Naomi stands on the porch, watching me, her arms crossed in front of her. “Mrs. Kaufman, how does Mr. Kaufman get to the clinic?”
“That Yoder Toter from Dundee picks him up and drives him up to Wooster,” she says.
“Has there been a buggy here today?”
“She drives a van.”
I look around. There are plenty of places to hide on this large farm. There are cornfields, impenetrable woods, and two huge barns.
“Mrs. Kaufman, I’d like to take a look around. Is that all right with you?”
“Let me put on my muckers.” The Amish woman turns and goes back inside.
I don’t wait for her. Ever present in the periphery of my thoughts is the knowledge that when someone reaches the low of murdering family members, sometimes suicide is the next step. A sense of urgency pushes me into a jog. I cross the gravel to the barn and slide the big door open several feet. Shadows play hide-and-seek in the murky light. I get the impression of a large area with a dirt floor and a low ceiling strung with cobwebs. The smells of old wood, rotting hay, and damp earth tickle my nose. I look down, seeking buggy wheel marks, but there are none.
“Abigail Kaufman!” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder with the Painters Mill PD! I need to talk to you!”
I listen, but the only reply is the moan of the wind. I venture more deeply into the shadows. To my right are the bony ribs of a hay rack that’s pitted with rust. A child’s Radio Flyer wagon that’s missing both front wheels lies on its side. To my left, half a dozen bags of feed are stacked against the wall. On the rear wall ahead, three grimy windows, some with broken or missing panes, stare blankly at me like dead eyes. I go to the nearest one and squint through the cobwebs and grunge. The pasture beyond is hilly and lush with a wet-weather creek where cottonwoods and elms jut fifty feet into the air.
Turning away from the window, I go to the wooden steps and take them to the loft. It’s a small mow with a dozen or so bales of hay stacked haphazardly. Some of the bundling strings have broken open, spilling loose hay onto the floor.
“Abigail Kaufman!” I call out.
But I know she’s not here.
Disappointment presses into me as I take the steps back down to the first level. I’ve just reached the ground, when Naomi comes through the sliding door. “I told you she’s not here,” she says, looking triumphant.
Ignoring her, I walk past her and leave the barn through the sliding door. I break into a jog and go around the side of the barn, where I’d seen a gate earlier. The area is overgrown with weeds as high as my chest. I’m about to turn away, when I notice some of the weeds are laid over. The thought of ticks and other unsavory insects crosses my mind as I wade in. Some of the stems are broken and bent. Renewed interest flares when I discern the wheel marks of a buggy in the damp earth. They go through the gate and into the rear pasture. But why would she take the buggy back there?
Naomi Kaufman calls out my name. I glance around the side of the barn to see the elderly woman slowly making her way down the incline toward me.
“Are there any other structures on the property?” I ask.
She stops a few feet away. She’s breathing hard. Sweat beads on her forehead and upper lip. “Only thing standing is that tumbling down old barn where we used to butcher years ago. I don’t even know if the thing is standing anymore, especially after that storm.”
I almost can’t believe my ears. In the back of my mind, I recall Sally Burris’s words: That old bank barn in the back. I’d assumed she meant the second barn within sight of the house. But she hadn’t; she’d meant a third structure set farther back on the property.…
“Where is it?” I ask.
“It sits on the property line between our place and Abram’s farm. About half a mile thataway.” She motions toward the earthen dam that bridges the creek. “Used to be an old two track that ran along the fence line.”
I point in the direction of the house. “Go back inside, Mrs. Kaufman.”
“Abigail wouldn’t go back there.” She glares at me, angry because she knows she won’t be able to keep up with me and I’m not going to wait.
Turning away, I jog toward the dam, my eyes on the buggy tracks in the soil. The jug-o-rum bellows of bullfrogs echo within the canopy of the trees as I cross the dam. I feel the humidity rising off the mossy surface of the water, smell the mud baking on the bank. It’s so quiet I can hear the flies and mosquitoes buzzing. Pig frogs grunt from within the cattails.