Dear Crossing by Marjorie Doering Page B

for several heartbeats. Sweat beaded his face. His mind screamed, “Run,” but only his heart raced. Fear petrified his limbs.
    He looked over his shoulder. Only yards away, the massive bull shook its head from side to side, one hoof pawing the ground. Between the rickety walls, a shaft of light flickered against a stream of blood oozing from the animal’s head. A fresh cry rose from the bull’s throat as it threw its head upward before charging. Flecks of blood and saliva flew through the air. As they landed on his cheek and lips, the old man felt their warmth, his gasp drawing their sickly sweetness into his mouth.
    With unleashed rage, the animal thundered across the space between them. Kramer flung himself sideways, meeting the floor with cruel impact. He watched in disbelief as the bull failed to correct its course, savagely ramming a stanchion beyond him. Once. Twice. A third time. With another deafening roar, the bull turned. Blood dripped from the wound made even greater by the animal’s own savagery.
    Facing the enraged animal, Kramer’s body trembled. He lay on his back, dragging himself backward with his elbows—pushing with his heels. Safety lay behind him within the confines of the stanchions lining the barn wall. If only he could squeeze himself through the metal bars in time.
    Blood traced a path along the bull’s glazed eyes. The huge head wavered, then pointed directly at him. Kramer froze. The bull’s bellow ricocheted from the barn walls, vaporizing the old man’s hopes of self-preservation. Pain surged through his body as inch by inch, he tried to reach the metal bars behind him.
    The bull snorted, expelling air and blood, creating a design in red at its feet. Kramer’s lungs labored to pull in each new breath.�The metallic smell of blood mingled with the pungent odors of manure and hay.
    “Dear God, help me.”
    Just two more feet.
    In horror, Hank Kramer watched the bull charge as terror ripped a scream from his throat.

10
    Neil piled into the passenger seat of Ray’s squad car. “It’s gotta be the same guy. It has to be.”
    Ray turned out of the station parking lot. “We may have lucked out. Now let’s hope we can cash in on it.”
    Neil was pumped. “There he was, just waiting for his order. What were the odds I’d walk in and park myself next to him?”
    “Slim to none unless you consider how much time you spend at The Copper Kettle, stalking Amy.”
    Ignoring the dig, Neil’s head bobbed as he tapped out a rhythm on his knees. “Fate. That’s what it has to be.”
    Ray turned down the main drag and lit a cigarette.
    Neil opened his window. “I thought you quit.”
    “I’ll quit again tomorrow.”
    As they passed through the part of town residents referred to as the food belt, the smell of Ray’s cigarette couldn’t mask the scents coming from the restaurants—or the heady aroma of cinnamon buns coming from Weidemeyer’s.
    Ray’s stomach rumbled. Since his separation from Gail, meals had gone from being a pleasure to an afterthought. He’d forgotten to eat lunch. Again. He came to a slow stop at a red light, knowing there was no point in racing to the motel. Having left Valerie Davis in his wake, the biker would be long gone.
    Waiting for the light to change, he glanced at Neil. “How’s the lip?”
    “Still keeps liquids from dribbling out.”
    “Glad to hear it.”
    The rookie motioned toward Ray’s bruised cheek. “Nice shade of purple. It’s a good color on you.”
    “I’ll keep that in mind.”
    Ray accelerated on green. Passing Mark Haney’s hardware store, he forced himself to face forward. “Have you ever been inside the Shady Manor?”
    “No. Why?”
    “I’m wondering if there’s still a chance of finding some trace of that biker in the room he rented.”
    “I don’t know. I’ve heard Harry Schuster keeps a pretty clean place.”
    “Shit.”
    Ray stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray as they passed St. Bartholomew’s Catholic Church.