“I told her to be nice,” said the Amish woman. “Sie nett. I told her you were not the kind of sheriff we always had before. I told her to always sie nett to people in the uniform.”

“Thank you. OK, Deputy Bender, we’re done for now.”

She touched her speed dial for dispatch.

“Any luck on Larry Hubbard?” she asked Rhino.

“Even his own mother hasn’t seen him since he went turkey hunting in May. But several folks believe they’ve seen his truck around since that far back, though they can’t say for sure that Hubbard was the one driving it. One witness said they thought he had grown his hair out.”

“How about our warrant to search his house?”

“We got it. I sent Schwem. Rotten food in the fridge. Nothing else so far. But Schwem’s just getting started.”

“OK. The news here is we’re going to do X-rays and a rape kit, and then we’re going to let her recuperate through the night. I want a deputy…”

She hesitated. With Schwem occupied by an unexpected chore, she was officially shorthanded, and another pressure-cooker night would trigger all the usual calls. But Gabriel Goodgolly lay in postsurgical care three doors down, potentially stabbed by his daughter, who at the moment had fixed the sheriff with what felt like a death stare.

“I want a deputy here, Rhino. In ER, to spend the night right outside this girl’s door.”

CHAPTER 18

Leroy Fanta became aware again when the massive black dog collected a mouthful of his right thigh.

“Tippy, off!”

The dog released him. His glasses were gone. The woman gripped them as she turned out his pockets, gathering up his change, his pills, his flip phone, his overstuffed wallet.

“He followed me.”

Her voice was raw and toneless.

“I brought him to you.”

For a moment, Fanta’s watering eyes focused. In this lurid instant, FROM HELL HOLLOW’s screeds had coalesced, and the great poet Yeats had been answered: What rough beast slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Jim Golly.

“A thousand pardons, friend,” the “bad Golly” wheezed. “Faithy, stand down. Tippy, I said off. Let the man alone.”

“He left a note,” she rasped.

“Well, read it to me, woman.”

Fanta’s tears of pain thickened, blurring and melting the Gollys and their dog. He tried to rise.

“ ‘It seems you want to talk to me,’ ” she read sluggishly, stepping back over Fanta. “ ‘So let’s talk. I’ll be back here tomorrow, at new midnight sharp. Leroy Fanta.’ ”

“Ha-ha!” Jim Golly celebrated. “Back to work on our story, yes? Tippy! Off! Faith, help him up. This is the newspaperman. Indeed, Mr. Fanta, let’s get back to the story. Come, come, I’ve been cooling off in the creek.”