I find Blue and another man seated at a rectangular table. Blue’s looking down at some type of register that’s open in front of him. Dozens of corrugated boxes line the wall to my left, and I see that each is packed with foodstuffs: canned goods, cereal, sugar, flour, packaged pasta, Sam’s Club–size jars of peanut butter and coffee.

I tap on the jamb. “Looks like you two are conspiring to feed everyone in the county.”

The men look up. I see surprise on their faces when they notice my uniform.

“A lot of hungry families out there, Chief Burkholder.” Taking his time, Blue hefts his substantial frame from the chair. He’s got a commanding presence and seems to fill up all the space in a room. He stands somewhere around six-four and probably weighs in at about 250. His thick gray hair is combed straight back from an interesting face with a broad forehead and high cheekbones. Deep grooves on either side of his mouth add yet another layer of character to an already compelling persona. His goatee is black and trimmed with razor precision. He’s wearing his trademark clothes: Black sport jacket. Crisp white shirt that’s open at the collar to reveal a large silver cross on a chain. Dark slacks and oxfords polished to a high sheen.

“It’s our aim to feed them until they can feed themselves.” He extends his hand to me and we shake. “Welcome to Crossroads.”

His grip is firm, but not excessively so, and his eyes are level on mine. “I hear you do good work here at the church,” I tell him.

“We do our best.”

I nod at the man sitting at the table and then address Blue. “Can I speak with you in private?”

“There are a dozen or so pews out there could use some more breaking in.” He looks at the man he’s with. “Box up the rest of the canned goods, and I’ll help you load them.”

Blue ushers me through the door, and we walk into the main room of the church, our shoes echoing against the high ceilings and unadorned walls.

“I understand you built this place yourself,” I tell him.

“Never picked up a hammer until I got the calling. Once I did, I couldn’t put it down. Didn’t have much capital, but we made do. A few volunteers lent a hand.…” He shrugs, as if the feat is inconsequential. “Spreading the word of God doesn’t require anything fancy. With your being Amish, I’m sure you probably already know that.”

“I do.”

He motions toward the first pew, and I slide onto the hard surface. “I need to talk to you about Dale Michaels.”

His gaze sharpens on mine as he lowers himself to the bench next to me. His eyes are steel gray beneath heavy brows. He’s got a kindly, grandfather’s face, one that’s full of adventure stories and love for his grandchildren. But there’s something darker behind those eyes, too. Scars, I think, left by a harsh past.