I enter a comfortably furnished living room. Starving artist paintings on the walls. A newish flat screen mounted above the hearth. The air smells of some spicy aromatic I can’t quite place. Classical Spanish guitar hums from speakers on either side of the TV. A sleek laptop hums atop a TV tray next to a half-eaten bowl of ice cream. Blue has shed his sport coat. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, exposing forearms that are covered with tattoos—a strange mosaic of blue and red and green on flesh browned by the sun.

He notices me looking at his arms, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He motions toward a newish sofa. “Have a seat.”

I don’t take him up on the offer. “Have you seen or spoken to Jerrold McCullough?”

“No.”

“What about Julia Rutledge?”

“I haven’t seen her.” He grimaces. “I heard she was stabbed to death in her home. Is that true?”

I don’t answer. “Where were you last night between eleven P.M. and five A.M.?”

“I was at the Grace Victory Church in Glenmont. Black Creek flooded out some homes, and there were five families in need of shelter. I helped Pastor Bergman get everyone set up in the rec room.”

“You were there that entire time?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You know I’m going to check.”

“That’s fine.” He tugs his phone from his pocket, taps the screen a couple of times, and recites the number for the Grace Victory Church.

I pull out my notepad and write it down. “Can anyone else vouch for you?”

“There were ten or fifteen volunteers around all night. Once we got those families picked up, we delivered food and blankets and set up cots. I had at least one person with me all night.”

“So you say.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with Julia’s murder.” He tilts his head. “Do you think something has happened to Jerrold McCullough?”

“I don’t know.” I stare hard at him, waiting for him to say more. He doesn’t give me anything. He stares back, completely unperturbed by the silence and the tension slicing the air between us. “What do you think, Blue? Do you think something happened to him?”

“I have no idea. I’m worried about him.”

“Do you think if you’d come clean about whatever it is you’re hiding, Julia Rutledge might still be alive?”

It’s a harsh, unfair question, but I let it stand, hoping to rattle him. He doesn’t react to the unspoken implication, but I don’t miss the quiver in his hand when he runs it over his goatee. “I’m not hiding anything. I didn’t kill Dale. Or Julia. And I have no idea where McCullough might be. You have my word.”

“Do you know Norm Johnston?”

“Councilman Johnston?” He looks flummoxed. “I’ve met him a few times.”

“Have you spoken to him recently?”

“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.

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.