Dear Crossing by Marjorie Doering Page A

now,” Woody said.
    Coming around to Woody’s side of the desk, Neil pointed. “What’s this word? I can’t make it out.”
    “You don’t have to. Irene knows how to read my writing.”
    “Yeah, Chief, but what is it?”
    Exasperated, Woody grabbed the paper from his hand and shoved it back at him again. “Limp. It’s limp, all right? Now will you get that to Irene?”
    Neil stood staring at the notes. “I think I know this guy.”
    Woody catapulted out of his chair. “Are you serious?”
    “Yes, sir. Not by name or anything, but I saw him at the Copper Kettle. I practically had lunch with him. The description matches him right down to the limp.”
    “When was this?”
    “Um…Saturday. Around noon. I sat down next to him while Amy was taking his order at the lunch counter. Never saw him before, but this has to be the same guy.”
    “What can you add to this description?”
    “He’s good-looking. Well-built. Dark hair—black. Eyes are dark, too.”
    “Age?”
    “Mid-twenties, I think. There was a scuffed-up Harley parked outside when I got there. A shame—real nice bike. He was wearing biker boots, so I figured it was his. His jeans were shredded around the right knee. The fabric was still kinda bloody. I remember thinking that the damage to the bike and his leg probably happened at the same time—and recently. He limped on his way out.”
    “Anything else?”
    Neil nodded. “When I asked where he was from, he clammed up and waved Amy over to change his order to a take-out.”
    “Any chance you noticed his license?” Ray asked.
    “Only that it was a Minnesota plate, but when the guy paid, he pulled out a book of matches along with his wallet. They were from the Shady Manor Motel.”
    Woody slapped the rookie’s shoulder. “Neil, I think I love you.”
    Neil’s perfect teeth gleamed behind a broad smile. “Thanks, but I’m holding out for Amy.”
    “Nice going,” Ray said. “C’mon, we’ve got business at the Shady Manor.” Halfway to the door Ray stopped, belatedly waiting for the order from Woody.
    “Go on, beat it. Find this guy.”

9
    Hank Kramer’s mood remained sour as he turned the truck into his farm’s unpaved driveway. Parked halfway between his house and the dilapidated barn, he turned the engine off, swearing as the pickup continued to sputter and pop before stopping altogether. Moments later, the silence was broken by a blood-curdling sound coming from the barn.
    Bellowing—mad, enraged bellowing.
    After milking, he’d put his cows out to pasture. Locked in a sturdy stall until the vet saw fit to show up, only his breeding bull remained inside, secured in a concrete stall closed off by a heavy metal gate. The barn door was latched shut. No predator could have gotten�to his bull, he reasoned. What kind of animal would try? But that sound…
    Letting the grocery bag spill its contents across the seat, he hurried to the barn. The intermittent bellows coming from behind the barn doors raised the hairs on his neck. Torn between using caution and taking action, he stood outside the closed door, trying to make sense of the animal’s rage. The sound reverberated through the weathered walls.
    “What the hell?”
    Kramer took a deep breath and, with gnarled hands, slowly pulled the door open. Allowing only enough room for his body to slip through, he entered, closing the door behind him. The barn’s dusky interior further hampered his failing eyesight. In the momentary silence, he heard only his own shuffling footsteps and the heartbeat pounding in his ears. Cautiously, he moved farther into the structure’s interior.
    Halfway to the sturdy pen, he�froze, his voice a raspy whisper. “God almighty.” Light sifting through the spaces between the barn’s warped wallboards showed the heavy gate standing open.
    The stall was empty.
    “How in God’s name…?”
    From out of the shadows, he heard the sound of labored breathing behind him. His lungs held his breath captive