Pickles thinks about that a moment. “It sounds like he wasn’t the only one who blamed himself. Maybe his mama blamed him, too.”
“I can’t fathom how her daughter would know about what happened. Or how a mother could hold her fourteen-year-old son responsible.”
He shrugs. “Maybe one of the men told her. Salt on the wound kind of thing. If you look at what they did to her. Rape is about violence and pain and degradation. What better way to destroy this woman than to tell her that her own son was the one who set everything into motion?”
“Chief!”
I look up at the sound of Mona’s voice to see her standing at the door to my office. “I just took a 911 from a driver out on Township Road 1. She drove through some standing water and her car got swept into the creek. She has a bunch of kids with her, and now they’re on the roof.”
Across from me, Pickles stirs, as if from habit he’s ready to go. “Get Skid out there,” I tell her. “Call the sheriff’s office and fire department, too.”
“Got it.”
Pickles shifts restlessly. “Damn people never learn about driving through water,” he grumbles.
“I’ve got to get out to Yoder’s place.” I start to rise.
“Chief. Wait.” He leans across the desk, and he reaches out, his eyes filled with determination. “Look, I know I’m a little past my prime, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go out there by yourself.”
“The sheriff’s department—”
“With all this flooding, every agency between here and Cleveland is going to have their hands full, and it’s only going to get worse.”
“Pickles—”
“I can handle it.” He growls the word with a good bit of attitude, and for a moment I see him as the cocky young police officer he’d once been. The adrenaline-addicted cop who’d spent months working undercover and risked his life to do it.
When I hesitate, he adds, “I’m right about that, and you know it.”
I sigh and give a resolute nod. “Bring your slicker and your vest.”
CHAPTER 31
Ten minutes later, Pickles and I are in my Explorer, bound for the Yoder apple farm. My police radio crackles with activity as my officers and Holmes County sheriff’s deputies are dispatched to several high-water areas. I call Glock as I pull onto the highway. “I’m sorry to bother you so late,” I begin.
“I figured I was going to get a call from you with all this flooding. What’s up?”
“The rain isn’t the only thing wreaking havoc.” I give him a condensed version of my theory on Ruth Weaver.
“You want me to go with you?”
“I’ve got Pickles with me. We’re heading out there now.”
He makes an indecipherable noise in his throat, and I quickly add. “I need you to keep an eye on Norm Johnston. There’s a possibility she’ll show up there.”
“What about Blue Branson?”
“T.J.’s on his way there. I can’t imagine Weaver making a move on the police station, but…” I sigh, feeling overwhelmed and uncertain. “She’s unstable and tough to predict. Do me a favor and wear your vest, will you?”
“I’ll head over to Johnston’s now.”
I disconnect as I make the turn into the gravel lane of the Yoder place. Rain pelts the windshield as I pass the house and park in the gravel a few yards from the back door. Jamming the shifter into Park, I turn and pull a slicker from the backseat. “We’re just going to talk to her. I’m going to knock on the back door. I want you to go around to the front and make sure no one leaves. Don’t knock, okay?”
“Got it.”
I pull on the slicker and we disembark simultaneously. I wait until Pickles is around the side of the house; then I approach the back door. The rain is coming down so hard, it stings my exposed skin. I can’t hear anything over the downpour, and visibility is down to just a few yards.
Ever aware of the .38 against my hip, I use the heel of my hand to knock. To my surprise, the door rolls open, and I think, Shit. A police officer must exercise caution when entering any premises. Even in a benign situation, there’s a risk of being mistaken for an intruder and getting your ass shot off by an armed homeowner. That’s not to mention the rights and privacy issues anytime you enter a home without a warrant or the express permission of the owner. But certain circumstances transcend those things, including concern for the homeowner’s well-being. Several gnarly possibilities run through my head as I stand there, trying to decide what to do next. I’m not 100 percent certain Hannah Yoder is Ruth Weaver, which means she could be in danger, too.
“Mrs. Yoder?” I shout. “It’s Kate Burkholder with the police department. Is everything all right?”
The pound of rain is thunderous, making it impossible for me to hear anything inside or out. Pushing open the door the rest of the way, I step into the mudroom and call out for her again. “Hannah! Are you home? Is everything all right?”