We slosh down the walk to the back porch. Opening the screen door, I rap hard with my knuckles. Around me, the farm is dark and still, imparting a semblance of isolation, as if we’re the last living people on earth.
I’m in the process of knocking a second time when the door swings open. An Amish man with red hair and a full beard thrusts a lantern at me. “Hello?” He blinks owlishly. “Is there a problem?”
I show him my badge and identify myself. “I’m sorry to bother you so late.”
He squints at Tomasetti. “Is this about Solly and Rachael?”
I nod. “Bishop Troyer left you with the children?”
“Ja.”
“What’s your name, sir?”
“Nicholas Raber.”
“May we come in?”
“Of course.” Bowing slightly, he backs up a few steps.
I enter the mudroom. Vaguely, I’m aware of Tomasetti behind me, and of Raber shuffling toward the kitchen, probably to light another lantern. The potbellied stove is to my left. I slide a mini Maglite from my coat pocket and shine the beam toward the area where I last saw the rifle. A strand of uneasiness ripples through me when I realize it’s not there.
“The rifle’s gone,” I whisper.
“You sure?”
I turn and frown at him. “There’s nothing wrong with my eyesight or my memory.”
He smiles, and I know he’s messing with me. Rolling my eyes, I glance toward the kitchen, where the yellow glow of lantern light spills into the mudroom. Raber stands in the doorway, watching us.
Looking at him, I motion toward the corner where I last saw the gun. “Did you see the rifle that was here earlier?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
Tomasetti comes up beside me and directs his attention to the Amish man. “How long have you been here?”
“Since five o’clock. We fixed the children dinner.” His expression becomes puzzled. “Why are you asking about the gun? Is there something wrong?”
“We’re not sure yet.” I step closer to him. “Is your wife here with you?”
“Ja. She’s upstairs.”
“Can you check with her to see if she remembers seeing the rifle?”
He nods, his expression going from puzzled to concerned. “What’s happened?”
“I saw a rifle here earlier,” I say. “Now it’s gone. I need to know where it is.”
“I’ll wake Frannie.” He nods, keeps on nodding. “Frannie cleaned earlier. Maybe she moved it to another place.”
“Thank you.” I pull my cell from my belt and dial Bishop Troyer’s number. He’s one of the few Amish in the area who has a phone he keeps for emergencies. I figure this qualifies.
He answers on the tenth ring, and I remember the phone is in the kitchen. He had to get up and go downstairs to answer.
“Ja,” he says grumpily.
“Bishop Troyer, I’m sorry to wake you.”
“Yes, me, too,” he growls.
I tell him about the rifle. “I need to know if you moved it when you were here.”
“No,” he replies. “I didn’t even know it was there.”
“Did your wife move it?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “I’ll wake her and ask her.”
“If she did, will you call me right back?”
“Yes,” he says. “But I’m certain she didn’t move it.”
“Thank—”
He hangs up before I can finish. Smiling, I hit END and glance at Tomasetti.
“Any luck?” he asks.
I recap my conversation with the bishop.
“You sure you saw the rifle, Kate?”
“I’m sure.”
Raber comes back into the kitchen. “My wife did not see any gun,” he says.
I look at Tomasetti. I can tell from his expression that he’s thinking the same thing I am. Neither of us likes Ricky Coulter for the murders. Did someone know Coulter had worked for Slabaugh and plant the rifle in Coulter’s house for us to find?
I turn my attention back to the Amish man. “Have you had any visitors today?”
He looks confused for a moment, as if the thought had never occurred to him, then slowly shakes his head. “Frannie and I arrived here around five o’clock. We’ve been busy with the children and chores. Supper and prayer and baths. We’ve had no visitors.”
I nod. There’s been a lot of traffic in and out of the house in the last day or so. Almost anyone could have come in and taken it, unnoticed. “Are the children here?”
“Of course they are.”
“Could you go get Mose for me?”
His hesitation tells me he doesn’t want to do it. The Amish are extremely protective of their young, particularly when it comes to outsiders. “Please,” I say. “I wouldn’t ask you to wake him at this hour if it wasn’t important.”
Shaking his head in resignation, Raber turns and starts toward the living room. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Outside, rain pours off the gutters and slaps the ground. It’s so quiet inside, I can hear the hiss of the lantern.
“What the hell is going on?” I whisper.
Across the room, I see Tomasetti looking at the potbellied stove. “Who had access to the house?”
“Almost anyone. A visitor.”
“I sent the rifle to the lab for latents,” he tells me. “Results should—”
Raber bursts into the kitchen. “Mose is gone!”