Even with a helicopter on our side, I couldn’t believe finding Abra could be as easy as Pilot Brad made it sound. I wanted to believe it, but experience had taught me otherwise.
Chester, on the other hand, declared that we were “overdue for a lucky break.” I couldn’t argue with that logic. I was more than ready to lift off from the Barnyard Inn, scene of murder, mayhem, and way too many Afghan hounds.
Rising straight into the sky is an experience like no other. Helicopters offer a surprisingly smooth if vertigo-inducing ascent. Given the recent state of my stomach, I wanted to squeeze my eyes shut during take-off and keep them that way for most of the ride. But Chester kept shouting into my headset, “Look at that, Whiskey! Look at that!”
Since we were on the trail of my lost dog, I felt obliged to comply.
On my first chopper ride last winter, I had been searching for Chester. Happily, the little guy was now safe and secure next to me, loving every moment of our adventure. A helicopter tour feels like an amusement park ride… except that you’re actually traveling. Skimming treetops and buildings gives you both the big picture and the small picture simultaneously. Although I wasn’t sure it was the best way to experience Amish Country, it seemed the most likely route to Abra.
Since we were in the middle of nowhere interesting, I’d expected the scenery to be one boring farmer’s field after another, broken up by look-alike houses and barns. I was wrong. With the late afternoon sun at our backs and U.S. Route 20 under our feet, we were treated to meadows of green, gold, and coffee-brown rolling away to our right and left. And the trees! Clots of vivid color greeted us wherever a patch of woods remained. This was leaf-peeping in a close-up, high-up rush. Chester squealed with delight.
I had to remind myself of our reason for being airborne: tracking the traffic along Route 20 for signs of a weaving Amish wagon.
“This is where I saw the wagon on our way in,” Brad announced. “That was 35 minutes ago. He could have turned off anywhere east of here, so start scanning the side roads.”
“Roger dodger!” Chester replied.
Brad took us up another hundred feet for a more sweeping panorama.
“Most of the Amish live south of Route 20,” he said, “so our driver probably turned right.”
My eyes were peeled for a horse-drawn farmer’s wagon. But what I spotted first was a silver pickup truck with something bluish-gray in the back. The truck was heading to our left, north, on a curving paved road. I shouted to Brad to take the chopper down for a closer look.
“I don’t see a wagon,” the pilot said.
“Oh, we’ve got way more trouble than that,” Chester told him.
Brad followed instructions and brought us down dizzyingly close to the moving truck. Until the cargo came into focus, I held my breath in suspense.
“Looks like a big plastic bag of trash,” Brad said. “Is that what you’re looking for?”
“Nope,” I said. “We’re looking for big wayward dogs and killers.”
“I didn’t copy that last word.”
“Just as well,” Chester sighed.
So up and back around to Route 20 we flew. Now I found myself distracted by every single silver pickup truck I saw. And they were not uncommon. But none had anything in the back that might have been Silverado.
After flying in silence for several minutes, Brad said, “I gotta tell you, I don’t think it’s likely that wagon went this far east. We need to focus where the Amish farms are.”
Chester and I agreed. One right turn improved the scenery immensely. Gone was that gray ribbon of concrete connecting cities from east to west. In its place was an undulating landscape crisscrossed with gravel roads and dotted by neat square buildings. Brad made ever wider and higher circles. After ten minutes of seeing nothing but bucolic splendor, punctuated by the occasional lone buggy, I gave silent thanks that I wasn’t paying for this ride. At least not straight from my pocket. I had no doubt that Liam Davies would expect-and receive-extraordinary service in exchange for this gift.
“What’s that?” Chester asked.
I followed the imaginary line from his pointing finger, and so did Brad.
“Looks like goats to me,” the pilot said.
I squinted into the distance at a fenced pasture containing a few dozen animals that looked, from here, decidedly less elegant than horses and skinnier than cows. But I couldn’t be sure how tall they were.
“I’m not up to speed on barnyard critters,” I admitted. “What could they be, besides cows?”
“Goats,” Brad repeated. “We’re going in!”
That was my first clue that he was weary of our wild goose-I mean-goat chase. Brad did the helicopter pilot equivalent of stomping on the gas as he took us down. Although I knew less than nothing about physics, I’d once heard a test pilot on TV describe “atmospheric pressure” on re-entry. This felt like that. Panicked, I glanced at Chester, who grinned like he was being tickled. It must be a guy thing.
Although, theoretically, you can land a helicopter almost anywhere, Brad was concerned about setting his craft down.
“Nobody’s expecting us,” he pointed out. “So if we land on their land, we’re trespassing. If we land in the road, we block traffic.”
Ultimately, our pilot selected a spot on a dirt lane about a quarter-mile from the goat paddock. And, yes, we verified that they were goats before we landed although we couldn’t get close enough to be sure they had long hair. I was reasonably certain that none of them was Abra, not because I could see the critters clearly but because I could see the fence. No way that thing could contain my bitch. Unless she liked the goats well enough to hang with them.
Stirring up dust may have been preferable to spewing gravel. However, it was hard to see anything until a few seconds after the blades had stopped. Brad would stay with the craft, of course. Chester and I needed to get our bearings. Now that we were back on planet Earth, everything was jumbled. The pilot helpfully pointed us toward the goat paddock. It was up a low hill and down the other side.
“If we’re not back in, say, an hour, call the cops,” I told him. “Better yet, call my cop.”
I wrote down Jenx’s name and number.
Brad seemed amused. “Do you expect to be attacked by Amish?”
“I expect to have to chase my dog.”
Since neither Chester nor I was dressed for a cross-country hike, I hoped we wouldn’t encounter anything truly rural, like mice or ticks. Or cow patties. After a short walk down the dirt lane, we faced our first field. From the air, it had seemed innocent enough. Close up, it proved to be a cornfield. We both knew what had just happened to the Two L’s. Without exchanging a word, Chester placed his small hand in mine. We steeled ourselves for adventure, and passed through the first wall of corn.
“If we follow this row, we should be all right,” Chester reassured me. “It runs right up the hill and over to the pasture.”
There was only one problem. Make that two problems. First, the Amish didn’t plow and plant with powerful automated equipment. Second, their land wasn’t flat as a dance floor. As a result, we soon discovered that our chosen row wiggled and weaved like that drunken teen driving the family wagon.
“Which direction are we going now?” I asked Chester after what seemed like an eternity but proved to be eight minutes.
He squinted at the sky. I assumed he was calculating angle of the sun or whatever it is cub scouts learn to do in case they forget their compass.
“I don’t know which way we’re headed, but I think it’s going to rain.”
Perfect. If that happened, we’d not only be stranded in the corn, we’d also be soaked to the skin. To comfort myself, I checked my cell phone battery. I still had two bars. If only I’d remembered to ask the pilot for his number. Chester hadn’t gotten it, either.
“I’m sorry, Whiskey,” he said. “But I thought you’d handle something.”
Fair enough. At least I had Jeb’s number. And MacArthur’s. One of them could probably reach Brad. The best I could do was stay calm and trust Chester.
“You still think we’re going toward the goats, don’t you?” I asked him.
“I think by now we may have made a cumulative right-angle turn,” he said. “But we can’t see far in front of us, so for all I know, this path may self-correct.”
I might have whimpered a little because Chester added, “Cheer up, Whiskey. If our row doesn’t end at the pasture, it will end at a road. We can’t be stuck in the corn forever.”
I swore to never, ever pay a dime to enter a corn maze, one of those autumn tourist attractions contrived to make city people think they’re lost. This field was terrifying enough, exactly as man and plow had made it. It was more terrifying than a maze because there was no promise from the farmer that he’d get you out before sundown.
Suddenly I was thirsty. Very thirsty. And my feet hurt. So did my head.
“Think about something else!” Chester commanded when I complained.
His pale hair and navy blue blazer were flecked with dried corn leaves. That meant I was disheveled, too. More disheveled than usual. I tried to flick a bug or something from my eye. But it wouldn’t go away, so I rubbed it. That only made it worse.
“Ouch! Now I can’t see.”
We stopped walking. I bent over so that Doctor Chester could check my right eye.
“Hmmm,” he said. His tone suggested that I needed surgery. Or at least a second opinion.
“What?” I demanded.
“You rubbed it too hard. I think you’ve given yourself a corneal abrasion.”
“Great, just great!” I cried hysterically. “A corneal abrasion in the corn! What next?!”
“By now you should know better than to ask that question,” he said.
As if cued, the sky-denim blue until just moments ago-opened up, pelting us with raindrops the size of my sore eye.
I think I may have screamed. Patiently Chester reminded me that if we stopped where we stood we would get wet, and we would get nowhere. Placing one hand in his hand and my other hand on his shoulder, I let him lead me through that Hell of rain and corn.
Damn Amish Country, I thought.
Until a sweet little voice said, “How come you’re playing in our field?”
Parting the dried stalks like curtains were two children from another century.