I wait a beat and knock a second time, using the heel of my hand. Frustration creeps over me when no one answers. Damn it. Cupping my hands, I peer through the window, but the mudroom is silent and dark. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I turn and scan the area, wondering if they could be feeding the stock or be baling hay in the field. Not for the first time, I curse the Amish people’s aversion to modern conveniences. A phone would make this so much easier.

Leaving the porch, I take the sidewalk back to the Explorer. I reach for the handle, yank open the door. For an instant, I stand there, undecided. I need to get to Buck Creek, hopefully before the sky opens up. But the death of the Mast’s daughter ten years ago must be delved into.

“Shit.” Slamming the door, I start toward the barn. I pass the slaughter shed, where Tomasetti and I talked to Perry Mast just two days ago. The severed hog heads are gone, but I can see the indentations in the grass, the oily smears of blood. The door is closed, so I continue on toward the barn. I pass by a chicken coop with an attached wire aviary where a dozen or so hens scratch and peck the ground.

The smell of the hogs grows stronger as I near the barn. To my right, several pink snouts poke between the boards of the fence, and I know the pigs are watching me, hoping for a snack. I slide open the big door and step inside, giving my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. The interior is shadowy and smells of moldy burlap and pig shit. Dust motes float in the slant of murky light coming in from a grimy window on the west side.

“Hello?” I call out. “Mr. and Mrs. Mast?”

A pigeon coos from the rafters above. An antique-looking manure spreader stands next to a big hay wagon that’s missing a wheel. A rusty hand auger leans against the wall. A leather harness hangs from an overhead tack hook. I can smell the saddle soap from where I stand. Several empty burlap bags lay scattered on the floor in the corner. Kernels of corn glow yellow against the dirt floor.

“Hello? Mr. Mast? It’s Kate Burkholder.”

I cross to the window at the back and look out. Below, a small pen houses a dozen or more Hampshire hogs. Some are lying on their sides in the shade; others root around in a shallow mud puddle. To my right, in a larger pasture, two old draft horses and a sleek Standardbred gelding stand beneath the shade of a walnut tree, half-asleep, swatting flies with their tails.