Page 69 of Rage

“No one staying too long.”

Bending to the laptop, he slides it into the case. “Let’s get this sent to the lab and see what this laptop has to tell us.”

Back at the station, I make use of the shower that’s in the basement off the jail and rinse the last of the glass from my body. A fresh uniform and I feel human again. I’ve talked to Tomasetti twice in the last hour. He’s still trying to identify and locate the owner of the house on Lost Creek Road. I’m sitting at my desk now, my laptop purring in front of me. Every piece of paper—reports, notes, and crime scene photos—related to the murders of Samuel Yutzy and Aaron Shetler are spread out on the desk. I’ve looked at all of them so many times the images and information are beginning to run together.

My cell vibrates from its place next to my laptop. Thinking it’s Tomasetti, I pick up. “Yep?”

An instant of open air and then the line goes dead. I thumb down to the caller ID. YODER’S COUNTRY STORE. It’s a grocery and general store next to the Kidron livestock auction. I’ve been there dozens of times over the years. Wrong number?

I’m in the process of setting down my cell when it vibrates in my hand. YODER’S COUNTRY STORE. Perplexed, I hit answer. “This is Kate.”

Another silence. I hear breathing on the other end. Shallow. A little too fast.

“I don’t know if I should be calling you,” comes a young-sounding female whisper. Late teens or early twenties, I guess. Judging from the inflection, she’s Amish.

“Can I help you with something?” I say quietly.

A too-long pause. She’s on the verge of hanging up, so I add, “I’ll listen.”

The line goes dead.

I lower the cell, but I don’t put it down. I’m thinking about the house on Lost Creek Road. The locks on the bedroom doors. The suitcase. The zip ties. The sense that nothing is as it seems.

“Shit,” I mutter, and grab the keys to my rental car.

CHAPTER 18

Acting on a hunch is seldom a wise use of a cop’s time. I’m certainly no sucker for a wild-goose chase—probably because I’ve participated in my fair share. It is a fact that some individuals delight in supplying false information to the police. Usually, the culprit is a young person looking for trouble with too few brain cells, or too much time on their hands. All of that said, experience has taught me to trust my gut. There are times when a reluctant source is more reliable. With two men dead and a young woman missing, I’m obliged to follow through.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway, as I make the thirty-five-minute drive from Painters Mill to Kidron. It’s after six P.M. when I pull into the parking lot of the livestock auction complex. The grocery store and restaurant occupy the front. During the daytime hours, the parking lot is filled with buggies and trucks and trailers. This evening, there’s a single buggy parked in a sliver of shade next to a big Lincoln with an out-of-state plate. The knowledge that I have no idea who I’m looking for hounds me as I start toward the restaurant entrance. I don’t know if my mystery caller is an employee or customer or a passerby who’s already halfway out of the county. Even if I do find someone who matches the loose criteria I’ve pulled together—young, female, Amish—I may not recognize her voice.

Trip is going to be a bust, Kate …

The front door opens to the grocery part of the establishment. I see three checkout counters. Ahead, dozens of rows of shelves jam-packed with everything from fresh meat to birdseed to bulk foods. An Amish woman of about fifty mans the register nearest me. The restaurant occupies the basement, so I amble to the rear where a sign informs me RESTAURANT IN BASEMENT and I take the stairs down.

The restaurant is a charming, old-fashioned diner with subway-tile walls, a handful of booths, and a large counter in the center of the room. An Amish couple sit in the booth against the wall, sharing a plate of fried chicken. My hope that this is going to be an easy in and out sinks when I see the woman of about forty working behind the counter. Probably not my caller, but since she’s the only one around I approach her first.

“I’m looking for the young woman who was here earlier,” I say, keeping my request purposefully vague.

The woman’s wearing a green dress with a white halsduch and kapp. She looks at me as she stacks cups and saucers on the shelf behind her. She’s got bright blue eyes. Bifocals perched on a freckled nose. A pencil tucked behind her ear.

“You mean Naomi?” she asks.

I have no idea, but I nod. “Do you know where I can find her?”

“She’s on break, I think.” She motions toward the stairs. “Probably eating her sandwich out back.” Her eyes take in my uniform and then slide to the wall clock. “She do something wrong?”

“No, ma’am.”

She hefts a humorless laugh. “Good, because she’s a decent worker and I can’t spare her this evening.”

She doesn’t offer to let me use the exit door at the rear, so I go back up the stairs. Afternoon is waning into dusk when I go through the front doors and make my way around to the rear of the building. The tang of manure from the auction earlier in the day hangs in the air. I see a lighted exit sign above a small concrete landing with a steel rail and stairs, but there’s no one there. No one in sight.

“Told you,” I mutter.

I’m about to head back to the front when I spot a small object on the concrete step of the landing. I start toward it; I’m ten feet away when I realize it’s a sandwich. I take the steps to the landing and try the door; I’m surprised when it opens. An Amish woman standing just inside gasps at the sight of me, her eyes going wide.

Her mouth flaps a couple of times before she manages, “You’re not supposed to be back here.”