Page 37 of Fallen

“I’ll make sure they have plaster,” he says. “Keep me posted, will you?”

“You, too.”

I’m clipping my cell back onto my belt when Glock approaches, his eyes on the bat.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“Definitely blood. If we can extract DNA or prints.” I shrug. “Could be a break.”

He looks around. “What are we? Three miles from the motel?”

“Thereabouts.” I look around. Half a mile down the road, I see the woman and her dogs walking away. “So, if we’re right and this is the murder weapon, the killer left the motel and came this way.”

“Heading away from Painters Mill.” Glock looks left and right. “So where the hell was he going?”

“There’s not much traffic out this way. Farms mostly.”

“So he might live out this way. Or he might’ve simply been looking for a place to ditch the bat. Grass is tall enough so that he probably figured no one would find it.”

“Did you happen to notice any tire-tread marks?” I ask. “Footwear?”

“I did a cursory search when I arrived. I can take a more thorough look around if you want.” He sighs. “Sure would like to find this prick.”

While Glock walks the road, searching the gravel shoulder for marks, I pull out my cell and take photos of the bat. The CSU will do the same. They’ll protect the blood evidence and then courier the bat to the BCI lab in London, Ohio, where any fingerprints, blood type, and DNA will be extracted. If we’re lucky, there will be some identifying mark to indicate where the bat was manufactured and sold. If we can find the merchant, we might be able to find out who purchased it. DNA will take some time—a few days, depending on how busy the lab is and how hard Tomasetti can push for priority—but even if the lab can match the blood type we’ll have a little more to go on, especially if any of the blood belongs to the killer.

“I got nothing, Chief.”

I turn to see Glock approach. “Zero traffic out this way,” he says. “He probably just stopped the car, got out, flung the bat into the grass.”

I nod in agreement, but my mind has already taken me back to the situation with my brother. “I’ve got to drive down to Killbuck,” I tell him. “Can you hang out here until the CSU arrives?”

“Yep.” He cocks his head, slants me a look that’s a little too concerned for comfort. “Want some company? That Gingerich dude is weird as hell.”

“I expect some of these people might be more apt to open up if I’m alone.”

“Gotcha.” He grins. “I guess I do kind of have that whole outsider vibe going on.”

I smile back. “Call if you need anything.”

As I leave Holtzmuller Road and head east, it isn’t the thought of Amos Gingerich that claws at my brain, but a brother I haven’t seen for six months, a past I’m loath to revisit, and a terrible suspicion that if I’m not careful I could sever ties I’ve cherished my entire life.

CHAPTER 17

A sense of nostalgia grips me as I pull into the long gravel lane of my brother’s farm. I take my time as I drive toward the house, trying to remember the last time I was here. Too long, my conscience reminds. Last month, I missed my nephew’s birthday. I have no idea what’s going on in their lives.

The apple trees in the orchard on my right are in full, brilliant bloom. It seems like yesterday when Datt and my grandfather planted those trees. It never ceases to shock me to see that they’re fully mature and have been bearing fruit for decades now.

The house is plain and looks exactly the same as when I was a kid. There are no flower beds or landscaping, just a small garden in the side yard with ruler-straight rows of tiny corn and tomatoes. I idle around to the rear of the house and park next to a hitching post that wasn’t there last time I was here. I sit for a moment, taking all of it in, and in that instant the longing for something I can’t quite identify grips me with an almost physical pain. This farm and the people who’ve lived here are my history. The house where I grew up. Where so much happened. The barn and outbuildings where my sister, Sarah, and Jacob and I played hide-and-seek. The fields and pasture where I ran free without a care in the world. It speaks of a time when I never questioned the wisdom of my parents or the rules set forth by the Amish leadership. This small farm with its ramshackle outbuildings and old German bank barn was my world. My family was the center of my universe, vast and unblemished. I had been painfully innocent, never lonely or alone, and my perceptions had not yet been skewed or scarred by the injustices of life.

I get out of the Explorer and take the narrow sidewalk to house. A blue jay scolds me from his perch in the cherry tree in the yard as I step onto the porch, and I’m reminded that I’m an outsider here, not only to the land, but to my own family. I’m about to knock when my sister-in-law, Irene, pushes open the screen door.

“Katie!” She does a double take, her eyes wide. “My goodness. What a nice surprise!”

Irene is pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way, with flawless skin sprinkled with freckles and clear hazel eyes. She’s wearing a blue dress with a white apron that’s stained with what looks like grape juice, and an organdy kapp, black oxfords.

“Hi.” I manage a smile that doesn’t feel genuine. “Is Jacob around?”

“He’s in the barn, replacing a wheel on that old manure spreader. It conked out yesterday. Fourth time this spring.” Frowning, she motions toward the barn. “He’ll be there a while, Katie. Kumma inseid. Witt du kaffi?” Come inside. Would you like coffee?