| |
I stopped short, panting for breath. Rochester had disappeared from sight, and I had no idea where he was going.
Lili caught up to me. “What got into him?”
I shook my head. “No idea. He’s never done anything like that before.”
Her cell phone rang. “It’s Van,” she said. “I should take this.”
She walked off a few feet as I looked around. Where was my dog? Ahead of me was a cornfield, the brown stalks cut and lying on the ground in haphazard piles. The fields were lined by hedgerows of mature trees, both conifers and deciduous, and they looked impenetrable. Once Rochester got into one of those stands of trees, he could have turned right or left, or gone straight ahead, and I had no way of knowing which way.
Lili came back to me. “Van got a tip that one of the breeders on the road to Lititz just got a new white golden puppy this morning. It’s a place called Teacup Farm. He texted me the address and he’s going to meet us there.”
“I should stay here,” I said. “What if Rochester comes back?”
Lili looked around. “This is the road to Lititz, right? Maybe he’s on his way to that farm where Brody is. Or maybe we’ll see him on the road. We can’t just stay here.”
I was paralyzed. I didn’t know what I should do—keep running through these fields looking for my dog, or head out with Lili to find Brody.
Lili put her arm in mine and tugged gently. “Rochester is a smart boy. He’ll either find his way back to the motel, or he’ll be with Brody somewhere, or we’ll find him some other way.”
“What if he gets hit by a car? You know him. He’s not afraid of anything.”
“Fear is different from intelligence,” Lili said.
I took a deep breath. In prison, I had learned to let go of things I couldn’t control, and this was one of those. “Let’s go, then,” I said.
I hated to walk away, but I knew my dog and like me, once he was on the trail of a scent he couldn’t be persuaded otherwise. Lili and I hurried back to the car, where I made a K-turn my driver’s ed teacher would have been proud of. Then we rocketed down the dirt driveway back toward the street.
“Which way should we turn, do you think?” I asked Lili as we approached the road.
“Van said this farm is on road to Lititz, and Lititz is to the right,” she said. I followed her hunch, and we climbed a hill. From the top I saw a line of Amish buggies moving slowly ahead of us, and a stream of oncoming traffic so I couldn’t pass them.
My fingers were clenched around the steering wheel. “Take it easy, Steve,” Lili said. “Rochester’s a smart dog. He’ll be all right until we get there.”
“But what if we’re wrong? If we went in the wrong direction? Or if whoever stole Brody gets hold of Rochester. I couldn’t stand to have him end up like those poor dogs we saw.”
A piece of paper came flying out of the buggy in front of us, and the driver ground to a halt. A boy in his early teens jumped out and went chasing the paper across a field. We couldn’t move forward until the buggy did, and there was no shoulder to go around. Cars full of tourists gawking at the buggies crept past us in the other lane, occasionally someone holding a phone out the window to snap a picture.
I drummed my fingers on the wheel. “Come on,” I said. I blew the horn, and the driver stuck his left hand out and waved us around, which wasn’t going to do me any good until the traffic eased.
Finally the teenager loped back to the buggy with the paper in his hand, and we began moving again. By then there was a line of cars behind us.
“Do me a favor?” I asked. “Can you use your phone to find out how fast a golden retriever can run?”
“Absolutely.” She hit a couple of keys and waited for a page to load. “Wow. I had no idea he could be so fast. Twenty to thirty miles an hour.”
“And it’s been what? Twenty minutes since he took off? So he could be ten miles away by now.”
“He’ll be all right, Steve.” She squeezed my hand.
My car was too old to have a built-in electronic compass, but it wasn’t hard to figure out that the road we were on wasn’t following a straight line. We curved around hills and past fields, and within a half mile I was completely turned around. What if we weren’t going the way we hoped at all? Suppose we kept driving aimlessly around Amish country as something terrible happened to Rochester?
“Take a deep breath, Steve,” Lili said. “We’ll find the farm.”
I did as she said, and around the next corner we saw a hand-painted sign for Teacup Farm. At the top was a photo of a tiny Yorkie inside an oversized coffee cup. The pink ribbon in her hair matched the pink spangles on the cup. We turned in at the driveway and parked in front of a low-slung building called the Adoption Center, in a row with three other cars. Van Dryver was standing beside one of the cars.
“You go into the building and I’ll walk around calling for Rochester,” I said.
Lili shook her head. “We’ll go inside together, see what the place looks like. If it’s like the last farm, they’ll take us out to where the dogs are. And that’s where Rochester will be, if he’s here.”
We met Van at his rental car. “I’ve been talking to the guy who cleans up the dogshit. He’s fed up with this place. He’s the one who told me about the white puppy.”
“Thanks, Van,” Lili said. She kissed his cheek, and I shook his hand.
“Don’t thank me until you find the dog. I’m going to wander around, see if I can find my guy.”
We went inside. The place was a showroom for dogs; a dozen compartments built into the walls, with wood chips for flooring. Each case was devoted to a different breed: Chihuahuas, Maltese, Pomeranians, Poodles, Yorkies and Shih-Tzus were the purebreds. There were also Malti-Poos, Morkies, Mal-Shis and Taco Terriers.
I wondered what the breeder was doing with a dog like Brody. He was way too big to be bred with any of these dogs. Was he holding him for resale? Or were we on the wrong track?
The air smelled like lemon air freshener, and the glass windows muted the sound of puppies yipping and barking. Each case held at least two or three puppies who either played together or napped. Around us we could see two other couples, one looking at dogs on their own, another talking with a young Amish woman in a white cap and long blue dress, like the hostess at the restaurant.
Another young woman in a similar outfit approached us. “Welcome to the adoption center. Is there a particular type of dog you’re interested in?”
“I’m really partial to the Morkies, but my husband wants a pure bred,” Lili said. “Do you raise all the dogs here?”
She nodded. “My father has converted two barns to breeding areas,” she said. “I can give you a tour if you’d like.”
“That would be great,” I said.
This was a much more professional operation than the first farm; we followed a flagstone path behind the Adoption Center to a big red barn with open doors.
“That’s a beautiful image,” Lili said, pointing to the colorful hex sign on the front of the barn, a pair of dancing stallions. “Does it mean something?”
In elementary school we’d studied those decorative signs as part of a unit on Amish culture, and the one thing I remembered was that most Amish didn’t use them.
The girl reinforced that impression. “It’s a decoration,” she said. “The English expect them when they come out here.”
“English?” Lili asked.
“Non-Amish people,” she said. “Now here’s the barn where the puppies are raised once they’ve been whelped. The whelping pens are in another barn farther back, but we don’t take visitors there.”
The interior of the barn was a lot like the shed we’d seen at the first farm, and I tuned out while the girl explained the way the puppies were fed and cleaned. I kept looking around for Rochester or Brody. “I’m feeling a little nauseous,” I said to the girl. “I’m going out to get some fresh air. Sweetie, you stay here and learn everything, all right?”
Lili nodded and she and the girl walked farther back into the barn. I stepped outside and scanned the grounds. For once in my life I was looking forward to seeing Van Dryver. I heard some voices in the distance but didn’t see anyone. I slipped around the side of the barn and headed toward the whelping building. Had Rochester run all this way? Could he be around somewhere?
An Amish man and a young boy came out of the whelping barn talking. I hid behind a big pine tree until they passed. Rochester must not have been in there, or they’d have seen him.
I couldn’t risk calling his name because I didn’t want to attract attention to myself. But how could I find him, or Brody? I made a big circuit behind the buildings, alert for any stray Amish who would challenge my presence. I finally found myself approaching a big three-story farmhouse like the one at the farm we’d just visited.
I cautiously walked around the corner of the building. Then I saw Rochester on the ground, curled in front of a window. “Rochester!” I called. “What are you doing here?”
A woman stepped out onto the porch. She was in her forties, wearing the same outfit as the girls at the Adoption Center. “This is private property back here,” the woman said. “You need to go back.”
“Do you have a white golden retriever puppy here?” I asked. “About a year old, with a gold stripe down his back and gold tips on his ears?”
The woman turned her back on me abruptly and walked inside, the door slamming behind her. Rochester’s leash was still trailing behind him, and I grabbed hold of it and waited.
The farmer I’d seen coming out of the whelping barn appeared on the porch. “What do you want here?” he demanded.
“I want my friend’s golden retriever puppy,” I said. “He’s a year old and his name is Brody.” I repeated the description I’d given his wife. “He was stolen this morning from the Distelfink Motel in Lancaster.”
“Don’t have any dog like that here,” the man said. “Now you need to git.”
Rochester barked and strained toward the porch. “That’s not what my dog says,” I said. I let him go, and he hurried back over to the window where I’d first seen him. He put his paws up on the sill and barked again. From inside, I heard an answering bark.
“I told you to git. The farmer opened the front door and pulled out a shotgun, which he racked, the noise extra loud in the quiet air.
I ignored him and hurried to where Rochester stood below the window. “Is that Brody?” I called to Rochester, and he woofed and nodded his head.
I turned back to the farmer, who had raised his shotgun to his shoulder and had it aimed at me. “I have reason to believe that you have a stolen dog on your premises,” I said.
I’d stood my ground to tougher-looking men in prison and I knew there was no chance the farmer was going to shoot me. I held up my cell phone.
“The police already have a report of Brody’s theft. Now, if that dog inside isn’t Brody, you just have to show him to me and I’ll leave. But if you won’t, then I’m calling the cops.”
The farmer kept his gun trained on me. He had pushed his flat-brimmed straw hat back on his head so I could see his eyes. They were hard and angry. “I paid three hundred dollars for that dog!”
“Then turn over whoever sold him to you to the cops,” I said.
The dog inside the house kept barking. Then Van stepped from around the corner of the house. “And I’ve got a phone with a video camera and I’m recording this whole encounter,” he said. “I’m a reporter for the Wall Street Journal, and I know you have a stolen dog inside your house.”
“You look like you’re running a good operation here,” I said to the farmer, lying through my teeth. “It would be a shame to have the cops shut you down. And you know that they will, if they catch you with a stolen dog on your premises.”
The door opened behind him and his wife stepped outside, with a white dog on a piece of rope. “Take your dog and git off our property,” she said.
She dropped the rope and the dog rushed across to me—or maybe it was to Rochester, who ran back to me.
Even without his collar or tags, I recognized Brody by his distinctive markings, and the way he lunged at me and put his paws up on my waist. “Hello, Brody,” I said, ruffling behind his ears. “Your daddy will be glad to get you back.”
Brody tried to bite Rochester’s ear, and my dog barked sharply at him.
The farmer put his rifle down. “I’m gonna get that Amos Zook,” he said. “You can take the dog. You can send the cops if you want but the deputy is my wife’s brother-in-law. He’ll believe me over a pair of city men even if you do have a fancy telephone.”
“All I want is my friend’s dog,” I said, though I’d registered the name Amos Zook in my brain. Rochester grabbed Brody’s rope leash in his mouth and took off, Brody romping along beside him. Van and I hurried after them before the farmer could change his mind. As we rounded the corner of the Adoption Center I saw Lili standing by the car, and we all raced toward her.
I opened the back door and Rochester jumped in. Brody hesitated, but Rochester barked, and I helped the puppy with a boost to his hindquarters. After I got in, I handed Lili my phone, which had Joey’s cell number in it.
She called him as I drove back out toward the street, Van following in his rental. “We have your baby,” Lili said. “Safe and sound. We’re on our way back to the motel.”
I heard Joey whoop with joy through the phone’s speaker.
“Tell the cop to look for a guy named Amos Zook,” I called.
After Lili hung up I asked her to call Van and see if he knew the way back to the motel. He did, and when we came to a lay-by I pulled in and let him take the lead. While we drove I told Lili about how he’d confronted the farmer with his camera, but I didn’t mention the farmer was holding a rifle. Aimed at me.
“Van was great,” I said. “I take back everything bad I ever said about him.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. I’m sure this will be great material for Van’s article, or his book.”
It was late afternoon by the time we got back to the motel. As we pulled up in the parking lot, Joey burst out of the door to his and Mark’s room, and Brody went into paroxysms of barking. I got the back door opened just as Joey reached us, and Brody leapt into his daddy’s arms.
“How’s my Brody boy?” he said into the dog’s fur. “Daddy missed you so much.” He looked up at us. “I can’t thank you guys enough.”
“I told you Rochester would come through,” Mark said to him. He told us that he’d called the police and given them Amos Zook’s name. “They know who he is, and they’ve had their eye on him for a while.”
Van got out of his car and joined us. “I appreciate what you did,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand. “You were pretty awesome.”
“To get the best story a reporter has to be fearless,” he said, and I forgave him the bluster, though if he kept it up I might have to say something.
“Officer Stoltzfus said she might need us to come by the station tomorrow to see if we can identify him as the man who had told us about that restaurant,” Mark said.
“I hope they give him the electric chair,” Joey said.
I thought the chances that the guy would serve any time at all were slim, but I didn’t say that. Instead I asked, “Did he still have your iPads?”
“Yup. Officer Stoltzfus says we can pick them up tomorrow,” Mark said. “And she told me that there’s a café a couple of miles away that lets dogs in. I say we all go get some dinner.” He turned to Van. “You’re welcome to join us, too.”
He begged off, something about meeting a source. Mark led the way to the restaurant, where we had a great, celebratory meal, sharing table scraps with both dogs.
The next morning, Mark and Joey identified Amos Zook, and the police said they were well on their way to putting a case together against him. They got their electronics back, and we enjoyed the rest of the weekend, driving around to antique stores, alternating who stayed with the dogs and who got to shop. Lili found a quilt she liked, a white one with an applique pattern of flowers surrounding a square house—with a gold-colored dog lying by the front door.
I thought it was the perfect souvenir for a vacation that had taken a bad turn, but ended well. We caravanned back to Stewart’s Crossing Sunday afternoon. Mark, Joey and Brody took the lead, and I followed, with Lili on the front seat and Rochester sticking his nose between us. It was just the way I liked to ride.
