Nodding, she goes back into the house and closes the door behind her. I hold my ground until I hear the lock click, and then I go to the Explorer. It’s drizzling, so I pull on my slicker, grab my full-size Maglite, and head into the darkness.
I begin my search at the fruit stand. The structure is small, and within minutes I’ve determined that Hoch isn’t there. The only visible footprints are Hannah’s. I leave the fruit stand and take the gravel driveway to the rear of the house, where a ten-foot-wide gate opens to the orchard. The hinges squeak as I open it and go through. Mud sucks at my boots as I follow the two-track path toward the trees where the road splits. I set my beam on the ground in front of me and spot a single set of tracks. The mud is too sloppy for me to discern the size or type of shoe, but they go left, so I follow.
Around me the night is as dark and wet as some underwater cave. The air is heavy with mist, and I can feel the cold weight of it pressing down on me. The tracks take me along a row of mature apple trees. In the darkness, the branches look like black capillaries spread out against the sky. It’s so quiet, I can hear the water dripping off of the branches and splattering on the saturated ground.
I’ve walked about half a mile when I spot the old mill house. It’s a small wooden structure with a stone foundation and steeply pitched roof. A whisper of nostalgia moves through me when I realize this is one of the places I used to come with my datt when I was a girl before the new mill was built closer to the stand. Twenty-five years ago, the siding had been painted cheery red with crisp white trim. Lush ivy had climbed the walls all the way to the roof, giving it a cottage-like countenance. I remember being intrigued by the wind chimes Mrs. Yoder had hung beneath the eaves. The pretty red paint is long gone now. The ivy clings to the rotting wood like the skeletons of long-dead snakes. It disheartens me to see such a place abandoned and left to the elements.
“Hoch Yoder!” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder!”
There used to be a big window in the front with a wood shutter that hung down from the top and was propped open with a board. Now, the shutter hangs by a single hinge that squeaks like some injured rodent in an intermittent breeze.
I shine my light along the front of the building. Sure enough, the tracks lead to a stone walkway that’s barely visible through the high weeds. I follow them around to the side of the building and find muddy footprints on the concrete stoop.
“Hoch!” I call out, and identify myself again. Holding my flashlight steady, I shove open the door with my foot and thrust the flashlight inside. The smell of rotting wood and wet earth and a darker smell I don’t want to name greets me. I get the impression of a single room, fifteen feet square. To my right there are several busted-up bushel baskets and an ancient apple cider press. To my left, the old counter has collapsed into itself. I see half an oak barrel on the floor. Several plastic jugs—the kind used for cider. Ahead I see an old rectangular table and several chairs. Beyond, Hoch Yoder lies on the floor next to an old potbellied stove.
“Hoch!” I run to him, drop to my knees beside him. He’s lying in a supine position. I know instantly he’s dead. His left arm is over his head, his right is bent at the elbow with his hand near his shoulder. His head is twisted to one side. I force myself to look at his face. His flesh is that terrible color of blue gray. His staring eyes are sticky-looking and beginning to cloud. Still, I reach out and press my finger against his carotid artery. His skin is cold to the touch, like rubber. There’s no pulse.
“Oh … Hoch.”
A .22-caliber revolver lies on the dirt floor a few inches from his right hand. Rising, I turn away from the sight and grapple for my cell phone. Even though we use the ten code system here in Painters Mill, there are certain situations that are best handled off the radio. A lot of people in the area have police scanners. It’s never a good thing for them to find out about a death before the next of kin.
“Mona.”
“Hey, Chief.”
“I’m out here at the Yoder Apple Farm. I found Hoch Yoder. He’s DOA. Possible suicide.”
“Do you want me to send the coroner?”
“Yeah.” I look at Hoch and, in light of the murders, I’m reminded that not every scene is as it appears at first glance. “Give BCI a call, too, will you? See if we can get a CSU out here.”
“Got it.” A thoughtful pause ensues. “You sound kind of funny, Chief. Are you okay?”
I’m not sure how to respond to that. I’m not okay. I feel sucker-punched because this decent man saw death as a better alternative than life—and his only escape from the truth and the agony of his past. I can’t help but wonder if our conversation the night before was the final straw.
But this isn’t about me or the way I feel. It’s about hatred and revenge and stopping a killer.
CHAPTER 29