That mutt again! Sergeant Paul Irving slammed the receiver down, the antiquated rotary phone clattering in protest. Inspector Anne Spencer, weve got another call about a dog in the woodsthird one this morning, mind you!
Which dog are you talking about? Major Emily Kline looked up from her paperwork, her brow furrowing.
Its the third report today. Someone says a stray hound is sprinting around the fringe of the forest, barking like mad, lunging at passersby, tugging at their coats, whining. Its driving everyone round the bend!
Annes expression hardened. Fifteen years on the force had taught her to trust her gut, and tonight it was screaming that something was off.
Serge, she called to her younger partner, lets have a look, shall we?
Dont be daft, Anne, he muttered. Its just a dogmaybe rabid, maybe just a frightened animal.
Or it could be more than that.
She recalled a case from two decades ago, when her little brother, Tom, vanished on his way home from school. The whole department, with K9 units and volunteers, combed the countryside for three days before finding himfar too late.
Get ready, she said, voice steady. Well see whats really going on.
Within twenty minutes their battered police constables Ford, its dustcaked tyres kicking up a plume on the rough track, pulled up at the edge of the woods. The scene was unsettling: ancient oaks with twisted, knotted trunks stretched their gnarled branches skyward like skeletal fingers. Fallen logs and rotting stumps littered the ground, and thorny brambles cast deep shadows even in the bright midday sun. Locals avoided this part of the forest; even seasoned mushroompickers steered clear.
Wheres this dog? Serge asked, scanning the underbrush skeptically.
From behind the trees a sharp bark echoed, and a large, scruffy hound burst onto the clearing. He was dirty and shaggy, clearly once a house pet. He froze when he saw the officers, then lunged forward, wagging his tail ferociously.
Easy, easy, lad, Anne crouched down. Whats the matter?
The dog whined, clamped his jaws onto her coat sleeve, and tugged toward the deeper woods.
Youre not turning back, are you? Serge called after her.
Im going, Anne replied, stepping forward resolutely. He seems to want us to follow.
Understanding that they were willing, the dog barked a bright note and sprinted ahead, never straying far from their heels. They trudged for about twenty minutes, the forest growing denser, the ground turning to sticky mud. Serge stumbled over roots a couple of times, swearing under his breath, but he kept pace.
Suddenly the dog halted and let out a low growl.
What now? Anne whispered.
Ahead, among the trees, a dilapidated shed loomed, halfhidden beneath moss and tangled grass.
Hold here, Anne ordered, edging forward cautiously. The dog stayed glued to her side.
She reached the sagging door and noticed a massive padlock rusted solid. A faint, rhythmic thud came from inside.
Sergeget backup and an ambulance, quick! she shouted, drawing her pistol and forcing the lock open. The hinges gave way with a screech. Stale, fetid air flooded the narrow space. When her eyes adjusted to the gloom, Anne inhaled sharply.
In the far corner, on a sagging mattress covered with grimy blankets, a teenage boy lay curled. He was gaunt, cheeks sunken, eyes hollow, his skin caked in grime. Thick rope bound his wrists, leaving raw, bleeding marks. He squinted at the sudden light, blinking as though unsure his eyes could take it. A primal, animal fear flickered in his gaze, tinged with a thin thread of hope. He tried to speak, but only a hoarse cough escaped his parched throat.
Who are you? Anne asked, pulling a knife to cut the rope.
Art Artie, he croaked, voice barely audible. Art Art
Artie? Artie Collins? Anne froze for a heartbeat. The same boy reported missing three days ago
The youngster gave a weak nod.
Three days earlier, the station had received a report of a fifteenyearold boys disappearance. His mother, a single parent juggling two jobs, had been frantic when he never returned from school.
Serge, call for support and an ambulance now! Anne commanded, helping Artie to his feet. You stay with him, lad. Well sort this out.
The dog, who had watched silently until now, bristled, his fur on the neck standing on end, a low snarl escaping his throat.
A sudden crack of branches rang outsomeone was dashing through the underbrush.
Get down! Anne yelled at Artie, pulling her pistol.
The dog bolted, ears flattening. A guttural shout, a thud, and a string of curses followed.
When Anne and Serge, stumbling through the thicket and tripping over tangled roots, finally reached the source of the noise, the scene before them was stark. A burly man in a black leather jacketa type best avoided on the streetslay face down in a pile of last autumns leaves. Pressed heavily onto his back was the dog, its coat bristling, a deep, guttural growl emanating from its throat, sending shivers down even seasoned Major Klines spine. In that instant, the oncefriendly stray revealed the heart of a wolfguardian and hunter alike.
Easy, Jack, Anne said, using the dogs name that had instinctively come to her. Weve got you.
Surprisingly, the dog obeyed, stepping back but never taking his eyes off the wounded criminal.
The area filled with flashing lights as the emergency crew, paramedics, and forensic team arrived. The suspect, Victor Marsh, confessed on the spot. He was a professional kidnapper, preying on vulnerable families and demanding ransoma demand that, given the mothers dire circumstances, could never have been met.
A week later, Anne was sitting in her modest kitchen, the walls papered with faded yellow wallpaper, sipping lukewarm tea from her chipped mug while scrolling through the local newspaper on her phone.
The front page blared in bold type: Brave Dog Helps Crack Child Kidnap Case! Beneath it, a photograph showed Jack, his fur now trimmed, his eyes bright and alert.
Well, hero, Anne chuckled, scratching the scruffy dog behind his ear as he lay sprawled on the sofa. Hows the new life treating you?
Jack licked her hand and rested his head on her knee.
People say coincidences dont exist. Perhaps this encounter was meant for both of thema lone officer who, fifteen years ago, couldnt save her brother, and a wandering dog who ended up saving another boy.
You know, Anne murmured, stroking the warm, shaggy head, sometimes miracles happen.
Jack let out a contented sigh. Hed known it for years.
In the end, the case reminded her that even the smallest, most unexpected allies can turn the tide, and that listening to instinct, however uneasy, may lead to salvation.
