Part 2
The green light blinked a third time.
Eli stepped backward without crossing the trap line and switched off his flashlight. The camera had a cellular antenna mounted along one side. Whether it was transmitting live images or only motion alerts, someone already knew he and Rook were standing in the yard.
He called Ben and left the porch untouched until the sheriff arrived. Rook remained beside the door, his body angled toward the trees. He was weak enough that his legs shook, yet every time Eli tried to guide him inside, the dog looked toward the camera and refused to turn his back on it.
Ben arrived before three. He photographed the trap, marked the chain’s position, and removed the camera with gloved hands.
“This isn’t poaching equipment,” he said after examining the angle. “Not placed like this.”
“It’s surveillance.”
“Of your house.”
The sheriff looked toward Rook. “Which means somebody knows where you brought him.”
Ben found tire impressions near the county road, but the tread pattern belonged to a common heavy-duty pickup. The snow had already softened the edges. Whoever had stopped there had approached the cabin on foot, placed the equipment, and left without coming close enough to trigger Rook until the wind shifted.
Before sunrise, Ben formally documented the Shepherd as evidence in a suspected animal-cruelty case. Hannah agreed that moving him to the county shelter would endanger his recovery, so Eli signed temporary-foster papers and accepted responsibility for keeping him available.
“For the record,” Ben said, “he isn’t yours.”
“I know.”
Ben looked at the dog curled near the stove. “He may not.”
By late morning, Rook had eaten half a cup of softened food and kept it down. He allowed Eli to clean the ice damage around his paws, though he watched the washcloth as if it might turn into something else.
At noon, a dark green pickup came slowly up the driveway.
Rook heard it before Eli did. He rose too quickly, stumbled, and planted himself between the stove and the door.
Three men got out. The tallest wore a brown canvas jacket and a trimmed beard. A broad man with a flushed face came around the passenger side, while a thin man remained near the truck, scanning the windows.
Eli stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind him.
The tall man smiled. “You Mercer?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Wade Jessup. We’re looking for a dog.”
He held up his phone. The photograph showed a German Shepherd wearing a black working harness beside a stack of cut timber. The image was distant, but the dark saddle and notched right ear matched Rook.
“His name’s Kane,” Wade continued. “He belongs to our crew. Broke loose during a job.”
“You lose him in a locked cage?”
Wade’s smile thinned. “We heard you found him wandering.”
“You heard wrong.”
The broad man shifted closer. “Look, we came for the dog. That’s all.”
“Then bring proof of ownership to Sheriff Kincaid.”
Wade removed a plastic folder from his jacket. Inside were vaccination records, a bill of sale, and a printed photograph. Eli studied them without taking the folder.
The vaccination form described a seventy-pound dog with no chronic injuries. The date of birth would have made Rook barely two years old, though the Shepherd’s teeth and graying muzzle placed him closer to six.
“These don’t match him,” Eli said.
“They match well enough.”
“Not to a veterinarian.”
Behind the door, Rook’s nails clicked against the floorboards.
The thin man near the truck tilted his head and gave two quiet taps against his thigh. Then he lowered two fingers toward the ground.
Rook dropped.
The movement was instant and violent, as though his legs had been cut from beneath him. His injured shoulder struck the floor. He did not look toward the man who had signaled. He pressed his chest down and closed his eyes.
Eli opened the door.
“Rook,” he said. “With me.”
The dog did not rise.
Eli knelt beside him, keeping his hands visible. “Nobody here is putting you down.”
Rook’s eyes opened. His front legs shook as he pushed himself upright and moved against Eli’s side.
The thin man stared at the dog with open irritation.
Wade folded the papers. “You’re teaching him bad habits.”
“No,” Eli said. “I’m giving him a choice.”
The broad man laughed once, without humor. “You think that animal chose you?”
Rook’s lip lifted just enough to show the edge of one tooth.
Wade placed a hand on his companion’s chest and guided him back. “We’ll let the sheriff sort it out.”
“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said.”
The three men returned to their truck. Before climbing in, the thin one looked at Rook and repeated the two-finger signal.
This time, the dog stayed on his feet.
The pickup reversed down the drive. Eli watched until it disappeared, then called Ben and gave him the license plate.
Hannah arrived twenty minutes later. Rook’s shoulder had swollen from hitting the floor, but the old fracture remained stable. While checking the area beneath his neck, she noticed the fused nylon fragment had loosened in the warmth.
“Hold the blanket,” she said.
Eli kept Rook’s head turned while Hannah clipped through the hardened material. Most of it was ordinary harness webbing, blackened along one edge. Then a folded section came free from the undercoat.
Something had been stitched inside it.
Hannah flattened the fabric on the table. White lettering showed beneath the soot.
BLACK ALDER FIELD SECURITY
K-9 2
Ben arrived before Hannah finished photographing it. He stood beneath the kitchen light, staring at the number.
Black Alder Timber was one of the largest winter employers in Basin County. Its crews hauled legitimate timber from private land and licensed state parcels. The company also used smaller subcontractors whose trucks changed names often enough to make complaints difficult to follow.
Ben looked from the patch to Rook.
“K-9 2,” he said. – Then he lifted his eyes to Eli. – “Where’s number one?”
To read the rest of the story – CLICK the NEXT button 👇👇👇