Текст книги "The Dead Will Tell: A Kate Burkholder Novel"

Автор книги: Linda Castillo

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER 27

It’s 11 P.M. by the time I turn into the gravel lane of Yoder’s Pick-Your-Own Apple Farm. The shop is closed this time of night, so I continue down the lane to the house and park adjacent a white rail fence. A single upstairs window glows with lantern light. After shutting down the engine, I leave my vehicle and go through the gate and take the sidewalk to the front of the house and knock.

I wait several minutes before the door opens. Hoch Yoder thrusts a lantern at me, his eyes widening upon spotting me. “Chief Burkholder. Was der schinner is letz?” What in the world is wrong?

“I’m sorry to bother you so late, Hoch. I need to talk to you.” When he hesitates, I add. “It’s important.”

“Of course.” He opens the door wider and beckons me inside.

I follow him through a darkened living room and into the kitchen. I take the same chair I took last time I was here. He goes to the counter, removes the globe of a second lantern, and lights the mantle.

“Hoch?”

I glance toward the kitchen doorway to see his wife, Hannah, enter. She’s wearing a blue sleeping gown with a crocheted shawl over her shoulders. She looks from her husband to me. “Is everything all right?”

“I have some news for Hoch,” I tell her. “About the case from 1979.”

They exchange looks, and then Hannah joins him at the counter, sets her hand on his arm. “I’ll make cider.”

Giving her a nod, he crosses to the table and sits across from me. “Did you catch them?”

“I believe all but one of the people responsible for what happened that night is dead.”

“Dead? But…” Realization dawns on his face. “You mean those people who were murdered?”

I nod. “The fourth man is in custody. He confessed.”

“Confessed? Who is it?”

“Blue Branson.”

“The Englischer breddicher?” The English preacher? Incredulity rings hard in his voice. “But why … He … Mein gott. I have no words.”

“Hoch, I can’t go into much detail, because the investigation is ongoing. But … I have some information for you.”

Hannah approaches the table with three mugs of cider. “Chief Burkholder,” she begins, “are you certain about Pastor Branson?” She sets the mugs in front of us. “He seems like such a decent, God-loving man. He donated a hundred dollars when Chubby Joe Esh’s house burned last year. He came out and worked alongside the Amish to help rebuild.”

“I have his full confession.” I turn my attention back to Hoch. “I know what happened to your mother. Some of this will be difficult for you to hear, but I think there are some things you need to know.”

He opens his mouth, but no words come. For an instant, his lips quiver, like a mute man trying to speak. “It’s terrible?”

“It’s bad,” I tell him. “I’m sorry.”

Hannah sinks into the chair next to him, sets her hand on his forearm again, and squeezes so firmly, her knuckles turn white. “We value the light more fully after we’ve come through the darkness,” she murmurs in Pennsylvania Dutch.

Bolstered by her words, Hoch looks at me and nods.

As gently as possible, leaving out most of the sordid details, I convey to him the account of events that Blue relayed to me earlier. “She passed away two months ago,” I finish.

He blinks at me, hurt and confusion twisting his features. “But if she was alive, why didn’t she come back?”

“We may never know.” I shrug. “Maybe she suffered a traumatic brain injury. Sometimes those kinds of injuries can affect memory, and in some cases, the patient’s personality. She may not have remembered who she was or even her name.”

“Blue Branson did that to her?” he asks, incredulous. “Forced her and then left her for dead?”

“Yes.”

Next to him, Hannah lowers her head and puts her face in her hands. “She is with God now. At peace. We can take comfort in that.”

The Amish man sets both elbows on the table and looks down at the untouched mug of cider in front of him. “She was alive. All this time.”

“Hoch, I know this is difficult, but there’s more.”

“There’s more than that?” He raises his gaze to mine. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Was your mother with child when she disappeared? Had she mentioned it?”

“With child? No.” He says the word with a defensiveness that tells me he knows where I’m going with this.

“I believe your mother had a child. A daughter.”

“What? But … When?” Making a sound of distress, he sets his fingers against his temples and massages. “I have a sister?” He raises his head. My heart twists when I see a tremulous smile on his lips. “A sister.”

“Hoch, it’s more complicated than that. We’re looking for her. We think—”

“Looking for her? You mean the police? But why?”

“I’m sorry, but I think she may be involved with these murders.”

He goes still. “You think she killed those three people?” His gaze searches mine. In their depths, I see his mind digging into all the dark crevices of the past. Remembering things he’s been trying to forget. “How old is this woman who claims to be my sister?”

“She’s about thirty-five years old.”

Hannah goes to the sink and begins to wash her mug.

I see Hoch’s mind working over the time frame, and I know he’s doing the math. “So this woman … she could be my half sister.”

“It’s possible.”

“My mother endured much suffering.”

“Yes. You, too.”

From her place at the sink, Hannah looks at me over her shoulder, and I see tears on her cheeks. “Sell is en shlimm shtoahri.” That is a terrible story. “It breaks my heart.”

“I’m sorry.” I look at Hoch. “Can I talk to you alone?”

Wariness enters his eyes. At first I think he’s going to refuse; then he nods at his wife. “Leave us for a moment, Hannah.”

She bows her head slightly, dries her hands on a dish towel, and leaves the kitchen.

When we’re alone, I say, “In your statement, you told the police that one of the men threw the lantern down the steps and into the basement, causing the fire that killed the children.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“Blue Branson claims none of them threw the lantern. That they forced all of you into the basement without any light.”

He blinks at me, unspeaking.

That he doesn’t deny Blue’s assertion stirs a small ping of skepticism, of pain—and compassion. “Hoch, I’m not here to lay blame. You were the victim of a crime that night. I just want to make sure I have all the facts and that those facts are correct because it will have a bearing on the case. Is Blue telling the truth about the lantern? Is it possible the lantern was already in the basement and the children lit it?”

“Why does it matter?” he snaps. “They’re with God now.”

“It matters because if Blue was the cause of that fire, he’ll be charged with four additional counts of homicide.”

The Amish man lowers his face into his hands and emits a single sob. “My brothers and sisters … they were frightened of the dark. Mamm kept a lantern on the workbench where she made soap. I lit the lantern. I thought … I thought they would be all right.”

I steel myself against a rolling wave of sympathy. For him. For the children. And for the first time, I’m fully cognizant of the guilt he must have felt all these years. “It was an accident, Hoch. The kids may have panicked and somehow knocked it over.”

“It’s my fault. If I hadn’t left them … they’d still be alive. I’ve prayed for God’s forgiveness. He has given me comfort. Still, those little ones are gone because of me.”

“You couldn’t have foreseen what happened. You did your best, and that’s all any of us can do. It was an accident. God knows that, Hoch.” The words make me feel like a hypocrite; I’m the last person who has the right to talk to this man about God. Still, I believe the words. “You were trying to save your mother’s life. That was very brave.”

“The children suffered because of me.”

“Because of those men. Not you.”

Hoch hangs his head. He doesn’t make a sound, but tears stream from his eyes. He wipes his face with his shirtsleeve. “I bragged about the money. To the Englischer. He was a couple of years older than me, and I … wanted to impress him.” He utters a sad laugh. “I wanted to be cool. Like him. I told him we had jars full of money.”

“Who did you tell?” I ask.

“He’s a government man now. Johnston. He worked for my father for a few weeks. I think he must have told the others.” Pain flashes on his features. “But it was my fault. I was … prideful. That’s not the Amish way.”

I nod, understanding. “You were a kid. You didn’t know someone would act on that information.”

“God punished me. I deserved it.”

“The only people responsible for what happened are Blue Branson and the others.” I reach out and touch his shoulder. “Thank you for telling me what happened. I know it wasn’t easy.”

He raises his head, his cheeks wet. “I hear them sometimes,” he whispers. “When I go out there. I hear them crying for me from the basement.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing.

He blows out a shuddery breath. “What happens next?”

“I’m going to find Ruth Weaver.”

*   *   *

The weight of Hoch’s grief follows me on the drive back to the station. Guilt is always a bad thing, but it’s somehow worse when you’re Amish. It’s times like this when I need Tomasetti most. He’s been on my mind on and off all day, mostly on, despite the fact that I’m fully engaged with the case. I’ve wanted to call him a dozen times, but each time I somehow convinced myself not to. Finally, sitting in my Explorer outside the police station, knowing I’m not going to make it home anytime soon, I hit the speed dial for our home number.

He answers with his usual, “Hey, Chief.”

“Things are heating up with this case,” I tell him. “I just wanted to let you know … I’m not going to make it home tonight.”

“Everything all right?”

I recap the events of the day, and I hear him sigh on the other end of the line. I consider telling him about my plan to stake out Blue Branson’s place tonight, but I don’t want to worry him, so I don’t mention it.

“You’ve had a busy day.”

“Yeah.”

“For a moment there, I thought maybe you were avoiding me.”

“I was, but now that I’m talking to you, I can’t imagine why.”

He laughs. “I’m going to have to think about that one.”

From my place at the wheel, I watch T.J. pull up in his usual parking slot a few spaces down from where I’m sitting and walk into the station. “Tomasetti, this woman has lived off the grid her entire life. She was homeschooled. As an adult, she didn’t get a driver’s license. No credit cards in her name. There’s not a single photo of her I could find. No one knows anything about her.”

“It sounds like her mother’s death put something into motion,” he says. “Maybe before she died, the mother made some deathbed confession that set this woman off. The daughter, distraught and without a support system, took it upon herself to mete out a little payback.”

“What if Ruth Weaver is a result of the rape? What if Wanetta Hochstetler knew it and some part of her hated her daughter for it. What if, over the course of her daughter’s life, Wanetta put her on this path?”

“There is a twisted sort of logic to that.”

“Hatred can take on a lot of different faces.”

“What else do you know about her?” he asks.

“We know she’s armed. Probably bat-shit crazy. Determined.”

“If I were Blue Branson, I’d be looking over my shoulder.”

“He’s in custody.”

In the interminable silence that follows, I groan inwardly because I know he’s just figured out how I’m going to be spending the night. “So when were you going to tell me you’re going to camp out at Blue Branson’s place?”

“I was going to try to avoid that, if possible.”

“And you accused me of not being honest?”

“That’s a different kind of honesty.”

“Goddamn it, Kate.”

“Tell me you wouldn’t be doing the same thing,” I say defensively.

“Aside from that being a bad idea, you don’t have the manpower for that kind of operation.”

“We’re talking about a woman with a .22 revolver she may or may not know how to—”

“Who’s going to be there to cover your back? Pickles? T.J.?”

“Glock.”

“I guess that makes everything all right, then, doesn’t it?” Sarcasm oozes from his every word.

“Tomasetti, I can’t deal with your overreacting every time something dicey comes up with my job. I’m the chief of police. There’s a killer out there, and I know who the target is. Staking out Blue’s place is the best way to stop her, and you know it.”

“What I know is that you should involve the sheriff’s office!”

“And have five cruisers parked in front of Blue’s place? That’s pretty subtle.”

We fall silent. My own words and the anger behind them ring in my ears, and I wonder when we came to this, shouting at each other over the phone. I wonder why I’m so angry. Why I can’t tell him I’m sorry. Maybe because I know he’s right, but I’m going to do this anyway.

“Tomasetti,” I say after a moment.

“I’m here.”

“We have to stop doing this.”

“I know.”

“We need to talk—”

“We need to spend some time together,” he cuts in snappishly.

“When this case is over, I’ll take some time off. We can hang out at the farm and … grill hamburgers and drink wine and listen to the frogs.”

“And fish.”

My anger gives way to a sense of longing so powerful my chest aches. “I’m good at what I do. You’re going to have to trust me. There’s no one else.”

“Who’s going to keep you safe, Kate?”

“Glock’s a good cop. He’s former military and rock solid. We’ll be fine.”

His sigh tells me he’s not assuaged. “Do me a favor and be careful, will you?”

“I always am. I’ll see you in the morning.”

After we disconnect, I realize we didn’t talk about him or how he’s dealing with the release of Joey Ferguson.

CHAPTER 28

A little past midnight, I’m in my office with Glock and T.J. I’ve just briefed them on everything I know about the Hochstetler case and the three recent murders.

T.J. speaks first. “So you think this Ruth Weaver person is going to make a move on Blue Branson?”

I nod. “If we’re right and she’s targeting the people involved in the rape and attempted murder of her mother, she’s got at least one more target.”

“Pretty strong motive,” Glock says.

“Especially if you’re crazy,” T.J. adds.

But Glock caught the open-ended nature of my statement. “You said ‘at least’ one more target. Do you have someone else in mind?”

Rising, I go to the door and close it. Their eyes follow me as I go back to my desk and sit. “Norm Johnston was involved with this group and had previous knowledge of the crimes.”

T.J. gapes at me. “Councilman Johnston?”

I tell them about my conversation with Johnston. “He had previous knowledge … to a degree. I sent everything I have over to the prosecutor, and this is something he’s going to have to look at. I don’t know if he’ll bring charges.”

“Even if he didn’t know at the time,” Glock says, “he found out shortly after. He could have come forward then.”

“It’s tricky.” I tell them about the beating Johnston endured. “There was intimidation involved. He was a minor at the time. Still, under Ohio code, that could mean a complicity charge.”

T.J. shrugs. “Hard to believe he kept his mouth shut all these years.”

I look from man to man. “In any case, Johnston could also be in danger from this woman.” I turn my attention to T.J. “I want you to keep an eye on Norm Johnston’s place tonight. Park out of sight. Keep it unobtrusive. Keep your cell and radio handy. Wear your vest at all times.”

“You got it.”

“Glock and I are going to take Blue back to his place and camp out there. Keep Blue visible and see if she bites.”

“Might get kind of dicey if she takes a shot at him through the window,” T.J. says.

No one has anything to say about that.

*   *   *

Glock and I find Blue lying on his cot with his back to the cell door.

“Rise and shine,” Glock calls out as he approaches the cell.

The preacher rolls to a sitting position, a crease from the pillow marring the left side of his face.

“Do not move.” Glock unlocks the cell door and steps into the cell. “Relax and keep your hands where we can see them. All right?”

“No problem,” Blue replies.

I step into the cell, the ankle monitor in my hand. “Roll up your pants on your left leg,” I tell Blue.

Never taking his eyes from mine, he leans forward and rolls up the hem of his slacks. A meaty white calf the circumference of a telephone pole comes into view. When the hem is rolled up to just below his knee, I cross to him and kneel. “I’m placing a GPS monitoring device on your person,” I tell him.

“I see that.” Blue watches me place the monitor around his ankle. “Aren’t those things for house arrest?” he asks.

“Sure. House arrest,” Glock says from his place at the cell door. “Only you’re going to have two armed babysitters. So keep your shit cool. You got that?”

“I got it. Where are we going?”

“Your place.” I roll down the pants leg. “We believe Wanetta Hochstetler’s daughter is going to attempt to murder you.”

“Her daughter?” Incredulity rings in his voice.

“Maybe she’s your daughter, Blue.”

He stares at me, blinking. His mouth forms words, but no sound emerges from his throat, and I feel a small, cruel sense of satisfaction.

“This is your chance to redeem yourself.” I move away from him and stand. “You interested?”

“I’m interested.” Regaining his composure, he bends to roll down his pants and then gets to his feet. “Whatever you think of me, I’ll help anyway I can.”

“That’s big of you,” I say.

Glock hands me the black Kevlar vest and I pass it to Blue. “I think you know what this is,” I tell him. “Put it on. Under your shirt.”

He stares at me as he unbuttons his shirt and takes it off. I keep my eyes on his as the pasty skin and sagging flesh of his chest come into view. “How do you know she has a daughter?” he asks.

“I went to Pennsylvania,” I tell him.

Setting his shirt on the bunk, he shoves his arms through the openings of the vest. “Are they together?” he asks. “Wanetta Hochstetler and her … daughter?”

Instead of answering, I glance over at Glock, who steps forward and tugs the vest closed and smoothes down the Velcro closures.

“So we go to my place and wait for them to show?” Blue asks as he buttons his shirt.

“That’s about the size of it.” I hand him the keys to his truck. “You’re driving. Officer Maddox is riding shotgun. And I do mean shotgun, so don’t do anything stupid.”

“I think I’ve used up my quota of stupid,” he says.

“You’re not going to get an argument from us on that,” Glock tells him.

*   *   *

I don’t like the idea of Blue getting behind the wheel any more than I like the idea of using him as bait. But despite the heinous nature of his past crimes, I don’t believe he has any intention of harming anyone or running. The one thing I do know is that if the sting is going to be successful, Ruth Weaver must believe Blue is alone and free of police surveillance.

We’re at the police station, standing outside the interview room. “Here’s how it’s going to go down,” I tell Blue. “Once you reach your house, you’ll pull into the garage and park just like you always do. Once the garage door is closed, you and Officer Maddox will go inside. Did you leave any lights on?”

“Nope. Never do.”

“Are there any curtains open?”

“Kitchen, I think. There’s a window above the sink, and I got a bird feeder out there.”

“Since those curtains are open, do not turn on any lights until Officer Maddox takes his position in the hallway outside the bedrooms. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I want Officer Maddox’s eyes on you at all times, Blue. If you screw that up, the deal is off and we take you back to jail and I’ll lobby heavily when it comes time for the prosecutor to file charges. Do you understand?”

“I got it.”

“Once Officer Maddox is in position, I want you to turn on all the lights. I want you to open the drapes or blinds. Make yourself visible from outside. If there’s a TV in your living room, I want it on and I want you on the sofa, visible through the front window.”

He nods.

“What’s behind the house?” I ask Blue.

“Woods.”

“Lots of places to hide back there,” Glock puts in.

“Do you have a back patio?” I ask Blue.

He nods.

“We believe Jerrold McCullough was accosted on his back patio. We found pieces of a broken mug that had been swept over the side. If you want to move around, you can go out onto the patio, as if you’re enjoying the fresh air.”

At his nod, I address Glock, “I’ll be parked next door at Brewer’s Salvage Yard. I’ll have my cell and the radio. And a pretty good view of Blue’s house and front yard, but I can’t see the back from there.”

Blue speaks up. “You can see the backyard from the master bedroom.” He looks at Glock. “I can show you if you want.”

Glock frowns at him. “I’ll figure it out. You just do as you’re told.”

“Give me a few minutes to get into position at the salvage yard,” I tell Glock. “There are a couple of places I can park and not be seen from the street or Blue’s place.”

“You got it, Chief.” He gives me a let’s-do-this nod. “Watch your back.”

“You, too.”

*   *   *

Twenty minutes later, I’m in the Explorer with the vehicle wedged between a corrugated fence and the forklift used to move scrap metal. A foot-wide section of fence is missing, which gives me a decent view of Branson’s house and front yard. I’ve been there only a few minutes when I see the flash of headlights and then Blue’s Mustang barrels down the lane. The twin headlight beams play over the facade of the house. The security light blinks on and the garage door rolls up. I try, but even with the vehicle illuminated by the garage light, I can’t see Glock. So far, so good.

A moment later, the garage door rolls down. Another minute, and a light appears in the front window. My cell vibrates against my hip, and Glock’s name pops up on the display. “The eagle has landed,” he says.

“Roger that. I’m in place. How’s the view?”

“I’m in the rear bedroom. I can see the backyard to the fence from here.”

“Good.” I pause. “Blue behaving himself?”

“Like an angel.”

“Make sure he stays visible,” I say. “Going to be a long night. Let’s do everything we can to draw this woman out.”

“Got it.”

I end the call and settle in for the wait.

*   *   *

By 4:30 a.m., I’m stiff and cold and convinced the entire operation is a bust. Not only am I stretching the rules by involving Blue, but I’m also starting to think I was a fool for thinking it would work. Of course, I went into this knowing there was a high probability that Ruth Weaver wouldn’t show. I could spend a week parked in this junkyard, and it could all be a waste. Still, it was worth a shot, but disappointing nonetheless.

I’ve talked to Glock six times and Mona twice in the last three and a half hours, eaten an energy bar I found in my glove compartment that was a month past its expiration date, and left my vehicle to pee in the weeds next to a totaled ’72 Ford LTD.

I’m thinking about throwing in the towel—at least for the night—when my cell vibrates. I glance down to see Mona’s name on the display. “Hey, Mona.”

“Chief, I’m sorry to bother you, but I thought you should know … Hoch Yoder called for you a few minutes ago. Wouldn’t say what he wanted, but he sounded … strange. I offered to patch him through, but he started talking about souls and forgiveness and then he just hung up.”

I pause, trying to ignore the twinge of worry threading through my gut. “Do you know where he was calling from?”

“That Amish community pay phone at Hogpath Road and the township road.”

“Did you call him back?”

“I let it ring like twenty times, but he didn’t pick up.”

I sigh. “There’s nothing going on here. I’m going to call this off for now and head out to the Yoder place to make sure everything’s okay.”

“You want me to let Glock know?”

“I’ll call him,” I tell her. “Thanks for the heads-up.” I hit End and dial Glock. “We need to wrap this up,” I say, and tell him about the call from Hoch Yoder.

“You want me to meet you out there?” he asks.

“I’ve got it. I don’t expect any trouble, but I’m a little concerned. He was pretty upset when I told him about his mother.”

“Gotcha.”

“Take Blue back to the station and put him in a cell.” I choose my next words with care because I don’t want to seem paranoid. But I know this is one of those situations when paranoid isn’t necessarily a bad thing. “Stay with him until I get back.”

“Ten four.”

*   *   *

I cruise by the phone booth Hoch used on my way to the Yoder place, but there’s no one there. The closer I get, the more convinced I become that there’s something wrong. I can’t imagine Hoch calling the police at four thirty in the morning unless there’s a problem. I’m also aware that Hoch, along with his half sister, both have a motive for murder.

The black trunks of naked apple trees blur by as I head toward the farm. I find my eyes combing the ditches on either side of the road, looking for a buggy or pedestrian—anything out of the norm. The fruit stand is closed up and dark, so I speed past and make a left into the lane. Slinging mud, gravel pinging in the wheel wells of the Explorer, I barrel toward the house. A hard stop, and I’m out of the vehicle and jogging toward the house.

Hoch’s wife, Hannah, comes through the door as I reach the steps. “Chief Burkholder?”

She’s still in her sleeping gown, but has thrown a shawl over her shoulders. Her damp hair tells me she’s already been outside.

“Hoch called the police department earlier,” I tell her. “Is everything all right?”

She blinks, and I can tell she’s struggling to hold back tears. “I can’t find him,” she blurts. “I woke up twenty minutes ago. I thought he’d gone out to the fruit stand, but he’s not there.”

“Did he take the buggy?”

“He harnessed the horse, but left the buggy in the barn.”

“He took it to the pay phone down the road,” I say, thinking aloud. “He must have come back.”

“Why would he leave at this hour to call the police?”

“Hannah, is it possible he couldn’t sleep and started his chores early? Or is there a place on the property he might go if he’s troubled and needs some time alone?”

She shakes her head. “I checked the shop and the fruit stand first thing, but he’s not at either place. I called out to him, but he didn’t answer. I even tried the dinner bell, in case he was out walking in the orchard. Chief Burkholder, he didn’t make coffee. He always makes coffee.”

“How was his frame of mind after I left last night? Was he upset or acting strangely?”

“He was … quiet. He gets that way when he’s restless.” She pauses, her face screwing up slightly. “Do you think that crazy woman who killed those men would go after Hoch, too?”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions just yet.” But my own mind has already ventured into the same territory.

She nods, but I can plainly see by the way she’s shaking that she doesn’t believe me.

“When did you last see him?” I ask.

“Last night. At bedtime.”

“What time was that?”

“Eleven or so.”

“Do you mind if I take a look around your property?”

She brightens, as if pleased to have something proactive to do. “I’ll go with you.”

“I’d prefer if you stayed here.” I set my hand on her shoulder and give a reassuring squeeze. “In case he comes back while I’m gone.”

Wringing her hands, she crosses to the porch and sits on the step, not caring about the damp. “I know God will take care of him. But I’m frightened.”

I hit my lapel mike. “T.J.?”

“Hey, Chief.”

“Any sign of anyone at Norm’s place?”

“Nothing here.”

I fill him in on the situation. “Will you take a cruise around the block out here at the Hochstetler farm?”

“Will do.”

I disconnect to see Hannah returning from the mudroom off the kitchen with a pair of mud boots in hand. “He didn’t take his boots with him. If he’d been going out, he would have taken them.”

“Go inside and lock the doors,” I tell her. I’m going to take a look around. I’ll be back in a few minutes, all right?”

Nodding, she goes back into the house and closes the door behind her. I hold my ground until I hear the lock click, and then I go to the Explorer. It’s drizzling, so I pull on my slicker, grab my full-size Maglite, and head into the darkness.

I begin my search at the fruit stand. The structure is small, and within minutes I’ve determined that Hoch isn’t there. The only visible footprints are Hannah’s. I leave the fruit stand and take the gravel driveway to the rear of the house, where a ten-foot-wide gate opens to the orchard. The hinges squeak as I open it and go through. Mud sucks at my boots as I follow the two-track path toward the trees where the road splits. I set my beam on the ground in front of me and spot a single set of tracks. The mud is too sloppy for me to discern the size or type of shoe, but they go left, so I follow.

Around me the night is as dark and wet as some underwater cave. The air is heavy with mist, and I can feel the cold weight of it pressing down on me. The tracks take me along a row of mature apple trees. In the darkness, the branches look like black capillaries spread out against the sky. It’s so quiet, I can hear the water dripping off of the branches and splattering on the saturated ground.

I’ve walked about half a mile when I spot the old mill house. It’s a small wooden structure with a stone foundation and steeply pitched roof. A whisper of nostalgia moves through me when I realize this is one of the places I used to come with my datt when I was a girl before the new mill was built closer to the stand. Twenty-five years ago, the siding had been painted cheery red with crisp white trim. Lush ivy had climbed the walls all the way to the roof, giving it a cottage-like countenance. I remember being intrigued by the wind chimes Mrs. Yoder had hung beneath the eaves. The pretty red paint is long gone now. The ivy clings to the rotting wood like the skeletons of long-dead snakes. It disheartens me to see such a place abandoned and left to the elements.

“Hoch Yoder!” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder!”

There used to be a big window in the front with a wood shutter that hung down from the top and was propped open with a board. Now, the shutter hangs by a single hinge that squeaks like some injured rodent in an intermittent breeze.

I shine my light along the front of the building. Sure enough, the tracks lead to a stone walkway that’s barely visible through the high weeds. I follow them around to the side of the building and find muddy footprints on the concrete stoop.

“Hoch!” I call out, and identify myself again. Holding my flashlight steady, I shove open the door with my foot and thrust the flashlight inside. The smell of rotting wood and wet earth and a darker smell I don’t want to name greets me. I get the impression of a single room, fifteen feet square. To my right there are several busted-up bushel baskets and an ancient apple cider press. To my left, the old counter has collapsed into itself. I see half an oak barrel on the floor. Several plastic jugs—the kind used for cider. Ahead I see an old rectangular table and several chairs. Beyond, Hoch Yoder lies on the floor next to an old potbellied stove.