling, but the protesters had dispersed and her target had shifted. Ray Turnbull stood in front of her, arms crossed over his chest. I looked away to check between vehicles, and when I glanced back their way, Ray seemed to be shaking Summer by the arm. Her hand came up and pushed him away.

At the time, the whole scene barely registered beyond the oddity of the interaction between employer and employee, but it did seem to shake something loose in my mind. By the time I got back to my van, my fear and panic had merged with a rational thread, and I was able to focus a little. I pulled my phone out of my pocket.

The list of “people to call when a pet goes missing” rolled through my head, and I decided to start with Giselle Swann. She knew Jay, and
she was computer savvy. I hadn't seen her for a while, but I knew she would put the word out on the Internet for me so I could focus on the search. Her
quick-dial
number was six. I pushed it and waited, still walking and looking around.

A man answered. Giselle is single, lives alone, has no brothers, and as far as I knew, no boyfriend. “I told you, it's not going to work now, not after … Just leave me out of it, will you?” The voice had a slobbery quality that made me think of Daffy Duck.

I apologized for the wrong number, and tried again.

“What's the matter with you? I told you—”

I disconnected and looked at the phone. It was similar to mine, one of the few remaining flip phones in use, but it wasn't mine. Had Summer given me the wrong phone? Had she had hers with her and missed it in the confusion?

That could wait. As my fingers punched in Giselle's full number, my brain scrolled through the list of other calls to make, and I knew I would need my own phone for most of them. First, my vet's office in case someone called them because of Jay's rabies tag. And then—

And then someone goosed me.