“Hoch Yoder!” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder!”

There used to be a big window in the front with a wood shutter that hung down from the top and was propped open with a board. Now, the shutter hangs by a single hinge that squeaks like some injured rodent in an intermittent breeze.

I shine my light along the front of the building. Sure enough, the tracks lead to a stone walkway that’s barely visible through the high weeds. I follow them around to the side of the building and find muddy footprints on the concrete stoop.

“Hoch!” I call out, and identify myself again. Holding my flashlight steady, I shove open the door with my foot and thrust the flashlight inside. The smell of rotting wood and wet earth and a darker smell I don’t want to name greets me. I get the impression of a single room, fifteen feet square. To my right there are several busted-up bushel baskets and an ancient apple cider press. To my left, the old counter has collapsed into itself. I see half an oak barrel on the floor. Several plastic jugs—the kind used for cider. Ahead I see an old rectangular table and several chairs. Beyond, Hoch Yoder lies on the floor next to an old potbellied stove.

“Hoch!” I run to him, drop to my knees beside him. He’s lying in a supine position. I know instantly he’s dead. His left arm is over his head, his right is bent at the elbow with his hand near his shoulder. His head is twisted to one side. I force myself to look at his face. His flesh is that terrible color of blue gray. His staring eyes are sticky-looking and beginning to cloud. Still, I reach out and press my finger against his carotid artery. His skin is cold to the touch, like rubber. There’s no pulse.

“Oh … Hoch.”

A .22-caliber revolver lies on the dirt floor a few inches from his right hand. Rising, I turn away from the sight and grapple for my cell phone. Even though we use the ten code system here in Painters Mill, there are certain situations that are best handled off the radio. A lot of people in the area have police scanners. It’s never a good thing for them to find out about a death before the next of kin.

“Mona.”

“Hey, Chief.”

“I’m out here at the Yoder Apple Farm. I found Hoch Yoder. He’s DOA. Possible suicide.”

“Do you want me to send the coroner?”

“Yeah.” I look at Hoch and, in light of the murders, I’m reminded that not every scene is as it appears at first glance. “Give BCI a call, too, will you? See if we can get a CSU out here.”

“Got it.” A thoughtful pause ensues. “You sound kind of funny, Chief. Are you okay?”

I’m not sure how to respond to that. I’m not okay. I feel sucker-punched because this decent man saw death as a better alternative than life—and his only escape from the truth and the agony of his past. I can’t help but wonder if our conversation the night before was the final straw.

But this isn’t about me or the way I feel. It’s about hatred and revenge and stopping a killer.

CHAPTER 29

According to a poll I read in a magazine a while back, something like 71 percent of people hate their jobs. I’m lucky because I’m one of the minority. In fact, most days I love my job. I love being a police officer. I enjoy my duties as chief and the people I work with on a daily basis. I take pride in what I do, and I take seriously my oath to serve and protect the citizens of Painters Mill. But no job is perfect, including mine. Tonight, I hate my job with a passion.

T.J. is the first to arrive. We spend a few minutes walking the scene, and then I help him mark the perimeter with yellow caution tape. All the while the knowledge that Hannah Yoder is back at the house, frightened and wondering why a second police unit has arrived, beats at the back of my brain. I know that in a few minutes I’m going to bring her world crashing down around her.

I wait until I see the flashing lights of the ambulance coming through the gate before I trudge through the mud toward the house. Usually, when I have to notify an Amish person that their next of kin has died, I’ll pick up Bishop Troyer for counsel. This morning, I don’t have that option; I can’t keep Hannah waiting that long. And I realize with some surprise that the bishop is probably as much help to me as he is to the grieving loved ones.

I hit my lapel mike as I leave the orchard and pass through the gate. “Mona?”

“I’m here, Chief.”

“Will you have someone from the sheriff’s office pick up Bishop Troyer and bring him to the Yoder farm?”

“Will do.”

I find Hannah standing on the sidewalk a few yards from her back porch, watching the ambulance make its way toward the mill house. I take a shortcut through the side yard and traverse the distance between us. “Hannah?”

“Did you find Hoch?” she asks. “Is he all right? Why is that ambulance here?” She pelts me with rapid-fire questions as she rushes toward me, her eyes never leaving the orchard behind me, where the flashing lights of the ambulance are still visible through the trees. “Is he hurt?”

“Hannah, I’m sorry but Hoch is dead.”

“What?” She coughs out a strangled sound. “That’s not possible. He just went for a walk…”

Around us a steady rain pours down from the predawn sky, but neither of us notices the cold or wet. She keeps craning her neck to look around me, trying to see past me, past the trees, as if expecting Hoch to emerge from the orchard and tell us all of this is some big misunderstanding.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her.

“No.” Her eyes find mine, but I can see there’s a part of her that isn’t there. There’s a blankness on her face, as if she’s gone inside herself, where the pain of this can’t reach her. Shock, I think, and I find myself hoping the sheriff’s office gets Bishop Troyer here quickly, because I’m not sure I can handle this alone.

“But how?” Her eyes search mine. “Did that woman do something to him? Hurt him?”

From where I’m standing, I can see her entire body shaking. Her shawl is soaked and sagging against her. I reach out and touch her arm. “Let’s get out of the rain so we can talk.”

“I don’t want to talk.” She shakes off my hand. “I want to see Hoch.”

“Hannah, that’s not a good idea.”

“Please. I want to see him.”

“Bishop Troyer’s on his way,” I tell her. “We need to be here to meet him.” I motion toward the door. “Let’s go inside and wait for him, okay?”

She blinks rain from her eyes, looking at me as if I’m speaking some language she doesn’t understand.

“It’s going to be all right,” I tell her.

“That’s what Hoch always says,” she whispers. “Only it’s not, is it?”

“No,” I tell her. “It’s not.”

Looping my arm around hers, I guide her to the house.

*   *   *

It’s past noon when I leave the Yoder place, and I’m so exhausted, I can barely see straight as I drive home. I park in my usual spot and drag myself to the door. Inside, I drape my mud-spattered slicker on the coatrack. My boots and slacks are caked with mud, so I take them off at the door and carry both to the laundry room. In the bedroom, I drop my holster and .38 onto the night table next to the bed. I lose the rest of my clothes on the way to the shower and spend fifteen minutes washing away the remnants of a day I’d like nothing more than to forget. I stumble to the bedroom naked and crawl between sheets that smell like Tomasetti. I curl up in the essence of him and tumble into a hard, troubled sleep.

I dream of Hoch Yoder. I’m Amish and my datt has brought Jacob and Sarah and me to Yoder’s Pick-Your-Own Apple Farm for apple butter, cider, and a bushel of McIntosh apples. I’m happy to be there, looking forward to playing hide-and-seek. The three of us run into the orchard, calling out to each other, hiding among the trees. I’ve found the perfect hiding place when the orchard goes silent and dark. I can no longer hear my siblings. Frightened, I leave my spot, but no matter how hard I search, I can’t find them. Thunder rumbles and the wind picks up, warning me of a storm. When I look up, the sun is black and the rain is red, falling onto me like blood from the sky.