The garden is a cornucopia of autumn vegetables and berries. Standing in the final remnants of daylight, I take in the perfect rows of corn, tomatoes, squash, cucumber and green peppers. The rear perimeter is a briar patch of blackberry bushes drooping with ripe berries. In the spring, I know strawberries abound, and it’s a constant battle to keep the birds from stealing the fruit.

We had a similar garden when I was a girl growing up. I used to sneak into the garden and eat strawberries right off the plants, sometimes before they were even ripe. The season is long past now, but the blackberries are at the height of ripeness. I walk to the bushes. Being careful of the stickers, I pull off a couple of berries and pop them into my mouth.

Even as I enjoy the impromptu snack, I’m aware of the .38 in the pocket of my apron. The .22 mini-magnum strapped to my thigh. The knife in my ankle boot. I’m also keenly aware of my surroundings. It’s so quiet, I would have no problem hearing a vehicle come up the driveway. But if the killer makes an appearance, I don’t think he’ll use the lane. He’ll wait for full darkness, try for stealth. He’ll probably enter the house via the back door, try to find the boy without waking the rest of the family and kill him in the most expeditious manner possible.

Determined to make the farm appear normal, I spend a few minutes picking weeds. I check the laundry left on the clothesline—at my request. Thoughts of Tomasetti try to pry their way into my brain as I stroll the yard, but I don’t let them. I need to stay focused.

At dark, I go back into the house. I light the lantern on the kitchen table, filling the room with yellow light and the smell of lantern oil. I light a second lantern in the living room, then go upstairs and light another in the master bedroom. Just another ordinary night in the Zook home.

Back in the living room, I close the curtains and hit my lapel mike. “Skid, all clear in the barn?”

“Just me and these stinkin’ pigs.”

“T.J.?”

“Not a single car in the last half hour.”

I sigh. “We may be here a while.”

“What if they don’t show, Chief?” T.J. asks.

I’ve been a cop long enough to know stings like this one rarely go as planned. There are so many variables it’s hard to pinpoint where things might go awry. But the killer not showing is certainly high on the list.

“We don’t have the manpower to stake this place out more than a few days,” I say. “If he doesn’t show tonight, I’ll call BCI or the sheriff’s office and request assistance.”

“Good plan.”