When I hesitate, he adds, “I’m right about that, and you know it.”

I sigh and give a resolute nod. “Bring your slicker and your vest.”

CHAPTER 31

Ten minutes later, Pickles and I are in my Explorer, bound for the Yoder apple farm. My police radio crackles with activity as my officers and Holmes County sheriff’s deputies are dispatched to several high-water areas. I call Glock as I pull onto the highway. “I’m sorry to bother you so late,” I begin.

“I figured I was going to get a call from you with all this flooding. What’s up?”

“The rain isn’t the only thing wreaking havoc.” I give him a condensed version of my theory on Ruth Weaver.

“You want me to go with you?”

“I’ve got Pickles with me. We’re heading out there now.”

He makes an indecipherable noise in his throat, and I quickly add. “I need you to keep an eye on Norm Johnston. There’s a possibility she’ll show up there.”

“What about Blue Branson?”

“T.J.’s on his way there. I can’t imagine Weaver making a move on the police station, but…” I sigh, feeling overwhelmed and uncertain. “She’s unstable and tough to predict. Do me a favor and wear your vest, will you?”

“I’ll head over to Johnston’s now.”

I disconnect as I make the turn into the gravel lane of the Yoder place. Rain pelts the windshield as I pass the house and park in the gravel a few yards from the back door. Jamming the shifter into Park, I turn and pull a slicker from the backseat. “We’re just going to talk to her. I’m going to knock on the back door. I want you to go around to the front and make sure no one leaves. Don’t knock, okay?”

“Got it.”

I pull on the slicker and we disembark simultaneously. I wait until Pickles is around the side of the house; then I approach the back door. The rain is coming down so hard, it stings my exposed skin. I can’t hear anything over the downpour, and visibility is down to just a few yards.

Ever aware of the .38 against my hip, I use the heel of my hand to knock. To my surprise, the door rolls open, and I think, Shit. A police officer must exercise caution when entering any premises. Even in a benign situation, there’s a risk of being mistaken for an intruder and getting your ass shot off by an armed homeowner. That’s not to mention the rights and privacy issues anytime you enter a home without a warrant or the express permission of the owner. But certain circumstances transcend those things, including concern for the homeowner’s well-being. Several gnarly possibilities run through my head as I stand there, trying to decide what to do next. I’m not 100 percent certain Hannah Yoder is Ruth Weaver, which means she could be in danger, too.

“Mrs. Yoder?” I shout. “It’s Kate Burkholder with the police department. Is everything all right?”

The pound of rain is thunderous, making it impossible for me to hear anything inside or out. Pushing open the door the rest of the way, I step into the mudroom and call out for her again. “Hannah! Are you home? Is everything all right?”

No response.

I transfer the Maglite to my left hand and draw my pistol, keeping it low at my side. I walk through the mudroom to the kitchen and find it dark and empty. I go right and peer into the living room, but there’s no one there. Through the curtains at the front door, I see Pickles’ silhouette. Quickly, I ascend the stairs to the second level and check the bedrooms, the closets and the bathroom, but there’s no one there. When I come downstairs, I find Pickles standing in the mudroom.

“No one here,” he says.

I holster my sidearm. “Let’s check the barn.”

Exiting through the back door, we slog through mushy gravel and ankle-deep puddles toward the barn fifty yards away. All the while, I keep an eye on the house for movement or light. I slide open the big door and step into the large structure. Like many of the older barns in this part of Ohio, the floor is hard-packed dirt. I notice the buggy immediately. To my right are stairs that lead to the loft. Ahead are two stalls, each occupied by a horse.

“Could she have a second buggy?” Pickles asks. “Another horse?”

“It’s possible, but not probable.” I walk to the buggy and see mud, still wet, caked on the wheels. “This one’s been used recently.”

“So if she didn’t take the buggy, where the hell is she?”

“Her husband just died. It’s possible one of the local Amish families came by and picked her up. They rally when something like that happens.” I’m looking at Pickles as I speak. I can tell by his expression that neither of us believes it.

“Yeah and people confuse me with Tom Selleck,” he grumbles.

I’m in the process of closing the door when I happen to glance down and see tire tread marks in the dirt. I kneel and set the beam of my Maglite on it for a closer look.

Pickles squats beside me. “Those ain’t from no buggy.”

I look around, silently cursing the dark and the pound of rain against the tin roof. “I can’t think of a single logical reason why someone would have a vehicle out here.”

“You think she’s got a car?” he asks.

I unclip my cell and speed-dial Mona.

“Hey, Chief.” She sounds breathless and stressed. “Phones are lit up like a Christmas tree. People bugging out all along the creek.”

“I need you to check with DMV to see if anyone with the name of Ruth Weaver, Wanetta Hochstetler, or Becky Weaver in Pennsylvania or Ohio has a vehicle registered to them. While you’re at it, check Hannah and Hoch Yoder, too.”

“I’m on it.”

“Call me.”

I hit End and clip my phone to my belt. “There’s one more place I want to check.”

Pickles gives me a quizzical look.

“The old Hochstetler place,” I tell him.

“I guess it’s the perfect night for ghost hunting,” he mutters, and we walk back out into the rain.

*   *   *

Because of water on the road and low visibility, I end up creeping along at thirty miles an hour, and it takes us fifteen minutes to reach the Hochstetler farm. I nearly miss my turn into the lane, brake hard enough to skid, and then jam it into four-wheel drive and slosh up the hill. I traverse mud puddles deep enough to swallow a tire and park several yards from the hollow where the house had once stood. I kill the engine, and in the darkness and flickering lightning, the place looks like the set of some B horror movie.

“Never liked this place,” Pickles grumbles.

“You don’t believe in all that ghost talk, do you?”

He doesn’t answer, and my attempt at humor is lost.

Through the rain-streaked windshield, the old farm has a sad, abandoned appearance. The maple tree that had once stood tall in the front yard is still there but long dead. Some of the branches have rotted and fallen to the ground amongst hip-high brown weeds.

“I don’t think there’s anyone here,” I tell him. “Let’s take a quick look around and get back to the station.”

He points. “If she’s got a vehicle, she might’ve stowed it in that old round barn over there.”

I set my hand against the door handle and look at Pickles. “Just in case, you might want to keep your sidearm handy. She’s armed.”

Flipping up my hood, I get out of the Explorer. The rain hammers down on me in torrents. I can hear it pinging against the Explorer, the tin roof of the old round barn twenty yards away, and plunking into the standing water in the old basement like hailstones.

My slicker comes to my knees, and the lower half of my slacks and feet are soaked in seconds. Usually, if I’m approaching a scene and I don’t want to be visible, I wouldn’t risk using a flashlight. But nights are incredibly dark in Amish Country. No streetlights or porch lights. With the thick cloud cover, visibility is nearly down to zero. The last thing I want to do is end up in some hole or ditch, so I pull out my Maglite and we start toward the barn.