his leash securely. I didn’t want him dancing around my legs while I was hanging over the well taking a look. He was strong enough at 130 pounds to push me over the edge when he was highly excited. He wasn’t Lassie. If he knocked me in, he wouldn’t race back to the house barking excitedly, and lead people back here to save me. He would whine a little, maybe peer over the edge trying to see me, and do something stupid like sailing over the lip and landing on top of me.
I checked the time. It was a quarter to six. I had an hour before first dark. I opened the backpack and pulled out a plastic body bag. I unzipped and spread it open.
It was large enough to hold a 250-pound human.The cat’s body would look pitifully small in it, but it was all I had. I would roll it up, and seal the tiny bundle. I fished out tape, and wet wipes to cleanse my hands after, a fresh pair of gloves, and an industrial-strength pressed paper towel. I placed them all on the body bag.
I grasped the edge of the cover and pushed. I couldn’t budge it. I groaned. The second time, I scooped back sand with my shoes until I had enough to brace my feet against so I wouldn’t slip. I got into position and threw my 128 pounds behind my push, and grunted in frustration when I saw I had moved the sucker about an inch. At this rate, I’d still be standing here straining when Rand took to the air to search for me after sunrise. I braced and tried again, moving it another hard-fought inch. I had to stop because black dots began to float within my vision.
As I rested, I eyed Ivanhoe. When the puppies matured into adults on their first birthday, they were trained to pull the rescue sled. They were first paired with a seasoned dog, then trained solo. I had no idea if Ivanhoe had passed with flying colors or had failed miserably. I couldn’t remember. It was worth a try.
From my backpack I took out a 25-foot, 150-pound test, three-ply nylon rope. I snapped it on his harness, wrapped his long lead around my waist, and brought him back to the cistern. He began to whine and scratch on the sides of the well.
Seeing him diligently trying to scratch through the solid cement to find Amelia’s scent brought a fragment of a lecture I had listened to in the broiling sun of July, three years ago in Atlanta. I had Lazarus standingbeside me. It was a training exercise for cadaver dogs. I could see the short, slight instructor’s sweaty face as he delivered his message.
“Remember, trainers, your dog is not scenting on a human body smell here, they are searching for the smell of death. A chemical odor has been lab-produced that resembles the death odor. Once a living body dies, it doesn’t produce an individual smell. All cadavers smell alike. Your scented search sample has been sprayed with this odor, as well as the dummies buried under the rubble.”
His words—just remembered—gave me hope. I believed that Ivanhoe followed Amelia’s scent while the abductor was carrying her. He was still trying to reach her. He had never been given any training to search for a cadaver, so he couldn’t have scent memory of the cadaver death smell, so therefore—
I broke off speculating, hooked the rope tightly around the short protruding edge of the cistern’s cover, and, acting animated and excited, stood shoulder to shoulder with Ivanhoe and gave the command to pull.
“Pull, pull!” I cried as I tugged on my end of the rope. It was looped around my right shoulder and padded with a bandanna. I looked at Ivanhoe and he was standing there expectantly, slowly wagging his tail, but he wasn’t doing any pulling. He seemed to be waiting for me to give him a clue about this new game.
My expectations took a nosedive. He must have flunked Sled Pulling 101. Shit. I decided to move forward, so he was behind me. If he knew how to pull, me being in front of him might jog his memory. It was the trainer’s normal position. In front, with him betweenthe sled/cistern and me, I slid
I checked the time. It was a quarter to six. I had an hour before first dark. I opened the backpack and pulled out a plastic body bag. I unzipped and spread it open.
It was large enough to hold a 250-pound human.The cat’s body would look pitifully small in it, but it was all I had. I would roll it up, and seal the tiny bundle. I fished out tape, and wet wipes to cleanse my hands after, a fresh pair of gloves, and an industrial-strength pressed paper towel. I placed them all on the body bag.
I grasped the edge of the cover and pushed. I couldn’t budge it. I groaned. The second time, I scooped back sand with my shoes until I had enough to brace my feet against so I wouldn’t slip. I got into position and threw my 128 pounds behind my push, and grunted in frustration when I saw I had moved the sucker about an inch. At this rate, I’d still be standing here straining when Rand took to the air to search for me after sunrise. I braced and tried again, moving it another hard-fought inch. I had to stop because black dots began to float within my vision.
As I rested, I eyed Ivanhoe. When the puppies matured into adults on their first birthday, they were trained to pull the rescue sled. They were first paired with a seasoned dog, then trained solo. I had no idea if Ivanhoe had passed with flying colors or had failed miserably. I couldn’t remember. It was worth a try.
From my backpack I took out a 25-foot, 150-pound test, three-ply nylon rope. I snapped it on his harness, wrapped his long lead around my waist, and brought him back to the cistern. He began to whine and scratch on the sides of the well.
Seeing him diligently trying to scratch through the solid cement to find Amelia’s scent brought a fragment of a lecture I had listened to in the broiling sun of July, three years ago in Atlanta. I had Lazarus standingbeside me. It was a training exercise for cadaver dogs. I could see the short, slight instructor’s sweaty face as he delivered his message.
“Remember, trainers, your dog is not scenting on a human body smell here, they are searching for the smell of death. A chemical odor has been lab-produced that resembles the death odor. Once a living body dies, it doesn’t produce an individual smell. All cadavers smell alike. Your scented search sample has been sprayed with this odor, as well as the dummies buried under the rubble.”
His words—just remembered—gave me hope. I believed that Ivanhoe followed Amelia’s scent while the abductor was carrying her. He was still trying to reach her. He had never been given any training to search for a cadaver, so he couldn’t have scent memory of the cadaver death smell, so therefore—
I broke off speculating, hooked the rope tightly around the short protruding edge of the cistern’s cover, and, acting animated and excited, stood shoulder to shoulder with Ivanhoe and gave the command to pull.
“Pull, pull!” I cried as I tugged on my end of the rope. It was looped around my right shoulder and padded with a bandanna. I looked at Ivanhoe and he was standing there expectantly, slowly wagging his tail, but he wasn’t doing any pulling. He seemed to be waiting for me to give him a clue about this new game.
My expectations took a nosedive. He must have flunked Sled Pulling 101. Shit. I decided to move forward, so he was behind me. If he knew how to pull, me being in front of him might jog his memory. It was the trainer’s normal position. In front, with him betweenthe sled/cistern and me, I slid
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