“Well, them Amishers do prefer to keep to themselves.” He motions toward the scene, where a deputy is talking on his cell. I wince upon spotting what looks like dirty motor oil from a blown engine spilled on the road. But I know it’s not. “As soon as we finish up here,” he tells us, “I’d like to drive out there and talk to the family. They don’t have a phone. Sure would appreciate it if you came along. They’re the damnedest lot to interview, if you know what I mean.”

The words come at me like a cockeyed blow, not a direct hit, but just enough to chafe my sensibilities. He’s right, but that doesn’t make me like the generality any less.

Tomasetti is staring in the direction of the stained roadway. “Who discovered the scene?”

“Motorist spotted a bag on the road about an hour ago. When he got out to take a look, he found all that blood. He remembered hearing about the missing girl and called nine one one.”

“That’s a lot of blood,” I say. Too much, a little voice whispers in the back of my mind.

The sheriff grimaces. “If it’s hers, I suspect that girl’s either hurt bad or dead. Course, we got a lot of deer around here. Damn things get hit all the time. We looked around and didn’t find a carcass, but I suppose it’s possible it ran off. You guys got any kind of field test that will tell us if it’s animal or human?”

Tomasetti nods. “Not with me, but I’ll call the CSU and tell them to grab an RSID kit. It’s pretty quick, so we should get an answer right away.”

“That’d be a tremendous help. At least we’ll know what we’re dealing with.” Goddard looks toward the bloodstain and shakes his head. “We think the bag belongs to the missing girl. During the initial interview, her parents said she was carrying one. We’ll run it over there and see if they can ID it.”

As if by some unspoken mutual agreement, the three of us start toward the pool of blood. Around us, the tempo of the forest seems to increase, pulsing with birdsong, cicadas, and other insects. The whoit whoit whoit of a cardinal echoes off the thick canopy overhead. The air is heavy and still and smells of damp foliage. As we draw closer to the stain, I discern the buzz of hundreds of flies. They’re feeding on the blood, I realize.