“Chief, are you sure you don’t want to take someone with you? Any of us are happy to tag along.”

I don’t believe “tag along” is the exact term he had in mind, but he’s being magnanimous. With three people dead, he’s worried that I won’t have backup if I need it. There’s a small part of me that agrees with him, but with my department strapped tight and the threat of flooding in the forefront of our minds, I don’t take him up on the offer. “The Swartzentruber Amish generally don’t like dealing with outsiders, especially the government. Best if I go alone.”

“Do me a favor and be careful, will you?”

“You know it.”

*   *   *

The rolling hills, farm fields, and woodlands between Painters Mill and Nicktown make for beautiful scenery, even if the weather doesn’t cooperate. But I barely notice the countryside as I head east and push the speedometer over the limit. I can’t stop thinking about Wanetta Hochstetler and what it could mean if she’s alive. I have no idea if she’s perpetrator or victim or somewhere in between, but if I can find her, she might be able to shed some light on exactly what went down that night thirty-five years ago—or the more recent murders.

But it’s been over thirty years since Bishop Schweider spoke to her; there’s a possibility I won’t find her. She may have died of natural causes or left Cambria County for Upstate New York with the other Swartzentruber Amish. If I was dealing with any other group of people, it might have been wiser for me to call ahead, try to get someone on the phone or, perhaps, speak to the local PD. But I know the Swartzentruber Amish would not speak to me by phone. While this trip and the hours I’ll sink into it may be a long shot, I have to try.

I hit construction east of Pittsburgh and a thunderstorm as I enter Cambria County. By the time I pull into the town limits of Nicktown, it’s after 4 P.M. and I’m in dire need of coffee. The town is a postcard-pretty village with large homes and a main street lined with spruce and maples that will be budding in a few weeks. Since I have no clue where to begin my search, I pull in to the gravel lot of the first restaurant I come to, Lucy’s Kountry Kitchen.

The dinner hour hasn’t yet begun, so the place isn’t crowded. An older couple sits at a table near the window. A man in a DeKalb cap broods over a mug of coffee in the corner booth. Leaving my umbrella at the coatrack near the door, I walk to the counter and take a stool. A middle-aged woman in a pink golf shirt, black pants, and a black apron approaches me from behind the counter.

“What can I get for you?” she begins, giving me only half her attention.

“Coffee, please.”

“You’re in luck. Just made a pot.”

There’s a pass-through window that opens to the kitchen behind her. Beyond, a cook clad in white scrapes the grill to Zac Brown Band’s “Free.”

“You want cream with that?” The waitress sets a ceramic mug in front of me.

“Sure.”

She pulls two containers of half-and-half from her pocket and drops them on the counter.

I smile at her. “Any chance I could get a piece of that cherry pie to go with the coffee?”

“You bet.”

Two minutes later, I’m midway through the pie and on my second cup of coffee. The waitress, whose badge tells me her name is Daisy, is several feet away, wiping down the pastry display case.

“How long have you lived here in Nicktown?” I ask.

She looks at me over her shoulder. “All my life.”

“You like it?”

“It gets kind of boring, but it’s a good place to raise a family.” She saunters to the counter where I’m sitting and, taking advantage of my company, begins refilling the containers of artificial sweeteners.

“Kids?” I ask.

“Four. Oldest is in high school now. Hard to believe. Seems like yesterday when he was running around here, filling the salt and pepper shakers for me.”

“They grow up fast.” I extend my hand and introduce myself. “I’m the chief of police over in Painters Mill, Ohio.”

“Oh. A cop. Hi.” Grinning, she wipes her hand and we shake. “My husband and I were over that way couple of years ago. He photographs covered bridges. A lot of Amish there.”

“Are there many Amish in this area?”

“Used to be. Swartzentrubers, mostly. But they started moving out a couple of years ago. Didn’t like all the government rules and regulations and were always getting into trouble. You know, with zoning and such because they don’t use indoor plumbing and people were complaining about the sewage. Stuff like that.”

“I hear a lot of them are moving to Upstate New York.”

She nods. “Kind of hate to see them go, to tell you the truth. Nice Amish girl used to bring us pies, but she left with her family six months ago. And of course, the tourists always meant business for us here at the restaurant.”

“Are there any Amish left?”

“Two families that I know of.” She shrugs. “They keep to themselves, so I’m not really sure.”

I sip my coffee. “I’m looking for an Amish woman who went missing thirty-five years ago from Painters Mill. I believe she was injured and somehow ended up with a Swartzentruber family near here.”

“Oh gosh, thirty-five years is a long time. I was ten years old.”

“Do you remember hearing anything like that? Rumors, maybe?”

“Sorry, but I sure don’t.”

“Is there an Amish bishop or elder still around I could talk to?”

She looks at me over the tops of her glasses. “I don’t know about a bishop or elder, but there’s an Amish family lives down the road from my husband and me.”

“Can you tell me how to get there?”

“Sure.” She tears a sheet from her order pad and turns it over, sets it on the counter between us. “It’s not too far.” She grins. “Kind of hard to get lost in Nicktown.”

I watch her draw a crude map. “It’s only about five miles from here. Take Castine Road and then make a right at the flashing caution light.” She looks through the window toward the parking lot. “What are you driving?”

“Explorer.”

“Four-wheel drive?”

I nod.

“Good, ’cause you’re going to need it. The Swartzentrubers don’t use gravel. Their lane is dirt, and with all this rain, you’re going to sink in something awful.” She slides the map toward me. “There you go.”

“Thanks for the map.” I look at my empty plate. “And the pie.”

She smiles. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Kate Burkholder.”

*   *   *

I’m feeling a little more optimistic when I leave Lucy’s Kountry Kitchen and head north on the main drag. It’s four thirty now; I’ve devoted half the day working a hunch that has a high probability of turning into a wild goose chase. But the coffee and sugar helped, and my cop’s gut urges me to keep going.

Daisy’s directions are perfect right down to the distances. I make the turn on Castine Road and then hit the flashing caution light just a few miles down and make a right onto a dirt road. She was right about the mud, too. I encounter deep ruts and standing water, and twenty feet in, the Explorer bogs. I throw it into four-wheel drive and muscle through. Half a mile down, I come to a dirt lane. There’s no name on the mailbox, but the plainness of the house and outbuildings beyond tells me it’s an Amish home, so I turn in.

The house is white with a tin roof that’s striped with rust. It looks as if the place originally had a wraparound front porch, but over the years—probably due to a growing family or the addition of elderly parents—the porch was transformed into an extra room. The barn is also white, but in need of paint. A rail fence surrounds a muddy paddock, where several Jersey cows chew their cud, watching me.

Growing up Amish, I never thought twice about living on a farm. I’ve always been an animal lover, and having livestock was one of the things I enjoyed most. The only thing about rural life I hated was the spring mud, which was always made worse by manure. I park behind a windowless black buggy with steel-clad wooden wheels, telling me this is, indeed, a Swartzentruber farm.