On the other side of the dam, the ground is soft and spongy beneath my boots, and I find the shod hoof marks of a horse bracketed on either side by wheel ruts. The tracks are fresh, and though the path is overgrown, the trail is easy to follow.
The terrain is rolling and crowded with saplings, brush, and mature hardwoods, which makes it difficult to see more than fifty yards in any direction. The sun beats down with merciless intensity, and I find myself wishing I’d looked at an aerial view before venturing out, but of course I didn’t realize I was going to be tromping through an overgrown pasture this afternoon.
I crest the second hill, and the rusty tin shingles of a roof loom into view ahead. I traverse a dry creek bed, elbow my way through a patch of reeds on the other side, and get my first good look. The structure is a dilapidated bank barn with a swaybacked roof and wooden siding the color of old bone. Several shingles have been peeled back by decades of wind. Much of the wooden siding has fallen to the ground, where the earth is slowly reclaiming it. The rear portion of the gambrel-style roof has collapsed. Through the opening, I see the top of a tall concrete silo with a missing dome.
I’m looking down at the faint trail through the weeds, when I hear the snort of a horse. Thirty feet away, through a stand of saplings, a bay horse is looking at me, its ears pricked forward. The animal is still hitched to the buggy. I’ve startled him, and I can tell he’s thinking about bolting.
“Whoa,” I whisper as I approach. “Easy.”
I reach the buggy and peek inside. A crocheted afghan is draped across the seat. An empty bottle of water lies on its side on the floor. There’s no sign of Abigail. I walk to the gelding and set my hand against its rump, then slide my fingers beneath the harness leather. The place where the leather presses against the horse’s coat is wet with sweat, telling me it hasn’t been standing idle long. Oddly, one of the leather driving reins is missing. I look around, but it’s not on the ground.
I nearly call out for Abigail, but a small voice warns me that stealth may make for a safer approach. I don’t know what her state of mind is. I don’t know if she’s armed. In fact, I don’t know if she’s the one who’s been taking shots at me. Concentrating on keeping my feet silent against the ground, I go to the front of the barn. The sliding door is closed, but I don’t need it to enter; several pieces of siding have fallen away, leaving plenty of room for me to slip through.
Giving my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light, I thumb the keep strap from my holster. I don’t believe Abigail intends to harm me; more than likely she’s come out here to end her own life. But I know the lengths to which a desperate individual will go to get the job done.
Light slashes in through hundreds of gaps in the siding, illuminating dust motes and flying insects. Ahead, a large flatbed hay wagon sits front and center. Above it, a set of massive grappling hooks holds several hundred pounds of loose hay that smells relatively fresh. I can just make out the pulley-and-cable system that runs the length of the roof at the ridge board. Vaguely, I wonder if the Kaufmans lease this part of the property or allow one of their neighbors to store hay.
I step over fallen boards and other debris. A shovel handle. A broken cinder block. A leather strap that was once part of a harness rigging. Mounds of loose hay. Cobwebs droop from every surface like silver moss. Rodentlike squeaks from the rafters overhead tell me there’s a healthy population of bats. It’s not until I’ve walked a dozen or so steps that I notice the smell. A strong, unmistakable stench I recognize from my youth. Hogs. I’d approached the scene upwind, so I didn’t notice until now. Naomi had said no one used this barn and no one had been back here for years. I wonder who owns the hogs, who’s taking care of them.
Straight ahead, a large hay door looks out over the pasture beyond. I can hear the pigs grunting and moving around in the pen below.
Something splats against my arm. At first I think it’s an insect, but when I glance down, I see the black smear of guano on my forearm. I look up and see dozens of bats hanging from the ridge rafter at the roof’s peak. “Shit.”
I’m looking around for something with which to wipe my arm, when movement to my right snags my attention. I startle and find myself looking at a disheveled Abigail Kline. She’s wearing a gray dress with a black apron. Her kapp is untied and slightly askew. Her sneakers are covered with mud. She’s holding the leather rein from the buggy in her left hand. In her right, she’s clutching a knife the size of a machete.
CHAPTER 27
“Abigail.”
She’s standing about fifteen feet away. Butcher knife in her right hand. Buggy rein clutched in her left. I’m aware of her body language, and I keep a close eye on her hands. I wonder if she was planning to use the leather to hang herself.
“How did you find me?” she asks.