I transfer the Maglite to my left hand and draw my pistol, keeping it low at my side. I walk through the mudroom to the kitchen and find it dark and empty. I go right and peer into the living room, but there’s no one there. Through the curtains at the front door, I see Pickles’ silhouette. Quickly, I ascend the stairs to the second level and check the bedrooms, the closets and the bathroom, but there’s no one there. When I come downstairs, I find Pickles standing in the mudroom.

“No one here,” he says.

I holster my sidearm. “Let’s check the barn.”

Exiting through the back door, we slog through mushy gravel and ankle-deep puddles toward the barn fifty yards away. All the while, I keep an eye on the house for movement or light. I slide open the big door and step into the large structure. Like many of the older barns in this part of Ohio, the floor is hard-packed dirt. I notice the buggy immediately. To my right are stairs that lead to the loft. Ahead are two stalls, each occupied by a horse.

“Could she have a second buggy?” Pickles asks. “Another horse?”

“It’s possible, but not probable.” I walk to the buggy and see mud, still wet, caked on the wheels. “This one’s been used recently.”

“So if she didn’t take the buggy, where the hell is she?”

“Her husband just died. It’s possible one of the local Amish families came by and picked her up. They rally when something like that happens.” I’m looking at Pickles as I speak. I can tell by his expression that neither of us believes it.

“Yeah and people confuse me with Tom Selleck,” he grumbles.

I’m in the process of closing the door when I happen to glance down and see tire tread marks in the dirt. I kneel and set the beam of my Maglite on it for a closer look.

Pickles squats beside me. “Those ain’t from no buggy.”

I look around, silently cursing the dark and the pound of rain against the tin roof. “I can’t think of a single logical reason why someone would have a vehicle out here.”

“You think she’s got a car?” he asks.

I unclip my cell and speed-dial Mona.

“Hey, Chief.” She sounds breathless and stressed. “Phones are lit up like a Christmas tree. People bugging out all along the creek.”

“I need you to check with DMV to see if anyone with the name of Ruth Weaver, Wanetta Hochstetler, or Becky Weaver in Pennsylvania or Ohio has a vehicle registered to them. While you’re at it, check Hannah and Hoch Yoder, too.”

“I’m on it.”

“Call me.”

I hit End and clip my phone to my belt. “There’s one more place I want to check.”

Pickles gives me a quizzical look.

“The old Hochstetler place,” I tell him.