Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

I glance toward the darkened farm. Set back a hundred yards from the road, the house is barely visible through the trees. I don’t see any lights in the windows. As a whole, Amish country is incredibly dark at night. There are no streetlamps or porch lights and there isn’t much in the way of headlights or taillights. Even with a police officer parked at the mouth of the lane, it would be easy for someone to slip by and not be seen.

“I drove around the block a couple of times earlier,” T.J. tells me. “Didn’t see a soul, but honestly the farm could be approached from any direction.”

He’s right; I looked at the aerial map earlier. “We can only cover so much area.” I pass him the bag of doughnuts. “I’ll take it from here.”

He looks into the bag. “Damn, Chief, apple fritters from the Butterhorn Bakery are like cop heroin.”

“Try not to OD.”

“Tall order when I have thirteen of these suckers in striking distance.”

“Get some sleep and I’ll see you tonight.”

Giving me a mock salute, he pulls onto the road and drives away.

I watch his taillights until he makes the turn onto Hogpath Road; then I shift my attention to the Beachy house. It’s a big farmhouse with a lot of windows. The front yard and pasture are heavily treed, which not only blocks my view, but throws the entire area into shadows. I can just make out the hulking silhouettes of the barn and silo behind the house.

It’s a pleasant night, cool and humid, so I leave my window down and turn off the engine. A chorus of crickets and spring peepers from the swampy area near the creek rides on the breeze. Aside from the cattle in the pasture, there’s no movement anywhere. The storm to the west is closer now. Distant thunder rumbles and for the first time I smell rain. Keeping one eye on the house, I flick on the radio for some music and slink down in my seat.

I’m watching the cattle, wishing I’d kept one of those apple fritters for myself, when Mona’s voice comes over the radio. “Chief, I got a ten-seventy.” Code for a fire.

Sitting up, I snatch up the mike. “What’s the twenty on that?”

“Abandoned barn next to Amos Yoder’s place out on Dogleg Road. RP said the whole structure is on fire and burning like hell.”

The word “abandoned” flutters in the forefront of my mind and refuses to settle. “You call the fire department?”

“They’re en route. I thought you might want to head out there.”

I reach for the ignition and start the engine. But a prickly sensation on the back of my neck keeps me from putting my vehicle in gear. Amos Yoder’s place is only a couple of miles away; I can’t help but think that a fire would be the perfect distraction to draw a cop away from her post.

“Dispatch T.J., will you?” I say. “He’s still up. On his way home.”

“Chief?”

“I’m out here at the Beachy farm. I’m going to stick with it a while longer.”

“Roger that.”

I rack the mike.

Keeping in mind that someone could approach the farm from any direction, I put the Explorer in gear and pull onto the road.

Chances are, Joseph King is in Canada by now. But experience has taught me to listen to my gut. I don’t like the timing or the proximity of the fire. If King has access to a vehicle and has traveled to Painters Mill, he could have set the blaze to divert the attention and resources of law enforcement so he can get to his children.

The Beachy farm comprises sixty acres of forest and pastureland and a couple of plowed fields. It’s bordered on three sides by township roads. The fourth side is the greenbelt that runs along Painters Creek. If I wanted to approach the farm and remain unseen, that would be my first choice.

Punching off my headlights, I make a U-turn and head toward the greenbelt. There’s just enough moonlight for me to navigate without running off the road. I roll down my windows, listening, but the only sound comes from the crunch of my tires on gravel. I make another turn, using the trees to guide me. I pass by a beat-up guardrail that spans a wet-weather creek. In the periphery of my vision, I notice the glint of something on the other side of the ditch. I stop, pull my Maglite from the seat pocket, and shine it out the window. The beam illuminates a dark sedan parked on the other side of the ditch, well off the road, just a few feet from the trees that demark the beginning of the greenbelt.

Keeping my eye on the vehicle, watching for movement, I pull onto the shoulder, shut down the engine, and get out. The volume of the spring peepers is deafening now. Maglite in hand, I close the door quietly and cross to the sedan. It’s a newish Buick LaCrosse. I set my hand on the hood, find it warm to the touch. I hear the engine ticking as it cools. No sign of the driver. I shine the beam into the interior, front and back seats. No one there. Nothing on the seat or floor. The keys are gone.

I go around to the rear, illuminate the license plate, and hit my lapel mike. “Ten-eighty-five.” Keeping my voice low, I utter the code for an abandoned vehicle. “Township Road 102. I need a ten-ninety-nine.” I recite the plate number, so Mona can check to see if the vehicle has been reported stolen. “Buick. Four-door sedan. Blue.”

“Stand by.”

“Any word on that fire?”

“Fire department is on scene. Structure is a total loss.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“Negative.”

“Call me back on my cell, will you?” I ask.

“You got it.”

Flicking off the flashlight, I turn my attention to the woods, trying to get a handle on the prickle at the back of my neck. The trees are thick with patches of undergrowth and bramble. Fingers of fog rise from the damp ground. The Beachy farmhouse is less than a quarter mile away, but the woods are too thick for me to see it. Still, it would be an easy hike for someone if they parked here and cut through.

I walk back to the road, keeping an eye on the tree line to my right. From thirty yards, I spot a gap in the trees. I traverse the ditch, sinking up to my ankles in mud. I go up the incline on the opposite side. Sure enough, it’s an old path tangled with overgrowth. Probably left over from last summer when people parked here and walked to the creek to wade or pick raspberries that grow in profusion along the old fence line.

Flicking on the Maglite, I check for tracks, but the ground is a mosaic of dead leaves and yellow grass left over from winter. A few yards into the trees, I realize there’s enough moonlight for me to follow the path without mishap, so I turn off the flashlight and continue.

Where’s the driver of the Buick? Did someone have car problems and call a friend to pick them up? That’s the only legitimate reason for that car to be here. The thing that’s making me nervous is that it appears the driver went to some trouble to park out of sight, driving through the ditch and risking getting stuck in the mud.

My phone vibrates against my hip. I dig it out. Mona. “What do you have?” I ask.

“Vehicle came back stolen,” she tells me. “Out of Richland County. Reported this afternoon.”