Shepherd's Crook

by Sheila Webster Boneham

  “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 Go
d.” 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.

  six

  I took two jerky steps forward and spun around. Jay was behind me, his back end wiggling like a Tahitian dancer and his front feet doing a tap dance. Tom’s black Lab, Drake, stood beside him, whapping Tom’s leg with his beater of a tail and grinning at me. The next thing I knew, I was on my knees, my arms around Jay and my face buried in the thick silky fur of his neck. Drake shoved his cold nose into my neck and I pulled him into a group hug.

  “Some guys have all the luck.”

  At the sound of the voice, I took a deep breath, squeezed Jay a tiny bit tighter, stroked Drake’s velvety cheek, and disengaged. Jay got me with one good cheek slurp before I got to my feet and turned on the man at the far end of the dogs’ leashes.

  “You scared me to death!”

  Tom Saunders is the last person in the world likely to hurt anyone’s animals, and the first person I want at my side if there’s trouble. During the year I had known him, I’d seen him shine in the worst of times, as well as the best. Besides, gray highlights in his beard and yummy brown eyes aside, he had a way of wearing his jeans that made my insides go gooey. But not at that moment.

  “What were you thinking?”

  Tom looked as if I’d slapped him. He leaned slightly back and said, “He had to pee. What’s wrong wi—”

  “Where were you? I looked … Oh my God. I think I’m going to barf.” Or cry. I didn’t want to do either.

  “We went for a little walk,” said Tom. “I left you a note. I thought—”

  “You didn’t think!” My mouth was set on anger blurt, and I regretted the words as soon as they were out. Adjusting my volume and tone a bit, I said, “A note?”

  Tom pointed at the bottom of the crate. A green index card lay on the green rug I used as a crate pad. A note.

  “I didn’t see it.” I was blinded by terror. Part of me wanted to slug Tom for not using a large poster board and Day-Glo paint to let me know he’d taken my dog. The other part wanted to slap me for missing a perfectly thoughtful note, although green on green had made it hard to spot. I knew I should apologize, but decided he could go first. “If I’d known you were coming I might have … What are you doing here, anyway?”

  Tom didn’t say anything and I couldn’t tell whether he was hurt or angry or surprised. All of the above, I decided. We stared at each other for a few seconds before we both said some version of, “Sorry, I should have—”

  “I didn’t think you were coming today,” I said. “I thought you had papers to grade.”

  “The realtor called. Drake and I had to clear out for a showing, so we came to see what’s happening in herding-dog land.” Then he asked me why I had gone into a meltdown over something we did with each other’s dogs all the time.

  “You hear those wackos over there?” The little nag in my head whispered you’re a bit of a wacko yourself, Janet, but I ignored her. “I thought someone … They’re over there … Someone took …” As I struggled to speak a complete sentence, I stepped out from behind the van and spotted Edith Ann and Kathy coming our way.

  “I don’t see him down that way.”

  “He’s here!” I smiled as she reached us, and Edith Ann squirmed her way to Jay and Drake and rolled belly-up at their feet. When Jay snuffled her neck, she jumped up and all three started the requisite canine sniffing routine, twisting their leashes into a tangled mess. I held my hand out to the woman and introduced myself, Tom, Jay, and Drake.

  “Kathy Glaes,” she said. “We’re on our way to Chicago and stopped by for the disc event.” We talked a bit more, and she led a reluctant Edith Ann back toward the disc practice area.

  Jay sat in front of me and cocked his head to the left. Tom stood beside him and cocked his head to the right. Drake stood behind Tom, watching Edith Ann’s departure and slowly waving his tail. I sat back against the van’s bumper. As if they had choreographed the move, Jay put a paw on my foot and Tom laid a hand on my shoulder. My adrenaline level was tapering off and my inner crybaby had crawled back to her crib, so I signaled Jay to pop his front end into my lap, massaged behind both his ears, and looked at Tom.

  “You didn’t hear the ruckus over by the sheep pens?” I asked.

  Tom looked toward the structures on the far side of the field. “I heard voices, but figured they were just getting organized.” When he looked at me again, a line had formed between his eyebrows. “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Wackos were going on,” I said. “And on and on. Animal rights nuts. They were over there waving signs, you know, ‘liberate the enslaved animals’ and that stuff.”

  “So that’s why
the Sheriff is here?”

  I shook my head and eased Jay back to the ground. “No, but it’s good timing.” My butt was protesting the sharp edge of the tailgate, so I stood up and took Jay’s leash from Tom. “Summer actually called the Sheriff about the sheep.”

  Tom raised an eyebrow and said, “The sheep did something illegal?”

  “Part of the flock disappeared during the night.”

  We had talked a few times about incidents of livestock rustling around the area. Several recent cases had been reported in the news, but they had all involved cattle. Ten head of Black Angus had been stolen from a pasture near Auburn, and some Herefords from a farm east of Fort Wayne, near the Ohio line. The newspaper said there was evidence the animals had been hauled off in stock trucks. I was just thinking that there was no way anyone pulled a semi-trailer onto the property without being seen when Tom spoke again.

  “So the rustlers are branching out,” said Tom. “That’s disturbing.”

  Just what we need. Thieves and wackos.

  seven

  The four of us walked to the pole barn and Tom put Drake in the canvas crate I had set up earlier. He gave him a chew toy, which Drake would probably not touch, and filled the water dish. A man—a contestant’s husband, I surmised—was sitting next to a matched pair of crates a few feet from mine. He had headphones and a very fat book, and looked like he’d be there for a while, which was reassuring. Still, I slipped a padlock through the zipper pulls on my crate and reminded Tom that the combination was my address. “Just in case.”

  When we got back to the arena, everything seemed normal. The protesters were gone and people were arriving with chairs and coolers to stake out good spectating spots. Jay whined softly when he spotted the sheep huddled in a tight cluster at one side of the arena, as if they knew they might be next. In fact they might, but they’d face well-monitored herding dogs, not stock rustlers.