“I figured I was going to get a call from you with all this flooding. What’s up?”

“The rain isn’t the only thing wreaking havoc.” I give him a condensed version of my theory on Ruth Weaver.

“You want me to go with you?”

“I’ve got Pickles with me. We’re heading out there now.”

He makes an indecipherable noise in his throat, and I quickly add. “I need you to keep an eye on Norm Johnston. There’s a possibility she’ll show up there.”

“What about Blue Branson?”

“T.J.’s on his way there. I can’t imagine Weaver making a move on the police station, but…” I sigh, feeling overwhelmed and uncertain. “She’s unstable and tough to predict. Do me a favor and wear your vest, will you?”

“I’ll head over to Johnston’s now.”

I disconnect as I make the turn into the gravel lane of the Yoder place. Rain pelts the windshield as I pass the house and park in the gravel a few yards from the back door. Jamming the shifter into Park, I turn and pull a slicker from the backseat. “We’re just going to talk to her. I’m going to knock on the back door. I want you to go around to the front and make sure no one leaves. Don’t knock, okay?”

“Got it.”

I pull on the slicker and we disembark simultaneously. I wait until Pickles is around the side of the house; then I approach the back door. The rain is coming down so hard, it stings my exposed skin. I can’t hear anything over the downpour, and visibility is down to just a few yards.

Ever aware of the .38 against my hip, I use the heel of my hand to knock. To my surprise, the door rolls open, and I think, Shit. A police officer must exercise caution when entering any premises. Even in a benign situation, there’s a risk of being mistaken for an intruder and getting your ass shot off by an armed homeowner. That’s not to mention the rights and privacy issues anytime you enter a home without a warrant or the express permission of the owner. But certain circumstances transcend those things, including concern for the homeowner’s well-being. Several gnarly possibilities run through my head as I stand there, trying to decide what to do next. I’m not 100 percent certain Hannah Yoder is Ruth Weaver, which means she could be in danger, too.

“Mrs. Yoder?” I shout. “It’s Kate Burkholder with the police department. Is everything all right?”

The pound of rain is thunderous, making it impossible for me to hear anything inside or out. Pushing open the door the rest of the way, I step into the mudroom and call out for her again. “Hannah! Are you home? Is everything all right?”

No response.