“No.”
I nod, letting the silence ride. After a moment, Blue shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “If we’re done here, I’d like to get back to work.”
I lean forward and whisper. “I know you’re hiding something. I’m going to find out what it is.”
His expression doesn’t change. “Good night, Chief Burkholder.”
I tap the front of his shoulder with my index finger. “Don’t leave town.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
I leave him standing in his living room with his bowl of melted ice cream and a decidedly troubled expression.
*
It’s after 6 P.M. by the time I arrive at Jerrold McCullough’s place. I find Glock standing on the front porch, and we spend an hour or so walking the property on the chance the man fell or somehow injured himself and is unable to respond. But we don’t find any sign of him. Earlier, Glock was able to reach one of McCullough’s grown children, a son who lives in Sacramento. Jerrold Jr. hasn’t heard from his father in over a week. He didn’t sound too concerned. When I try McCullough’s cell phone, my call goes straight to voice mail.
We’re standing in the backyard, twenty yards from the shore of a very swollen Painters Creek, looking out at the woods. It’s raining again and I can hear the water crashing over rocks and rushing around the trees that grow along the flooded bank.
“You don’t think he fell into the water, do you?” Glock asks.
“I think it’s probably premature to start dragging the creek.” I say the words lightly, but the notion that at some point it could be necessary bothers me. “He’s not even officially missing yet.”
“Yeah, but you’re worried or you wouldn’t be here.”
I sigh because he’s right. “Did anyone you talked to mention his favorite watering hole?”
“He’s been known to stop in for a beer at McNarie’s. I thought I’d swing by on my way home.”
I nod, but I don’t think he’ll find McCullough at the bar. “Apparently, we’re the only people who seem to be worried about him.”
“That’s pretty sad.” Glock grimaces. “You think he flew the coop? Maybe he had something to do with the murders.”
“It’s possible, but I don’t think he’s our guy.” I consider that a moment. “For one thing, he’s an amputee. He doesn’t use a prosthesis.”
“That we know of.”
“Look, I’m going to put out a BOLO.”
Around us the rain increases, fat drops slapping against the trees and the saturated ground. Despite the fact that we’re both getting wet, neither of us seems to notice.
“I don’t think we’re going to figure this out tonight,” I say after a moment.
He nods. “I’m going to swing by McNarie’s.”
“We’ll pick up Blue tomorrow,” I tell him. “Put some pressure on him.”
Glock gives me a mock salute and then turns and starts for his vehicle, leaving me in the pouring rain with the sound of rushing water in my ears and my own thoughts echoing in my head.
*
I’m on my way home when I pass by Old Germantown Road. On impulse, I hit the brakes, back up, and make the turn. It’s fully dark now, and my headlights reveal fog hovering above asphalt that’s pitted and cracked. The vegetation is slowly devouring the road so that it isn’t much wider than a single lane. Not many people use this road since the new highway went through. The county no longer maintains it, and I imagine in a few years the land will reclaim it completely.
The Hochstetler farm—what’s left of it—sits on a hill a half mile down. The house burned to the ground and was never rebuilt, but some of the trees survived and now look as if they’re standing sentinel—or waiting for the family to return. The old German-style round barn that Willis Hochstetler transformed into a furniture showroom still stands. I remember my mamm and datt talking about how the farm had once been a showplace with its white four-rail fence and wraparound porch adorned with hanging Boston ferns. Camera-wielding Englischers traveled for miles to park at the end of the lane and shoot photos.
The place fell to ruin after the family was killed. The tourists stopped coming. The Amish spoke of the things that happened that night only in whispers. But I heard the stories. When I was a teenager, rumors abounded. Ghost stories mostly. And a few sightings of Wanetta Hochstetler walking the hilltop, calling out for her children. Some said if you came out at midnight and listened, you could hear the screams of the children as they were burned alive.