Marcus stood up slowly. “No what?”
“This isn't random, Marcus. This isn’t a prank.”
The dog's ears suddenly lifted, twisting like radar dishes.
Ray felt the animal become instantly alert in his arms, its head turning toward the trees.
“Ranger?” Ray said softly.
The dog snapped its head toward him, brown eyes wide and intelligent.
That reaction was unmistakable. It wasn't the look of a stray reacting to a sudden noise; it was the look of a dog hearing its own name.
Ray tried the name again, letting the syllables roll off his tongue.
“Ranger.”
The dog's tail thumped weakly against the loose gravel.
Marcus exhaled a long, heavy breath. “Well, I'll be damned. That's his name.”
Ray stared at the folded plastic sleeve in his hand.
If Ranger belonged to Thomas, and this note was real, then someone had deliberately sent the dog here. But why trap him near the tracks? No, that didn't make sense. Thomas loved animals more than he loved most people. He would never risk a dog's life.
Had getting caught in the tracks been an accident? Had Ranger escaped from somewhere nearby, trailing a scent or chasing game, only to get stuck?
Or had someone been chasing him?
The questions came too quickly, a chaotic swarm in Ray's mind.
Up on the road, Ray's other riding companions had parked their bikes on the shoulder and gathered at the edge of the embankment. There were four of them, men and women clad in denim and leather. Nobody was joking. They had seen Ray nearly get crushed by a freight train, and now they were watching a man who had always seemed entirely impossible to shake—a man made of iron and quiet resolve—staring at a tiny scrap of paper as though it had reached right out of the grave and grabbed him by the throat.
One rider, a mechanic named Sarah, finally slid down the embankment. “Ray? You need a medic? What does that say?”
Ray slid the note back into its plastic sleeve and tucked it deep into the inside pocket of his vest, right next to his heart.
“It’s something I need to verify.”
Marcus stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “We're coming with you.”
Ray shook his head, his voice tight. “Don't start that, Marcus.”
“Ray—”
“I mean it.”
“You just sprinted onto active train tracks for a stray dog and found a message from a man who's been legally dead for twenty years. You're not exactly having a normal Tuesday afternoon. You’re not doing this alone.”
Ray almost smiled. Almost.
Then Ranger struggled to stand.
“Easy, boy.”
The dog put weight on three of his legs, keeping the injured rear paw raised delicately off the dirt. Ray reached toward him to check the joint again, but Ranger moved several steps away. The dog didn't limp toward the road where the people were. Instead, he turned his heavy head toward the opposite side of the tracks, staring intently into the dark tree line.
Beyond the rail line, obscured by heavy briars and overgrown ferns, a narrow dirt trail disappeared up into the mountainside.
Ray followed the dog's gaze.
He had ridden through this specific Appalachian pass dozens of times over the years. The winding mountain road was a favorite for Sunday rides, but he had never paid much attention to the sprawling land beyond the tracks. Dense, ancient hardwood forest covered most of the slope, rolling upward for miles, broken only by forgotten logging paths and abandoned properties left behind to rot after the local coal mines and lumber mills went bankrupt in the eighties.
Ranger took three limping steps toward the tree line.
Ray followed him, gravel crunching under his boots.
Marcus caught his arm, his grip surprisingly strong. “Where exactly are you going?”
“I don't know yet.”
“That's really reassuring, Hammer. Inspires a lot of confidence.”