Skid and I take the steps to the sidewalk and then start across the gravel driveway. We’re midway to the barn when he glances my way. “Did she really say ‘castrating calves’?”

“I’m pretty sure she did.” I look over at him and grin at the discomfort etched into his features. “I take it you didn’t grow up on a farm.”

“City slicker from the word ‘go.’”

“You want to sit this one out?”

“As long as Kaufman keeps his tools to himself, I should be okay.”

The barn is huge and shadowy, the only light coming in through the open door, and it smells of cattle. There’s a buggy just inside, but no horse hitched. A wagon filled with hay is parked farther in. Burlap bags filled with what looks like oats are stacked against the wheel. Voices coming from the rear of the structure draw me more deeply inside.

I hear a calf bawling from somewhere ahead. Skid and I go through another door and enter a large room with a concrete floor that opens to a small pen beyond. Two Amish men kneel on either side of a black calf lying on the floor, its legs secured with rope. The third man straddles the animal, a four-inch knife with a rounded tip in his hand. We stop a few feet away and watch as the Amish man deftly slits the animal’s scrotum. A small amount of blood dribbles onto the concrete when he grasps the sac and squeezes the testicles through the opening. Quickly, he pulls out the cord, picks up emasculator pliers and snips. He’s not wearing protective gloves.

Next to me, Skid makes a sound of discomfort. “That’s fucked up,” he mutters beneath his breath.

One of the Amish men holding the calf glances over at us and grins. “Looks like you have another customer,” he says in Pennsylvania Dutch to the man with the knife.

The Amish man working on the calf chuckles as he uncoils the rope. Folding the knife, he snatches up a spray bottle and generously spritzes the incision with antiseptic.

“Faddich!” he proclaims. Done. Slapping the animal on the rump, he gets to his feet.

The two men on either side of the calf move away and rise. The animal clambers to its feet and gallops toward the pen, kicking up its heels.

“Abram Kaufman?” I say.

The man who’d cut the calf nods. He’s tall and dark-haired with hawkish eyes and a steel-wool beard that reaches nearly to his belt. He’s clad in black trousers, suspenders, and a blue work shirt. “I’m Abram.” His eyes shift from me to Skid and back to me.

I offer a smile. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

He doesn’t smile back. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to ask you some questions about your relationship with Leroy Nolt.”