The Dead Will Tell (28 page)

“Maybe she’s
your
daughter, Blue.”

He stares at me, blinking. His mouth forms words, but no sound emerges from his throat, and I feel a small, cruel sense of satisfaction.

“This is your chance to redeem yourself.” I move away from him and stand. “You interested?”

“I’m interested.” Regaining his composure, he bends to roll down his pants and then gets to his feet. “Whatever you think of me, I’ll help anyway I can.”

“That’s big of you,” I say.

Glock hands me the black Kevlar vest and I pass it to Blue. “I think you know what this is,” I tell him. “Put it on. Under your shirt.”

He stares at me as he unbuttons his shirt and takes it off. I keep my eyes on his as the pasty skin and sagging flesh of his chest come into view. “How do you know she has a daughter?” he asks.

“I went to Pennsylvania,” I tell him.

Setting his shirt on the bunk, he shoves his arms through the openings of the vest. “Are they together?” he asks. “Wanetta Hochstetler and her … daughter?”

Instead of answering, I glance over at Glock, who steps forward and tugs the vest closed and smoothes down the Velcro closures.

“So we go to my place and wait for them to show?” Blue asks as he buttons his shirt.

“That’s about the size of it.” I hand him the keys to his truck. “You’re driving. Officer Maddox is riding shotgun. And I do mean shotgun, so don’t do anything stupid.”

“I think I’ve used up my quota of stupid,” he says.

“You’re not going to get an argument from us on that,” Glock tells him.

*   *   *

I don’t like the idea of Blue getting behind the wheel any more than I like the idea of using him as bait. But despite the heinous nature of his past crimes, I don’t believe he has any intention of harming anyone or running. The one thing I do know is that if the sting is going to be successful, Ruth Weaver must believe Blue is alone and free of police surveillance.

We’re at the police station, standing outside the interview room. “Here’s how it’s going to go down,” I tell Blue. “Once you reach your house, you’ll pull into the garage and park just like you always do. Once the garage door is closed, you and Officer Maddox will go inside. Did you leave any lights on?”

“Nope. Never do.”

“Are there any curtains open?”

“Kitchen, I think. There’s a window above the sink, and I got a bird feeder out there.”

“Since those curtains are open, do not turn on any lights until Officer Maddox takes his position in the hallway outside the bedrooms. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I want Officer Maddox’s eyes on you at all times, Blue. If you screw that up, the deal is off and we take you back to jail and I’ll lobby heavily when it comes time for the prosecutor to file charges. Do you understand?”

“I got it.”

“Once Officer Maddox is in position, I want you to turn on all the lights. I want you to open the drapes or blinds. Make yourself visible from outside. If there’s a TV in your living room, I want it on and I want you on the sofa, visible through the front window.”

He nods.

“What’s behind the house?” I ask Blue.

“Woods.”

“Lots of places to hide back there,” Glock puts in.

“Do you have a back patio?” I ask Blue.

He nods.

“We believe Jerrold McCullough was accosted on his back patio. We found pieces of a broken mug that had been swept over the side. If you want to move around, you can go out onto the patio, as if you’re enjoying the fresh air.”

At his nod, I address Glock, “I’ll be parked next door at Brewer’s Salvage Yard. I’ll have my cell and the radio. And a pretty good view of Blue’s house and front yard, but I can’t see the back from there.”

Blue speaks up. “You can see the backyard from the master bedroom.” He looks at Glock. “I can show you if you want.”

Glock frowns at him. “I’ll figure it out. You just do as you’re told.”

“Give me a few minutes to get into position at the salvage yard,” I tell Glock. “There are a couple of places I can park and not be seen from the street or Blue’s place.”

“You got it, Chief.” He gives me a let’s-do-this nod. “Watch your back.”

“You, too.”

*   *   *

Twenty minutes later, I’m in the Explorer with the vehicle wedged between a corrugated fence and the forklift used to move scrap metal. A foot-wide section of fence is missing, which gives me a decent view of Branson’s house and front yard. I’ve been there only a few minutes when I see the flash of headlights and then Blue’s Mustang barrels down the lane. The twin headlight beams play over the facade of the house. The security light blinks on and the garage door rolls up. I try, but even with the vehicle illuminated by the garage light, I can’t see Glock. So far, so good.

A moment later, the garage door rolls down. Another minute, and a light appears in the front window. My cell vibrates against my hip, and Glock’s name pops up on the display. “The eagle has landed,” he says.

“Roger that. I’m in place. How’s the view?”

“I’m in the rear bedroom. I can see the backyard to the fence from here.”

“Good.” I pause. “Blue behaving himself?”

“Like an angel.”

“Make sure he stays visible,” I say. “Going to be a long night. Let’s do everything we can to draw this woman out.”

“Got it.”

I end the call and settle in for the wait.

*   *   *

By 4:30 a.m., I’m stiff and cold and convinced the entire operation is a bust. Not only am I stretching the rules by involving Blue, but I’m also starting to think I was a fool for thinking it would work. Of course, I went into this knowing there was a high probability that Ruth Weaver wouldn’t show. I could spend a week parked in this junkyard, and it could all be a waste. Still, it was worth a shot, but disappointing nonetheless.

I’ve talked to Glock six times and Mona twice in the last three and a half hours, eaten an energy bar I found in my glove compartment that was a month past its expiration date, and left my vehicle to pee in the weeds next to a totaled ’72 Ford LTD.

I’m thinking about throwing in the towel—at least for the night—when my cell vibrates. I glance down to see Mona’s name on the display. “Hey, Mona.”

“Chief, I’m sorry to bother you, but I thought you should know … Hoch Yoder called for you a few minutes ago. Wouldn’t say what he wanted, but he sounded … strange. I offered to patch him through, but he started talking about souls and forgiveness and then he just hung up.”

I pause, trying to ignore the twinge of worry threading through my gut. “Do you know where he was calling from?”

“That Amish community pay phone at Hogpath Road and the township road.”

“Did you call him back?”

“I let it ring like twenty times, but he didn’t pick up.”

I sigh. “There’s nothing going on here. I’m going to call this off for now and head out to the Yoder place to make sure everything’s okay.”

“You want me to let Glock know?”

“I’ll call him,” I tell her. “Thanks for the heads-up.” I hit End and dial Glock. “We need to wrap this up,” I say, and tell him about the call from Hoch Yoder.

“You want me to meet you out there?” he asks.

“I’ve got it. I don’t expect any trouble, but I’m a little concerned. He was pretty upset when I told him about his mother.”

“Gotcha.”

“Take Blue back to the station and put him in a cell.” I choose my next words with care because I don’t want to seem paranoid. But I know this is one of those situations when paranoid isn’t necessarily a bad thing. “Stay with him until I get back.”

“Ten four.”

*   *   *

I cruise by the phone booth Hoch used on my way to the Yoder place, but there’s no one there. The closer I get, the more convinced I become that there’s something wrong. I can’t imagine Hoch calling the police at four thirty in the morning unless there’s a problem. I’m also aware that Hoch, along with his half sister, both have a motive for murder.

The black trunks of naked apple trees blur by as I head toward the farm. I find my eyes combing the ditches on either side of the road, looking for a buggy or pedestrian—anything out of the norm. The fruit stand is closed up and dark, so I speed past and make a left into the lane. Slinging mud, gravel pinging in the wheel wells of the Explorer, I barrel toward the house. A hard stop, and I’m out of the vehicle and jogging toward the house.

Hoch’s wife, Hannah, comes through the door as I reach the steps. “Chief Burkholder?”

She’s still in her sleeping gown, but has thrown a shawl over her shoulders. Her damp hair tells me she’s already been outside.

“Hoch called the police department earlier,” I tell her. “Is everything all right?”

She blinks, and I can tell she’s struggling to hold back tears. “I can’t find him,” she blurts. “I woke up twenty minutes ago. I thought he’d gone out to the fruit stand, but he’s not there.”

“Did he take the buggy?”

“He harnessed the horse, but left the buggy in the barn.”

“He took it to the pay phone down the road,” I say, thinking aloud. “He must have come back.”

“Why would he leave at this hour to call the police?”

“Hannah, is it possible he couldn’t sleep and started his chores early? Or is there a place on the property he might go if he’s troubled and needs some time alone?”

She shakes her head. “I checked the shop and the fruit stand first thing, but he’s not at either place. I called out to him, but he didn’t answer. I even tried the dinner bell, in case he was out walking in the orchard. Chief Burkholder, he didn’t make coffee. He
always
makes coffee.”

“How was his frame of mind after I left last night? Was he upset or acting strangely?”

“He was … quiet. He gets that way when he’s restless.” She pauses, her face screwing up slightly. “Do you think that crazy woman who killed those men would go after Hoch, too?”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions just yet.” But my own mind has already ventured into the same territory.

She nods, but I can plainly see by the way she’s shaking that she doesn’t believe me.

“When did you last see him?” I ask.

“Last night. At bedtime.”

“What time was that?”

“Eleven or so.”

“Do you mind if I take a look around your property?”

She brightens, as if pleased to have something proactive to do. “I’ll go with you.”

“I’d prefer if you stayed here.” I set my hand on her shoulder and give a reassuring squeeze. “In case he comes back while I’m gone.”

Wringing her hands, she crosses to the porch and sits on the step, not caring about the damp. “I know God will take care of him. But I’m frightened.”

I hit my lapel mike. “T.J.?”

“Hey, Chief.”

“Any sign of anyone at Norm’s place?”

“Nothing here.”

I fill him in on the situation. “Will you take a cruise around the block out here at the Hochstetler farm?”

“Will do.”

I disconnect to see Hannah returning from the mudroom off the kitchen with a pair of mud boots in hand. “He didn’t take his boots with him. If he’d been going out, he would have taken them.”

“Go inside and lock the doors,” I tell her. I’m going to take a look around. I’ll be back in a few minutes, all right?”

Nodding, she goes back into the house and closes the door behind her. I hold my ground until I hear the lock click, and then I go to the Explorer. It’s drizzling, so I pull on my slicker, grab my full-size Maglite, and head into the darkness.

I begin my search at the fruit stand. The structure is small, and within minutes I’ve determined that Hoch isn’t there. The only visible footprints are Hannah’s. I leave the fruit stand and take the gravel driveway to the rear of the house, where a ten-foot-wide gate opens to the orchard. The hinges squeak as I open it and go through. Mud sucks at my boots as I follow the two-track path toward the trees where the road splits. I set my beam on the ground in front of me and spot a single set of tracks. The mud is too sloppy for me to discern the size or type of shoe, but they go left, so I follow.

Around me the night is as dark and wet as some underwater cave. The air is heavy with mist, and I can feel the cold weight of it pressing down on me. The tracks take me along a row of mature apple trees. In the darkness, the branches look like black capillaries spread out against the sky. It’s so quiet, I can hear the water dripping off of the branches and splattering on the saturated ground.

I’ve walked about half a mile when I spot the old mill house. It’s a small wooden structure with a stone foundation and steeply pitched roof. A whisper of nostalgia moves through me when I realize this is one of the places I used to come with my
datt
when I was a girl before the new mill was built closer to the stand. Twenty-five years ago, the siding had been painted cheery red with crisp white trim. Lush ivy had climbed the walls all the way to the roof, giving it a cottage-like countenance. I remember being intrigued by the wind chimes Mrs. Yoder had hung beneath the eaves. The pretty red paint is long gone now. The ivy clings to the rotting wood like the skeletons of long-dead snakes. It disheartens me to see such a place abandoned and left to the elements.

“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.