As I pull out of the lane of the Kline farm, it occurs to me that if Abigail left an hour ago, she hasn’t gone too far. Most Amish use Standardbred horses for their buggies because that particular breed is prized for its fast, working trot. Even so, they travel only eight to ten miles an hour. It’s not an unduly long distance for me to cover relatively quickly in a patrol car.

Bishop Troyer and his wife live southwest of Painters Mill, about ten miles from the Kline farm. If Abigail went to see him, she’s still en route. I should be able to catch her before she arrives.

I take a right out of the Kline farm and head south on County Road 19 toward a secondary road that will take me to Highway 83. I drive slowly, keeping an eye out for telltale signs of the buggy—horse manure—and the side roads, in case she pulled over or opted for a shortcut. I pass an Amish wagon full of hay, but there’s no sign of Abigail’s windowless buggy. I cruise past Bishop Troyer’s farm, but she’s not there, so I loop around and take a less-used road south, back toward the Kline farm. It’s possible that in order to avoid traffic, she took the county road.

I reach the Kline farm, pull onto the gravel at the mouth of the lane, and hail T.J. on the radio. “Any sign of Abigail Kline?”

“Her son walked the property, but she’s not here, Chief.”

“Damn it.” I sigh. “You guys find anything else inside?”

“Folly found more of those greens in their refrigerator,” he tells me, referring to the kerosene-powered refrigerator.

“Bag it and seal it,” I tell him. “Get it to the lab. Make sure you guys follow chain of custody.”

“Roger that.”

“I’m going to head northwest to see if she went to her parents’ farm.”

“Ten-four.”

Racking the mike, I back from the driveway and start in the opposite direction, going northeast on County Road 19. I’ve gone less than a mile, when I spot a pile of manure in the center of the northeast-bound lane. I have no way of knowing if it belongs to Abigail’s buggy horse or if she even traveled in this direction. But this particular county road doesn’t have much traffic. More importantly, Reuben and Naomi Kaufman’s farm is only a few miles ahead, so I keep going.

Just past Beck’s Mills, I hit County Road 119 and then make a left on County Road 600. A mile in, I come upon the Kaufman farm. There’s no buggy in sight, but I pull in anyway and hail T.J. as I park adjacent to the barn. “I’m ten-twenty-three the Kaufman farm,” I tell him. “No sign of Abigail’s buggy, but I’m going to talk to them.”