Page 81 of The Hidden One

“That doesn’t necessarily involve the Amish community.”

“Especially if your suspicions about him are correct.”

The weight of the statement presses down like humidity before a storm.

“What’s next?” he asks.

“I’m going to talk to his family again. See if there’s anything they can tell me.”

A too long pause and then, “Are you okay?”

The pang of missing him that follows is so powerful, I set my hand against my abdomen, close my eyes, take a moment because I know the pain of it will reverberate in my voice if I’m not careful. I don’t want him to worry.

“I am now,” I say. “Sorry to wake you so early.”

“Hey, that’s what I’m here for.” But he laughs. “Do me a favor?”

“Name it.”

“Be careful.”

I smile. “Tomasetti, did anyone ever tell you you worry too much?”

“Just you.”

CHAPTER 24

It’s true that cops don’t sleep much in the early stages of an investigation. At least during those first couple of days, when time is like sand slipping through fingers. I’m not exactly working in a law enforcement capacity, but the sense of urgency pulsing in my veins is the same.

After speaking to Tomasetti, I slept for a couple of hours. A quick shower and a fast-food breakfast and I was on the road by nine. Despite the lack of sleep, I’m clearheaded and focused as I make the turn into the lane of the Stoltzfus farm.

My best sources of information are Mia and Ananias’s grown children. Though both of them were born after the couple arrived in the Kishacoquillas Valley, they may know something that will confirm—or disprove—my theory about their father. They may have heard something in passing, have relatives I can call upon, or have kept mementos or documents.

Having worn out my welcome with Mary Elizabeth, I opt to try my luck with Henry first. I’m midway down the lane when I notice someone working at the base of the corn silo. I pull over and park. I’m midway there when I notice the red spray paint on the corrugated steel.

Like father. Like son. Both in hell.

I find Henry Stoltzfus standing in hip-high weeds on the other side of the silo. He’s dressed much the same way as last time I saw him. Gray trousers. A single suspender over a blue work shirt. Straw summer hat. Work boots.

I stop a few feet away from him and take in the bold red paint. The large letters. The slipshod writing. “Any idea who did it?” I ask.

He looks at me from beneath the brim of his hat, his eyes shaded, expression guarded. “No.”

“It’s pretty high up.” I make a show of looking at the graffiti. “Must have used a stepladder.”

“Dogs were barking last night.” He motions behind him. “Grass is trampled.”

“Did you call the police?”

He frowns at me, doesn’t answer. “I figure I’ll just paint over it.” He motions to the cageless ladder that’s come loose from the silo. “Fix that ladder while I’m at it.”

A spray can of cold galvanizing compound lies on its side at his feet. Next to it, a wrench the size of a tire iron. A MIG welder and diesel generator sit on the ground a few feet away.

I recall Dorothy telling me about the fire at the old mill owned by Mary Elizabeth and her husband. The broken window I saw when I was there. Coincidence? Or has someone targeted them?

“Has anything like this happened before?” I ask.

He picks up the wrench, bends to pluck a bolt from the box at his feet. “A time or two.”