“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Jodie’s flooded in, so I told her I’d cover her shift.” She rises and crosses to me, her hand extended with a dozen or so pink slips. “I hate to hit you with this with everything else that’s going on, but I just took a 911 from Randy Trask. He says the water’s up over the Tuscarawas Bridge.”
“Of course it is,” I mutter.
The Tuscarawas Bridge is a covered bridge of historical significance and a Painters Mill icon that spans Painters Creek and part of a floodplain. “Get T.J. out there to set up flares. Notify the sheriff’s department.” I take the messages and glance through them. “I want the road blocked and a detour set up.” I pour coffee into my cup, knowing there’s always some motorist who’s in a hurry and takes a chance by driving through high water. “Give the mayor a call and put in a call to ODOT.”
“Will do.” I can tell by the way she’s fidgeting that she’s got something else on her mind. Before I can ask, she blurts, “Chief, I think I found something on Ruth Weaver.”
I set the coffeepot back on the burner and give her my full attention. “Let’s see it.”
I follow her to the dispatch station. She slides behind her computer and deftly runs her fingers over the keyboard. An instant later, a photo of an Amish woman appears on the screen. I guess her to be about twenty-five to thirty years old. Plain gray dress. Dark bonnet. Swartzentruber, I think.
“I found it on a blog site,” she tells me. “A blogger posted it eight years ago on a site called A Lid for Every Pot.”
“That’s an old Amish saying,” I murmur.
“I was just messing around and did a search for Nanty Glo, Pennsylvania, and the blog came up. I started reading, and the blogger, a lady by the name of Gwen Malcolm, had driven across Pennsylvania while on vacation and ran across this Amish woman on the roadside selling handwoven baskets. She bought a basket and started talking to the woman and somehow ended up taking the photo, which she used in her blog.”
“That’s surprising,” I say. “That dress and bonnet are Swartzentruber.”
“According to the blogger, the Amish woman’s name is Ruth Weaver.”
I lean closer to the monitor. “Can you enlarge it?”
“Yeah, but we lose resolution.” She taps a menu tab, and a larger but grainier photo augments.
I stare at the woman’s face, and a vague sense of familiarity grips me. I know it’s impossible; I’ve never met Ruth Weaver. Still, staring at the photo is like having a word on the tip of your tongue that you can’t quite conjure. “Mona, I think I’ve seen her before.”
“Here in Painters Mill? Or when you drove over to Pennsylvania?”
“I’m not sure. But her face … there’s something familiar about her.”
“Like passing-on-the-street familiar or you’ve-talked-to-her familiar?”
“I don’t know.” I shift my attention to Mona. “See if you can get in touch with the blogger and get your hands on a better photo. Or if she has others, ask her to send them.”
“I’ll do it right now.”
“E-mail it to me.”
“Will do.”
Half an hour later, I’m in my office on my second cup of coffee, staring at the grainy photo on my twenty-one-inch monitor. I hit the Print key and the printer spits out a not-so-great black-and-white reproduction. Grabbing it out of the tray, I leave my office, and head to the jail cell located in the basement.
Skid is sitting in the chair with his feet on the desk, playing with his iPad. “Oh. Hey.” His fleet slide from the desk. “Didn’t realize you were here.”
I glance at the cell, where Blue Branson lies on his cot, watching me. “Get up,” I tell him, crossing to the cell door.
The big man rolls and gets to his feet. His hair is mussed. His face pushed slightly aside. His typically crisp white shirt is wilted. Somehow he looks older than last time I saw him. He looks at me with eyes shot with red as he pulls his black jacket over his shoulders.
“I need you to look at a photo,” I tell him.
“All right.” He approaches me.
When he’s close enough, I produce the eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch photo. “Do you recognize this woman?”
He fumbles for his reading glasses, shoves them onto his nose, and takes a good look at the photo. When he raises his eyes to mine, his face is white all the way down to his lips. “Where did you get this?” he asks.
“Who is she?”
“That’s Wanetta Hochstetler.”
“It can’t be.” I tap the photo with my thumb. “The photo is eight years old. The woman is too young to be Wanetta Hochstetler.”
“I reckon I ought to know, Chief Burkholder. It’s her.”
I lower the photo, not sure if he’s telling the truth or trying to muddy the water. “You had better not be yanking my chain.”
“With God as my witness, that’s Wanetta Hochstetler.”
I leave without thanking him. As I go through the door, he calls out my name, but I don’t look back.
On the way back to my office, I peek my head into the reception area. “Mona, call Pickles and tell him I want him in my office ASAP.”
* * *
It takes Pickles fifteen minutes to appear at my office door.
“How is it out there?” I ask, referring to the weather.
“Bad.” He shuffles to the visitor chair adjacent my desk and settles into it. “Never seen it rain like this.”
“I need an ID on this woman.” I slide the printed photograph toward him. “Do you know who she is?”
He pulls his reading glasses from his uniform pocket and tilts his head back to look at the photo through the bifocals. “Damn, Chief, she kind of looks like Wanetta Hochstetler.”
“The photo was taken eight years ago. It can’t be Wanetta. Pickles, I think it’s her daughter.”
“Daughter? I didn’t realize she had a—”
“She does.” Sighing because I didn’t intend to snap, I tell him about my trip to Pennsylvania.”
“Well, damn.” He squints at the photo again. “Photo is kind of grainy. But the features are similar. Looks like she might have blond hair beneath that bonnet.”
I turn to my computer and pull up the image. “The resolution is a little better here.”
He rises to come around my desk and look at the monitor. We stare at it, not speaking.
“Huh.” Pickles rubs his chin.
“What?”
He points at the woman’s face, his finger hovering an inch from the screen. “You put dark hair on her, and she kind of looks like Hoch Yoder’s wife.”
“I don’t see it.” I study the photo, trying to imagine Hoch’s wife with brown hair. All the while, something niggles at the back of my mind.
“So we may have an ID on the killer,” he says. “You want me to add that to the BOLO?”
I can’t stop staring at the photo. You put dark hair on her, and she kind of looks like Hoch Yoder’s wife. Tunnel vision narrows my sight until all I can see is her face. Everything around me fades away. I can feel my heart thudding against my breast, my pulse roaring in my ears. From somewhere in the backwaters of my mind, I recall my conversation with the CSU technician about a hair found at the scene of the Michaels murder. This was a long hair. Blond that was dyed brown. I remember that because it’s unusual for a woman with naturally blond hair to dye it brown.
Unless she’s trying to hide something …
A cold realization augments inside me. I almost can’t believe what I’m thinking, because the possibility makes me sick to my stomach. “Oh my God.” I stand so quickly, my chair rolls back.
“Chief?”
I jab my finger against the photo. “That’s Weaver. I thought she and her mother were living off the grid because they were Swartzentruber. But the real reason is so much more insidious. Pickles, I think Wanetta Hochstetler devoted her life to instilling her hatred into her daughter so that Ruth would come back to Painters Mill and ki
ll the men who’d murdered her family—her children—and destroyed her life.”
His rheumy eyes sharpen on mine. “Jesus, Chief, what kind of parent does that?”
“An insane one.” I look at him, my mind reeling, still trying to put all the jagged pieces together. The picture that emerges is almost too ugly to consider. “I think Wanetta became pregnant from multiple rapes that night. I think that sent her over the edge. She had the baby, but … there was a part of her that hated her daughter. Hated her because of what she represented.”
“Son of a bitch. How do you hate a little girl?”
“Pickles, this is so twisted, I can barely get my mind around it. But you mentioned the woman in that photo looks like Hoch Yoder’s wife.” I swallow something bitter at the back of my throat. “Do you think it could be Hannah Yoder?
He stares at me, shocked by my words and the story they paint. “But that would mean … You think she married her half brother?”
“I don’t know if I’m right, but it fits.” I recall my last conversation with Hoch, and another piece of the puzzle snaps into place. “Hoch told me that a few days before the home invasion, he’d bragged about his datt keeping a lot of money at the house. That’s why he’s always blamed himself for what happened.”
Pickles thinks about that a moment. “It sounds like he wasn’t the only one who blamed himself. Maybe his mama blamed him, too.”
“I can’t fathom how her daughter would know about what happened. Or how a mother could hold her fourteen-year-old son responsible.”
He shrugs. “Maybe one of the men told her. Salt on the wound kind of thing. If you look at what they did to her. Rape is about violence and pain and degradation. What better way to destroy this woman than to tell her that her own son was the one who set everything into motion?”
“Chief!”
I look up at the sound of Mona’s voice to see her standing at the door to my office. “I just took a 911 from a driver out on Township Road 1. She drove through some standing water and her car got swept into the creek. She has a bunch of kids with her, and now they’re on the roof.”
Across from me, Pickles stirs, as if from habit he’s ready to go. “Get Skid out there,” I tell her. “Call the sheriff’s office and fire department, too.”
“Got it.”
Pickles shifts restlessly. “Damn people never learn about driving through water,” he grumbles.
“I’ve got to get out to Yoder’s place.” I start to rise.
“Chief. Wait.” He leans across the desk, and he reaches out, his eyes filled with determination. “Look, I know I’m a little past my prime, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go out there by yourself.”
“The sheriff’s department—”
“With all this flooding, every agency between here and Cleveland is going to have their hands full, and it’s only going to get worse.”
“Pickles—”
“I can handle it.” He growls the word with a good bit of attitude, and for a moment I see him as the cocky young police officer he’d once been. The adrenaline-addicted cop who’d spent months working undercover and risked his life to do it.
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.”
The Dead Will Tell: A Kate Burkholder Novel Page 24