Needled to Death

by Annelise Ryan

  “Jonas said he really enjoyed the time he spent with you last night,” Bob tosses out.

  This sudden change in direction throws me. “Um, yes, so did I.”

  “Does that mean you aren’t interested in another dinner with me?”

  “No . . . I mean, yes.” I roll my eyes and let out a nervous chuckle. “What I meant to say is no, it doesn’t mean that, and yes, I’d like to have dinner with you again.”

  “Good. I’ll be in touch.”

  Before I can utter another word, the call is disconnected. I hold the phone in my hand and stare at it a moment before shaking my head and dropping it into my purse.

  I head out, but I don’t get far. Crystal practically runs into me in the hallway outside my office.

  “Oh, Hildy, good. I was hoping I’d catch you. I want you to know that I applied for that position you mentioned at the police station.”

  “You did?” I say, momentarily stunned.

  “What with all the cuts here it’s hard to feel very secure in one’s job, and I think I’m due for a change. I hope you won’t be upset over it.”

  I am more than upset. I’m freaking furious! I can’t believe she has done this to me, but then I realize that it’s my own damned fault for telling her about the job in the first place.

  She gives me an apologetic smile. “If I take the police job, you’ll likely get my job and be back to full-time hours. And with a pay raise!”

  I want to rip her lips off her face. Instead, I force a smile to my own lips and say, “May the best woman win.” I start to leave when I realize what she said to me in that last sentence: “If I take the police job . . .”

  “Did they offer you the position?” I ask, not wanting to hear the answer but knowing I have to.

  “Not yet,” she says in a tone that implies she considers it a done deal. “But my interview is today at four thirty.”

  “You have an interview set up already?”

  “Yes, they called me a couple of hours ago. When is yours?”

  I don’t answer her. I’m afraid if I try to speak right now, all that will come out is a string of curses and other bad language that would make the saltiest sailor blush. Instead I point to my watch, indicating the time, and push past her. When I reach the parking lot, I let loose with a string of expletives that could make a Bible spontaneously combust.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I arrive home in a maelstrom of emotion. I feel angry, betrayed, stupid, and naive. Roscoe, sensing my mood, greets me in a subdued manner, licking my hand tentatively. After tossing my purse and briefcase onto the couch, I head for the fridge, grab an open bottle of chardonnay, and pour myself a glass. Then, I settle in at the kitchen counter and try to think.

  I’m crestfallen. Clearly, I’ve overplayed my hand with the police job. Or maybe I’ve underplayed it, I think. Maybe I need to do something more, something to grab the attention of Chief Hanson and make it clear that I’m the better woman for the job.

  Roscoe sits at my feet staring up at me with those soulful eyes of his. It’s then that I see the note on the counter. It’s from P.J., informing me that she has an out-of-town track meet after school today and she won’t be able to take Roscoe for his evening walk.

  I realize that a walk might do both me and Roscoe some good. Some fresh air and exercise will help me think. I hop off my stool, grab Roscoe’s leash, and hook him up. There are some minor aches and pains as we take off at a fast clip, a reminder of my morning workout. But as we go, my muscles loosen up and we get into a steady, dynamic rhythm that feels good.

  A few blocks into our excursion, we run into Milly Ames, a widow in her fifties who lives in the neighborhood and owns a yellow Labrador retriever named Moe.

  “Hi, Hildy,” she greets me with a wave and a smile. As we close the gap between us, the two dogs start wagging their tales excitedly, their version of a greeting. “Haven’t seen you and Roscoe out at the dog park lately,” Milly says. “How are you doing?”

  Forcing a smile onto my face, I greet her back, and the two of us exchange some brief pleasantries while the dogs sniff at each other. By the time we part company, Moe and Roscoe have thoroughly nosed each other from head to tail and my face feels stiff from forced smiling.

  It’s a few minutes before four thirty when we return home, and I let Roscoe inside and head for the garage. A few minutes later I’m parked on the street that runs by the police station with a view of the front parking lot. Crystal’s car is there, and I sit and wait.

  She emerges from the station just before five, and as I watch her walk across the lot to her car, I feel my hopes sink even deeper. There is an energy to her step and a satisfied smile on her face that makes me think her interview must have gone well. I slump down in my seat as she pulls out and drives off. Once she’s gone, I sit up and stare at the police building, tempted to go inside and demand a meeting with the chief. I know that’s not the best approach, however, and eventually I start my car and drive home in a funk. My now-warm glass of wine is still sitting on the counter. I grab it and down it in one swallow. Then I start cleaning.

  My mind is racing the entire time, thinking over different aspects of the case, the job situation, and creative ways I could kill off Crystal and get away with it. After I’ve cleaned the house into a state of near sterility, I prepare to do a load of laundry. As I’m standing in front of the washing machine holding my dirty workout clothes, I get an idea. I call Roscoe into the room and hold my sweatpants in front of him. He sniffs them, and then I toss them across the room.

  “Fetch, Roscoe!” I say.

  The dog dutifully crosses the room, picks up the pants, and brings them to me. No surprise. Fetch is a game Roscoe learned long ago.

  “Good boy!” I go into the kitchen and get him a treat, which he inhales. We play this game awhile, with me letting him sniff the pants first each time. After several more retrievals, I walk Roscoe out to the living room and tell him to sit. I let him sniff the pants and then tell him to stay. I head for my bedroom and, after looking around, I toss the pants on my closet floor. This messes with my cleanliness sensibilities, but I tamp my anxiety down, close the door, and return to the living room, where Roscoe is waiting patiently.

  “Fetch!” I tell Roscoe.

  He tilts his head to one side and thumps his tail on the floor a few times.

  “Fetch,” I say again.

  With this, Roscoe gets up, trots into the bedroom, and starts sniffing around. I follow him and watch as he zeroes in on the closet door, sniffs beneath it, scratches at the door once, and then sits, looking back at me. I walk over and open the door, and Roscoe immediately darts inside, grabs the pants, and brings them to me.

  “Good boy!” I say with great enthusiasm, scrubbing him behind his ears and then giving him another treat. After stashing the sweatpants in several other hiding places around the house, including a few on the second floor, I deem us ready.

  Next, I log on to my computer and launch one of the satellite mapping programs, zooming in on the dog park I sometimes take Roscoe to, the one where we used to see Milly and Moe. It takes some shifting of the map to the east, but eventually I find what I’m looking for: the wooden footbridge. Looking at the legend on the map, I gauge the distance from the park to the footbridge to be around three miles. An easy walk on most days, but at night, and with muscles that are still not happy about my new workout agenda, it’s daunting. Not to mention that there is a heavily wooded area I will need to cross.

  Still, how impressed would Bob and Chief Hanson be if I were to discover something? I arm myself with a flashlight, make sure my phone has a good charge, and grab Roscoe’s night collar, which has a small lamp on it that lights up the ground in front of him.

  Next, I place a call to Sharon and tell her I need a piece of clothing that belonged to Toby, something he wore recently. I know she wants to ask questions of me as to why and what I have planned, but she refrains when I tell her I’ll explain it all later.


  I don a jacket as protection from the cool night air and grab the longer, retractable leash, and then Roscoe and I head out to the car. A few minutes later we arrive at the Cochran house, and I leave Roscoe in the car while I walk up to the front door. Sharon meets me there, hands me a plastic shopping bag containing a T-shirt that’s seen better days and smells musky even to me, and says simply, “Good luck with whatever you’re doing.”

  It’s a four-mile drive to the dog park, and I expect to be the only one out there, given the hour. But to my surprise there are a half dozen other dog owners there with dogs wearing colorful light collars. For the sake of my planned cover story, I take Roscoe toward the group and let him play with the other dogs while I chat with the owners. During this time, I let it slip that I’ve been having issues with Roscoe wanting to run off lately, something he never used to do. I get all sorts of suggestions as to why this might be: a nearby female in heat, a middle-age dog crisis, a wild hair, and one depressing downer who suggests Roscoe might have a brain tumor.

  Over the next hour, the other owners gradually drift off, and finally Roscoe and I are the only ones left inside the fenced park area. Outside of this enclosed area are more park grounds, including trails that wind through the surrounding wooded areas and along the river that runs next to the park. Roscoe and I have walked parts of these trails in the past. Someone once told me about the abundance of raspberry bushes that could be found along them, and when the berries have been in season I’ve meandered along the trails picking for hours at a time. On other occasions, I’ve walked the trails simply because the wooded area is peaceful and quiet, and I enjoy the solitude and a chance to commune with nature. Roscoe and I have seen lots of wildlife during these walks: beaver, rabbits, deer, muskrats, groundhogs, chipmunks, turtles, birds of all kinds, and Roscoe’s favorite critters to try and catch—frogs.

  I walk Roscoe to the gated entrance to the park, leash him up, and turn on my flashlight. I return to the parking lot and my car, and there I take out my cell phone and launch the GPS-enabled app I’ve used in the past to measure my walking distance. Once I’ve verified that it is accurately displaying the park area and our position on the screen, I start the app’s counter. Next, I remove the plastic shopping bag containing Toby’s T-shirt from my car and loop the handles over my arm, letting the bag hang from my elbow. Then Roscoe and I head for the park path that I think will take us closest to the footbridge.

  The first couple of miles are easy going. The path is well traveled and often used, so it’s clearly marked and easy to navigate. It takes us just over thirty minutes to get to a spot where the main path continues straight ahead but there is a second path that veers off to the right. I know that if I stay on the main path, it will eventually emerge on the backside of an industrial park that sits just outside of Sorenson. The path to the right is a large circle that will bring me back here, its circumference about a mile. After studying the aerial map earlier, I determined that the woods on the far end of this circular trail are where I need to veer off to reach the footbridge.

  The moon has risen and it’s a bright, fat, gibbous phase that helps to light our way well enough that I turn off the flashlight and shove it into my jacket pocket. I mark the half-mile spot using my phone app, and after studying the woods and trying to find the path of least resistance, Roscoe and I plunge in.

  It is very slow going, the ground wildly overgrown and marked by treacherous tree roots and branches that try to trip me up and snag at the bag hanging from my arm. Early on I roll the bagged shirt up and stuff it in my pocket. It doesn’t take long after that to realize I need to let Roscoe run free. Twice his leash becomes tangled around shrubbery badly enough that I’m forced to unhook him, and the third time it happens I don’t bother to reconnect it. Freed of his restraint, Roscoe charges ahead of me, nose to the ground, though every few feet or so he glances back to make sure I’m still with him.

  As I stumble along, I occasionally see the glow of eyes off to the sides, making me think I should have brought along something I could use to defend myself. At one point I trip over a fallen tree branch that I realize would make both a decent walking stick and a weapon should I need one, so I pick it up. After about fifteen minutes of wending my way through the trees, I take out my cell phone and see that I no longer have service. Cussing to myself, I stop and look around. Second thoughts about this venture begin to creep in. These woods cover a huge chunk of land, and if I get too turned around, I could get lost and wander around all night long.

  Roscoe, seeing that I’ve stopped, comes back to me. There is a rustling in the branches overhead, and when I look toward the sound I see the white, heart-shaped face of a barn owl staring down at us. For a moment I’m enthralled and transfixed; then the bird spreads its wings and takes off, making me flinch. It lets forth with a bloodcurdling shriek that makes a chill race down my spine, and even Roscoe is momentarily intimidated, startled as the bird takes flight and emits its eerie call. Roscoe looks to me for reassurance, and I give it, telling him it’s okay and patting him on the head.

  But I’m not sure it is okay. I know that barn owls are considered a bad omen in some cultures because of their ghostly appearance and the fact that they shriek rather than hoot. While I don’t normally ascribe to such legends and rumors, the current setting and situation does little to reassure me. Not sure if I should continue onward or abandon what is starting to seem like a dumb idea, I stand there surveying the woods around me, chewing on my lip. Then Roscoe makes the decision for me when he spots a rabbit in the underbrush and takes off after it. I scramble after him, following the sound of thrashing branches.

  A moment later the trees break, and I emerge into a clearing. And there, just ahead of me, is the footbridge.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Feeling exposed and vulnerable suddenly, I quickly step back into the shelter of the tree border. At first, I don’t see Roscoe anywhere, but then he comes bounding across the grass to my right, clearly excited after his bunny chase. He gives a vigorous shake—he’s been in the creek that’s babbling forth some fifty feet in front of us—and I’m splattered with cold water drops that make me wince. I need Roscoe focused, so I stroke his head and speak softly to him, hoping to calm him down for the job ahead.

  I’m keenly aware that I am now on Warren Sheffield’s property, and I see no less than three no-trespassing signs that also announce this is private property. Technically, I’m trespassing, and despite the cover story I have planned, I could get into some serious trouble. My next moves must seem convincing, particularly if...

  I scan the open area, looking for manmade structures other than the bridge, but I don’t see any. Carefully I scrutinize the border of the woods, looking at the trunks and lower branches. Next, I inspect the bridge the best I can, searching for any odd protrusions or additions that seem out of place. But it’s impossible to tell, because the bridge arches just high enough over the creek bed that I can’t see the other side of it. I’m looking for security cameras, and while nothing obvious jumps out at me, it doesn’t mean they aren’t there. They could be cleverly disguised or located in one of the spots I can’t see well.

  I drop the stick I’ve been carrying and take out the bag that has Toby’s T-shirt in it. So much hinges on what comes next. This is the moment I’ve waited for, the reason I trekked through those god-awful woods, the reason I spent time playing fetch with Roscoe, and the thing my hopes for a different career path hinge upon. Will Roscoe understand how to play the game if I don’t hide the shirt? If he doesn’t find anything, does it mean there’s nothing here, or simply that he doesn’t get the game? Will the scents of wildlife confuse him? Am I a complete idiot for even considering this?

  I’ve come too far to go back now, so I squat down and offer the shirt to Roscoe. He dutifully sniffs at it, then looks at me. I push it toward him again and he smells it some more. Then I stick the shirt back in the plastic bag, roll it all up tightly, and shove it into my jacket pocket next to t
he flashlight.

  “Fetch, Roscoe!” I say. He thumps his tail, grins at me like he’s thinking, This is way too easy, and nudges my jacket pocket.

  I point toward the bridge and again say, “Fetch!”

  Roscoe cocks his head and thumps his tail but doesn’t move. My hopes begin to flag. I try again, aiming toward the bridge and mimicking a toss with my arm, though I don’t throw anything. “Fetch, Roscoe!”

  This time he turns and runs out into the clearing, nose to the ground, trotting a serpentine path toward the bridge. When he reaches the edge of the bridge, I expect him to cross it, but he doesn’t. Instead he moves to his left and does another serpentine search along the grassy area there. After some thirty feet of this, he returns and does the same thing to the right. Looking downtrodden by his lack of success, he comes back to me in the trees, sits at my feet, and whines.

  Okay, then, crossing the bridge it is. There is no escaping it. I pick up my walking stick and step out of the trees. Then I cross the grassy area to the start of the bridge and pause, Roscoe at my side. I’m surprised to see how high and steep the banks are alongside the creek. From the aerial photos we looked at online, it was difficult to discern, but now I can see that the creek runs through a steep-sided gully that is easily six feet deep, maybe more.

  The footbridge has railings on either side, though they are very basic wooden posts placed every couple of feet with a simple top rail attached that matches the arch of the bridge floor. At the end of each railing is a newel post with a simple block finial on top. The whole structure is about three feet wide with a span of what looks like ten to twelve feet. When I peer underneath the bridge, I see a large wooden support beam that sits in the middle of the creek and runs up to the center of the bridge. Despite the railings, extra support, and generous width, it still makes for a daunting crossing when you consider the drop to the creek bed below, which at the apex of the bridge is probably close to eight feet.