Chapter 4 - Discovering Bruno Paw Prints In The Muddy Siding
Lorenzo traced the edge of the muddy paw print, his mind racing through every logical explanation and rejecting them all.
Dogs don't wander miles from upscale suburban estates into industrial brownfields without a reason or a master guiding them.
He stood up slowly, drawing his coat tighter around his neck as a gust of cold wind swept off the dark river.
“Show yourself,” Lorenzo whispered into the empty night, his voice carrying the authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
Only the hollow dripping of rain from rusted corrugated iron roofs answered his challenge across the desolate rail siding.
He moved deeper into the labyrinth of abandoned boxcars sitting on rusted tracks like stranded iron monoliths.
The smell of wet fur and wood smoke drifted past his nostrils on a sudden eddy of wind.
Lorenzo froze, his hand tightening around the grip of his firearm as he listened intently above the sound of falling rain.
A low, familiar rumble echoed from inside an open boxcar parked twenty feet ahead of him in the gloom.
It wasn't the snarl of a wild animal, but the deep, unmistakable throat-clearing growl of a massive black mastiff.
“Bruno?” Lorenzo called out softly, taking a cautious step forward toward the yawning iron doorway of the freight car.
The growling stopped instantly.
A pair of luminous amber eyes materialized out of the absolute blackness inside the metal car, watching him intently.
“Easy, boy,” Lorenzo murmured, holding out his empty hand palm-upward so the animal could catch his familiar scent in the damp air.
A heavy thump shook the wooden flooring of the boxcar as a large, gaunt silhouette bounded toward the open doorway.
A massive black head emerged from the shadows, sniffing frantically at the air before a low whine escaped its throat.
“God damn it, boy,” Lorenzo whispered, rushing forward as Bruno leaped down from the boxcar and slammed his paws against his chest.
The dog was desperately thin, his ribs visible beneath his wet coat, but the heavy leather collar around his neck was unmistakable.
Lorenzo’s trembling fingers brushed against the metal ring hanging from the strap—bent nearly double into a crooked hook.
“You really were here,” Lorenzo choked out, burying his face in the wet fur of the dog's neck as tears mixed with the rain.
Bruno licked his cheek urgently, turning back toward the dark interior of the boxcar and barking once in sharp command.
Lorenzo stepped past the animal, raising his pistol and sweeping the interior of the railway car with his tactical flashlight.
The beam cut through the dusty air, illuminating a makeshift bed made of old blankets, empty cans of food, and a woman's dark wool coat.
He stepped closer, kneeling beside the discarded coat and lifting it with a hand that shook violently against his will.
One sleeve was visibly ripped, exactly as little Emma had described to him earlier that morning in the mahogany study.
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And resting on a wooden crate beside the bed was a silver hairbrush with the initials I.D. engraved onto the ivory handle.
Isabella had been here.
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