Those stories scared me when I was a kid. But as I entered my teenage years, I became intrigued and even partook in several illicit visits myself. Tonight, as I approach the beat-up mailbox and turn into the muddy lane, I feel all those old stories creeping up on me.
I park in knee-high weeds with my headlights illuminating the place where the house had once stood. Leaving the engine running and the headlights on, I grab my Maglite and get out. I pull on my slicker as I start toward what had once been the side yard. I didn’t know the Hochstetlers; though they lived in the same church district as my own family, I was too young when they died to remember any of them. But I feel the loneliness of this place. The lingering sadness. A sense of injustice.
All that remains of the house is the brick chimney and the eight-foot-deep crater where the basement had once been. The walls have eroded and crumbled over the years. Saplings and weeds grow up from the basement floor, which is now filled with what looks like several feet of water. At some point, someone used plywood and sawhorses to cover the pit—probably for liability reasons—but the wood has long since collapsed. The only thing left is the remnants of a single caution flag, as faded and shredded as the memory of the people who once lived here.
I think of Hoch Yoder, and I wonder if he ever comes back here. I wonder if he’s stood where I’m standing now and grieved for the family he lost. I wonder if he’s been able to embrace the age-old Amish tenet of forgiveness.
I jump when a sudden gust of wind sends droplets of rain from the branches of a pine into the water below. The sound seems inordinately loud in the silence, and I get a prickly sensation on the back of my neck. Turning slowly, I fan my light in a 360-degree circle, but there’s no one there. No vehicle. No lights.
Thrusting my flashlight out ahead of me, I start toward the silo and barn. My pants are damp from the hip down from walking the McCullough property earlier and, now, from wading through weeds. I reach the rusty silo first. Once upon a time, it had been painted silver, but rust has eaten through the paint. The hatch stands open. I hear it squeaking as the breeze rocks it back and forth. Bending, I shine my light inside. There’s a hole in the roof where the wind has peeled away the shingles. I see yellow cornstalks rotting on the ground and a rat the size of a groundhog looking at me from the ledge of the concrete footer.
“Shit,” I mutter, and continue to the barn. It’s a German-style building, most of which were constructed in the early 1900s and used for dairy operations. Today, the odd-looking structures are akin to covered bridges and much loved by tourists and aficionados of unusual architecture. There are several in the area, but none are used in the manner in which they were intended.
Upon reaching the barn, I walk the exterior perimeter, keeping beneath the overhanging roof until I reach the front door. Trespassers have broken most of the windows. Pushing open the door, I shine the beam inside. The elements have destroyed much of the floor; the wood planks are buckled and rotting in places. Some have splintered and collapsed, and I can see into the crawl space beneath.
I’m not exactly sure what I expected to find here tonight. Nothing, really. But as a cop, there’s something intangibly useful about visiting a crime scene, even if the scene is ages old and any evidence has long since faded.
As I walk back to the dry warmth of my vehicle, the wind passing through the trees sounds very much like the cries of dying children.
CHAPTER 18
The first thing I notice when I pull into the gravel lane of the farmhouse is that Tomasetti left the porch light on for me. As I drive around to the rear, I see his Tahoe parked in its usual spot. Butterflies flutter in my stomach when I think of how we left things. I’m not sure what I’ll find when I go inside. I have no idea if he’s angry or sorry or somewhere in between. I don’t know if he’s seen Ferguson. Or if he listened to what I had to say.
I unlock the back door to see that the light above the stove is on. The kitchen smells of coffee and vanilla potpourri, and for an instant, I’m overwhelmed with a sense of homecoming. I’m standing just inside the door, taking off my jacket, when the light flicks on.
On the other side of the kitchen, Tomasetti stands at the doorway, looking at me. “Are you hungry?” he asks.
He’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. His feet are bare. Hair damp from a recent shower. I take a breath, and even from several feet away, I discern the scent of his aftershave.
“I could be,” I reply.
Amusement flashes in his eyes, but he doesn’t smile. “I brought home sandwiches from Leo’s Deli.”
Leo’s is a mom-and-pop eatery in Wooster, and in the last months has become our favorite “quick” dinner. “What kind?”