bridge, we pause, listening, shining our flashlights into the thick darkness ahead. We’ve just started down the trail when a flicker of light through the trees snags my attention.
“Kill your light,” I whisper, dousing my own.
Skid reacts quickly, and we’re plunged into darkness. He comes up beside me. “I saw it,” he says quietly. “Fifty yards, straight east, on the path.”
We watch for a moment and sure enough the light flickers again. “He’s running,” I whisper. “Let’s go get him.”
We charge into the darkness. Skid pulls ahead quickly. I let him, speak in a low voice into my lapel mike. “Ten seven eight,” I say, using the ten code for need assistance. “Ten eighty-eight.” Suspicious activity. “Subject is on the west side of Creekside Park. Past the footbridge. Westbound. Unit intercept at Weisenbarger Street.”
Skid reaches the end of the asphalt and keeps going. It’s too dark to see, so I flick on my Maglite. Trying to anticipate where the subject will go next, I cut slightly right, plunge headlong into the ditch, and enter the woods. Branches tear at my jacket as I run. The beam of my flashlight bounces with every stride, light playing crazily over the ground and brush and branches. I can’t see Skid, but I catch the occasional flicker of his light; I hear him breaking through brush a few yards ahead and to my left.
I’m running full out when I reach a secondary trail, and I pour on the speed.
“Stop!” I hear Skid shout. “Police Department! Stop!”
He’s fifteen yards away from me now, outrunning me. I follow the sound of his footsteps. Thrusting my Maglite forward, I squint into the darkness, trying to spot the subject through the thick foliage.
“Halt!” Skid shouts. “Painters Mill PD! Stop!”
The curse that follows tells me our subject doesn’t heed the order.
Weisenbarger Street lies a hundred yards ahead. It’s a through street with easy access to the highway. Chances are, the son of a bitch is trying to reach a vehicle, either his own or someone is waiting for him.
I run another hundred yards, fight my way through a tangle of low-slung branches. I’m out of breath, a stitch forming in my side. The sound of an engine roars in the distance. I look up to see the flicker of headlights through the trees.
I reach Skid, who has stopped. Huffing and puffing, he bends, sets his hands on his knees, speaks into his shoulder mike. “Subject is on Weisenbarger,” he pants. “In a vehicle. Southbound.”
A Holmes County deputy’s voice cracks a response over the radio, letting us know he’s still a mile or so away.
“Damn.” Skid shakes his head, his eyes meeting mine. “Son of a bitch runs like a damn cheetah.”
“Or else we’re old and out of shape.”
He laughs. “Not a chance.”
Using our Maglites, we head back toward our vehicles. Midway there, I spot something shiny and out of place on the ground, half buried in fallen leaves.
I shift my beam to the object. “What’s that?”
Skid toes away the leaves. “Pocketknife. Blade is out.” His gaze meets mine, unspoken words floating between us.
“He was armed.” I kneel for a closer look. It’s an expensive-looking knife, about eight inches long, including the handle. “Nice of him to leave it for us.”
“I was just thinking the same thing.” He shifts the beam of his flashlight. “What’s that on the blade?”
“Some kind of inscription.” I move closer and read. “Savage.”
We exchange a look.
“What the hell does that mean?” he asks. “A name?”
“Maybe.” Pulling out my cell, I snap several photos. Then I remove a small paper bag from my duty belt and use my gloved hand to work the knife into it.
I look at Skid. “Check to see if there are any residents in Painters Mill with that last name.”
“You got it.”
“I’ll check with the knife shop in the morning. See if it was purchased there.”
As we walk back to our vehicles, I find myself thinking about Ashley Hodges. I don’t believe this was a random attack, but why would someone accost her? What was their motive? Is the incident related to what happened to Noah Kline? If so, why is someone targeting this couple? I think about the people who may have had reason to harm Noah Kline—or at least want him out of the picture. Doug Mason. Ben Weaver. Maybe even Craig Hodges. All of them are likely physically fit enough to outrun the likes of Skid and me. But how does the name Savage fit into the equation? Or