“Wouldn’t be the first time cops used a witness to nab a bad guy.”

I meet his gaze and we stare at each other across the spans of my desk, our minds working over the logistics as we were considering doing something we shouldn’t be considering. “It’s a bad idea. Lots of things could go wrong.”

“On the other hand,” he says slowly, “it might be our best hope of getting our hands on Weaver. We keep it simple. Drive him back to his place and stay with him, out of sight. Make sure he’s visible. See what happens.”

“Things could go bad pretty fast, Glock. Blue could make a run for it. Weaver could take a shot at him.”

“So we put a vest on him.”

“Maybe an ankle monitor…” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I did not just say that.”

Glock grins. “Yes, you did. Sheriff’s Department has an ankle monitor, Chief. I can run over there and pick it up.”

My smile feels like wax on my face. “You’re not making it easy to say no.”

“This woman, this Ruth Weaver, is working fast,” he says. “We know Blue is a viable target. It could work.”

I give a nod, but the decision leaves a jittery sensation in the pit of my stomach. “Put Blue back in a cell and go get that ankle monitor.” I look at my watch. “Meet me back here in an hour. I’ve got to break the news to Hoch Yoder.”

CHAPTER 27

It’s 11 P.M. by the time I turn into the gravel lane of Yoder’s Pick-Your-Own Apple Farm. The shop is closed this time of night, so I continue down the lane to the house and park adjacent a white rail fence. A single upstairs window glows with lantern light. After shutting down the engine, I leave my vehicle and go through the gate and take the sidewalk to the front of the house and knock.

I wait several minutes before the door opens. Hoch Yoder thrusts a lantern at me, his eyes widening upon spotting me. “Chief Burkholder. Was der schinner is letz?” What in the world is wrong?

“I’m sorry to bother you so late, Hoch. I need to talk to you.” When he hesitates, I add. “It’s important.”

“Of course.” He opens the door wider and beckons me inside.

I follow him through a darkened living room and into the kitchen. I take the same chair I took last time I was here. He goes to the counter, removes the globe of a second lantern, and lights the mantle.

“Hoch?”

I glance toward the kitchen doorway to see his wife, Hannah, enter. She’s wearing a blue sleeping gown with a crocheted shawl over her shoulders. She looks from her husband to me. “Is everything all right?”

“I have some news for Hoch,” I tell her. “About the case from 1979.”

They exchange looks, and then Hannah joins him at the counter, sets her hand on his arm. “I’ll make cider.”

Giving her a nod, he crosses to the table and sits across from me. “Did you catch them?”

“I believe all but one of the people responsible for what happened that night is dead.”

“Dead? But…” Realization dawns on his face. “You mean those people who were murdered?”

I nod. “The fourth man is in custody. He confessed.”

“Confessed? Who is it?”

“Blue Branson.”

“The Englischer breddicher?” The English preacher? Incredulity rings hard in his voice. “But why … He … Mein gott. I have no words.”

“Hoch, I can’t go into much detail, because the investigation is ongoing. But … I have some information for you.”

Hannah approaches the table with three mugs of cider. “Chief Burkholder,” she begins, “are you certain about Pastor Branson?” She sets the mugs in front of us. “He seems like such a decent, God-loving man. He donated a hundred dollars when Chubby Joe Esh’s house burned last year. He came out and worked alongside the Amish to help rebuild.”

“I have his full confession.” I turn my attention back to Hoch. “I know what happened to your mother. Some of this will be difficult for you to hear, but I think there are some things you need to know.”

He opens his mouth, but no words come. For an instant, his lips quiver, like a mute man trying to speak. “It’s terrible?”

“It’s bad,” I tell him. “I’m sorry.”

Hannah sinks into the chair next to him, sets her hand on his forearm again, and squeezes so firmly, her knuckles turn white. “We value the light more fully after we’ve come through the darkness,” she murmurs in Pennsylvania Dutch.

Bolstered by her words, Hoch looks at me and nods.

As gently as possible, leaving out most of the sordid details, I convey to him the account of events that Blue relayed to me earlier. “She passed away two months ago,” I finish.

He blinks at me, hurt and confusion twisting his features. “But if she was alive, why didn’t she come back?”

“We may never know.” I shrug. “Maybe she suffered a traumatic brain injury. Sometimes those kinds of injuries can affect memory, and in some cases, the patient’s personality. She may not have remembered who she was or even her name.”

“Blue Branson did that to her?” he asks, incredulous. “Forced her and then left her for dead?”

“Yes.”

Next to him, Hannah lowers her head and puts her face in her hands. “She is with God now. At peace. We can take comfort in that.”

The Amish man sets both elbows on the table and looks down at the untouched mug of cider in front of him. “She was alive. All this time.”

“Hoch, I know this is difficult, but there’s more.”

“There’s more than that?” He raises his gaze to mine. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Was your mother with child when she disappeared? Had she mentioned it?”

“With child? No.” He says the word with a defensiveness that tells me he knows where I’m going with this.

“I believe your mother had a child. A daughter.”

“What? But … When?” Making a sound of distress, he sets his fingers against his temples and massages. “I have a sister?” He raises his head. My heart twists when I see a tremulous smile on his lips. “A sister.”

“Hoch, it’s more complicated than that. We’re looking for her. We think—”

“Looking for her? You mean the police? But why?”

“I’m sorry, but I think she may be involved with these murders.”

He goes still. “You think she killed those three people?” His gaze searches mine. In their depths, I see his mind digging into all the dark crevices of the past. Remembering things he’s been trying to forget. “How old is this woman who claims to be my sister?”

“She’s about thirty-five years old.”

Hannah goes to the sink and begins to wash her mug.

I see Hoch’s mind working over the time frame, and I know he’s doing the math. “So this woman … she could be my half sister.”

“It’s possible.”

“My mother endured much suffering.”

“Yes. You, too.”

From her place at the sink, Hannah looks at me over her shoulder, and I see tears on her cheeks. “Sell is en shlimm shtoahri.” That is a terrible story. “It breaks my heart.”

“I’m sorry.” I look at Hoch. “Can I talk to you alone?”

Wariness enters his eyes. At first I think he’s going to refuse; then he nods at his wife. “Leave us for a moment, Hannah.”

She bows her head slightly, dries her hands on a dish towel, and leaves the kitchen.

When we’re alone, I say, “In your statement, you told the police that one of the men threw the lantern down the steps and into the basement, causing the fire that killed the children.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“Blue Branson claims none of them threw the lantern. That they forced all of you into the basement without any light.”

He blinks at me, unspeaking.

That he doesn’t deny Blue’s assertion stirs a small ping of skepticism, of pain—and compassion. “Hoch, I’m not here to lay blame. You were the victim of a crime that night. I just want to make sure I have all the facts and that those facts are correct because it will have a bearing on the case. Is Blue telling the truth about the lantern? Is it possible the lantern was already in the basement and the children lit it?”