The phone rings again and I snatch it up. “Yeah.”

“Sorry to wake you, Chief.”

Mona. She must have found me sleeping and turned off the light . . .

“I just took a 911. Driver says there’s a loose cow out on Dog Leg Road, out by the covered bridge.”

Groaning inwardly, I look at the wall clock. Nearly three A.M. “Tell T.J. to get out there, will you?”

“He’s over at Nell Ramsom’s place with a 10-14.” She pauses. “We’ve had six prowler calls tonight.”

People are nervous about the murders, I realize. Wishing I’d gone home for a few hours of decent sleep, I rise and shrug into my parka. I’ve been lenient with Isaac Stutz, letting him off with warnings. With my resources stretched to the limit, I resolve to cite him this time. I don’t have time to chase cows. Dreading the cold, I head for the door.

In the Explorer, I turn the heat on high and drive through town well over the speed limit. Around me Painters Mill sleeps. Tonight, I sense it is the uneasy slumber of a child prone to nightmares.

Dog Leg Road is a narrow road lined by a forest on the north side and a plowed field to the south. The hundred-year-old covered bridge that spans Painters Creek is a tourist attraction during the summer. I pass through the wood structure doing fifty.

On the other side of the bridge, I spot the cow in the bar ditch, a Jersey munching on the tall grass poking up through the snow. Grabbing my Mag-Lite, I shine the beam along the fence until I find the place where the stupid beast pushed through.

Hitting my emergency lights, I hail Mona. “I’m 10-23.”

“Roger that, Chief. You find the cows?”

“One cow.” I run the beam along the fence. A dozen yards beyond is the spot where Amanda Horner’s body was found. I can see a few scraps of the crime scene tape fluttering in the breeze. “I’m going to put the damn thing back in the pasture and call it a night.”

“10-4.”

The blast of cold takes my breath away as I disembark. A few feet away, the cow rolls her eyes at me and pulls another tuft of yellow grass into her mouth. I grew up around cattle, but I’m not a fan. They’re brutish and contrary for the most part. I spent many a cold winter morning pulling teats, and I got kicked more times than I like to recall.

Opening the trunk, I pull out a length of rope and approach the cow. “Come on, you cud-chewing T-bone.”

The animal turns away, but I cut her off. She grabs a few more dry blades of grass, and I make my move, tossing the rope from a yard and a half away. The loop sails over her head and settles around her neck. The cow can do one of two things at this point. She can drag me around and make a fool of me or she can cooperate and let me lead her back into the pasture. Much to my relief, she acquiesces when I tug the rope.