“Wanetta Hochstetler was alive up until a few months ago,” I begin without preamble. “She’s been living in Pennsylvania under the assumed name of Becky Weaver.”

“Holy shit. The kidnapped wife?”

I relay to him everything I’ve learned in the last hours. “Evidently, she was injured and may have suffered some kind of head injury or psychological trauma that affected her memory.”

“But if she’s dead, how does—?”

“She had a daughter. Ruth Weaver. Do me a favor and run both names through NCIC and LEADS, will you?”

“Got it.”

“These two women lived off the grid. We don’t have any information on Ruth Weaver, no address or phone number, known associates, not even a description. Poke around and see if you can find something. Mona’s pretty good on the Internet. Get her to help.”

“You think this Ruth Weaver is here in Painters Mill?”

“I think she’s there, and I think she’s making good on an old debt for her mother.”

“Shit.” He pauses and I can feel our minds zinging back and forth as we try to process the information. “Where you at?”

“Pittsburgh.”

“Pittsburgh?”

“I’m on my way. How did it go with Hoch Yoder?”

“I pulled him in. At the time Jules Rutledge was murdered, he was helping one of his neighbors move cattle and hogs due to flooding. I cut him loose.”

Chapter 26

CHAPTER 26

Four hours and 160 miles later, I’m back in Painters Mill in the interview room with Glock and Blue Branson. Glock and I spoke several times during my drive, and he relayed the news that neither Becky Weaver nor her daughter, Ruth, were in the NCIC or the Ohio-based LEADS databases. Evidently, the two women kept their noses clean. As a result—and the fact that they were Amish—we have nothing.

Carrying the Hochstetler file, I seat myself across the table from Blue, who’s slouched in his chair, staring down at his hands. Glock holds his position at the door, assuming an unobtrusive presence. I set the file on the table and press the Record button on the tape recorder, recite the date and the names of everyone present. I read the Miranda rights to Blue from a printed card and then slide the card across the table to him.

“Do you understand your rights?” I begin.

“I understand.”

Using the same tactic I used with Norm Johnston, I open the file, making sure he can see the label and photos, and rifle through a few pages. “I spent the afternoon in Cambria County, Pennsylvania.”

“I don’t know where that is,” he says in a monotone voice.

“It’s near where you and your friends threw Wanetta Hochstetler down that well and left her for dead. Ring a bell?”