“Holy shit. The kidnapped wife?”

I relay to him everything I’ve learned in the last hours. “Evidently, she was injured and may have suffered some kind of head injury or psychological trauma that affected her memory.”

“But if she’s dead, how does—?”

“She had a daughter. Ruth Weaver. Do me a favor and run both names through NCIC and LEADS, will you?”

“Got it.”

“These two women lived off the grid. We don’t have any information on Ruth Weaver, no address or phone number, known associates, not even a description. Poke around and see if you can find something. Mona’s pretty good on the Internet. Get her to help.”

“You think this Ruth Weaver is here in Painters Mill?”

“I think she’s there, and I think she’s making good on an old debt for her mother.”

“Shit.” He pauses and I can feel our minds zinging back and forth as we try to process the information. “Where you at?”

“Pittsburgh.”

“Pittsburgh?”

“I’m on my way. How did it go with Hoch Yoder?”

“I pulled him in. At the time Jules Rutledge was murdered, he was helping one of his neighbors move cattle and hogs due to flooding. I cut him loose.”

CHAPTER 26

Four hours and 160 miles later, I’m back in Painters Mill in the interview room with Glock and Blue Branson. Glock and I spoke several times during my drive, and he relayed the news that neither Becky Weaver nor her daughter, Ruth, were in the NCIC or the Ohio-based LEADS databases. Evidently, the two women kept their noses clean. As a result—and the fact that they were Amish—we have nothing.

Carrying the Hochstetler file, I seat myself across the table from Blue, who’s slouched in his chair, staring down at his hands. Glock holds his position at the door, assuming an unobtrusive presence. I set the file on the table and press the Record button on the tape recorder, recite the date and the names of everyone present. I read the Miranda rights to Blue from a printed card and then slide the card across the table to him.

“Do you understand your rights?” I begin.

“I understand.”

Using the same tactic I used with Norm Johnston, I open the file, making sure he can see the label and photos, and rifle through a few pages. “I spent the afternoon in Cambria County, Pennsylvania.”

“I don’t know where that is,” he says in a monotone voice.

“It’s near where you and your friends threw Wanetta Hochstetler down that well and left her for dead. Ring a bell?”

Blue Branson has as good a poker face as anyone I’ve ever met. But he can’t conceal his shock. He stares at me, unblinking, his mouth partially open, wondering how I could possibly know.

“She survived,” I tell him.

He drops his gaze to the tabletop, his eyes darting, landing on nothing, like a trapped animal about to take some fatal leap to avoid being ripped to shreds by a much larger predator.

“I know you were at the Hochstetler farm the night Willis Hochstetler was killed. I know you and your friends kidnapped Wanetta Hochstetler. I know you took her across the state line into Pennsylvania.”

Blue looks up, his gaze digging into mine. I hold my breath, hoping he doesn’t ask for his lawyer again, because that would bring the interview—and any progress on the case—to a screeching halt.

“She tell you that?” he asks after a moment.

I’m under no obligation to inform him that Wanetta Hochstetler died two months ago. I don’t reveal that bit of information, because I know keeping him in the dark will work to my advantage. “I know what you did, Blue. I know what all of you did. You’re going to be charged, and the only thing that can help you now is cooperation. Do you understand?”

Blue studies the tabletop. Beneath his goatee, I see the muscles in his jaws working. After a full two minutes of silence, he raises his eyes to mine. “Is that woman the one who killed them?”

“That woman?” I say. “You mean Wanetta Hochstetler, don’t you?” I’m humanizing her, hoping to guilt him into cooperating. “She was a young Amish mother with five children and a husband. A religious woman who loved God. She loved her children. She loved her life. You took all of that away from her.”

He looks away, but not before I see a flash of anguish in his eyes. He shakes his head as if to rid himself of the memory, of any culpability. “She’d be old by now. Sixty or seventy. How could she kill three people? Men twice her size?”

I don’t answer his question. For the span of several minutes, no one speaks. I let the silence ride, hoping it will rattle him. But I know Blue Branson is not easily shaken. I know he’s not going to volunteer information without coercion.

“This case is going to go federal,” I tell him. “You kidnapped a woman and crossed a state line. The FBI will probably assume jurisdiction. Children were killed in the commission of a felony. That could turn this into a death penalty case. Once those things happen, it’s out of my control.” I wait a beat. “Tell me what happened that night, and I’ll go to bat for you. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure your cooperation is taken into consideration by the court.” I stop speaking and hold his gaze. “I can’t help you unless you help me.”

“What will happen to Crossroads?” he asks, referring to his church. “My work … it’s important. Not to me, Chief Burkholder, but to the people I help.”

“I can’t answer that.”

We fall silent. The room is so quiet I can hear the tick of the clock on the wall. The muffled ringing of the phone in the reception area down the hall. Several minutes pass, but I’m not inclined to rush this. The longer we’re here, the better my chances of walking away with something I can use.

When he finally speaks, his voice is so low and rough, I have to lean closer to hear. “I was there that night.”

“At the Hochstetler home?”

“Yes.”

“Who else was there?”

“Dale Michaels. Jerrold McCullough.” He heaves a heavy sigh. “Jules.”

“Was Norm Johnston there?”

He gives me a dark look, and I realize he knows Johnston was the person who’d come forward. “He was supposed to meet us, but didn’t show.”

“Did he know what was going down?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t tell him, but I reckon he figured it out.”

I nod. “Tell me what happened, so we can put this behind us and decide what we’re going to do next.”

Another lengthy silence ensues, and then he says, “Johnston told me the Amish kid was bragging about his father keeping a lot of cash at the house.”

“Hoch Yoder?”

“Yeah.”

“Was Hoch in on it?”

“No. I’m just telling you that because that’s how the whole thing started. I told Dale, and we talked about hitting their farm. At first neither of us was serious. We were just a couple of stupid teenagers looking for a thrill, talking about some big score that wouldn’t ever happen. We were going to buy a kilo of cocaine with the money. McCullough knew a guy. He’d cut it for us, and then we’d sell it by the gram. A onetime deal, but we’d triple our money, and that would be the end of it. But Jerrold got pretty excited about the idea. Too excited. He wouldn’t stop talking about it. He fired everyone up, made it sound daring and cool, and we’d make a ton of easy money in the process. I mean, the family was Amish, right? They wouldn’t defend themselves—and no one would get hurt. No one would ever know, and we’d get off scot-free.”

“At some point, you got serious,” I prod, “and you worked out a plan?”

“Go in hard. At night. Intimidate them. Get the cash and then get out quick, and no one gets hurt.”

“What went wrong?”

“Everything. We were nervous. Scared. We’d been drinking. Liquid courage, I guess. We were all pumped up on adrenaline. I was with Jules for a while back then. We’d … been fighting. I was … pissed off.…” His words trail. “God almighty. I can barely remember.”