Page 78 of A Gathering of Secrets

“You get prints?”

“We did. A couple of good ones, in fact. Tomasetti expedited, got everything run through AFIS. Unfortunately, we didn’t get a match.”

“So he’s not in the system.” I sigh. “Apparently, that’s the theme I’m keeping with the Gingerich case.” I think about that a moment. “Caliber?”

“Caliber is three-oh-eight. Common hunting rifle.”

“Bullet?”

“Too destroyed to get striations.”

“Were you guys able to pick up tire tread imprints?”

“We got a partial. Lab’s looking at it now.”

“You’re making my day with all this good news.”

He doesn’t laugh. “You still think it’s related to the Gingerich thing?”

“I do.”

A thoughtful silence and then, “Do me a favor and be careful out there, will you?”

“You got it.”

* * *

I’m mulling my conversation with the sheriff when I drive by the Amish Door restaurant and pull around to the corner where Mark Petersheim was working last time I was here. But the fence is complete and there’s no one there.

I continue into Wilmot proper, make a right on Milton, and park in front of the Petersheim house. I’m thinking about the note and the questions I need to ask as I take the narrow sidewalk to the front door. I knock and wait, but no one answers. I knock a second time, this time tapping with my key fob. When no one comes to the door, I go around to the back and knock on the screen door, but there’s no reply.

Since the Petersheims don’t have a phone, I tape a note to the door, asking Mark to call me as soon as possible. That’s when I hear the baby crying. I stand on the porch, listening. The cries are definitely coming from inside. Not merely cries, but screaming. What the hell?

I knock again, this time using the heel of my hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Petersheim? It’s Kate Burkholder,” I call out.

I wait but there’s no response. No sound of footsteps. Just the continuous screaming of an unhappy infant. I remind myself Ruth could be in the shower or taking a nap. But there’s something in the tone of that cry that’s worrisome. Last time I was here Ruth was attentive and caring. I walk to the window that looks out over the front yard, but the curtains are drawn. I knock one more time and head back around to the rear of the house.

I take the narrow dirt path to the small garage in the alley. I tug open the door. Sure enough, the truck I’d seen at the Amish Door Village, where Mark Petersheim had been working on the fence, is parked inside. Leaving the door open, I cross to it, set my hand on the hood. Cold.

Turning, I leave the garage and jog to the back porch. I open the screen door and rap on the glass. “Mr. and Mrs. Petersheim! Kate Burkholder! Can you open the door please!”

I wait, but the only sound I hear is the howling cries of the child. Sheer yellow curtains cover the window. I look inside, see a small table and chairs, a refrigerator against the wall. A gas stove in the corner. On impulse, I try the knob, but the door is locked.

“Shit,” I mutter.

There’s a small window to my left. The curtains are parted; it’s probably above the kitchen sink. I leave the porch and approach it, stand on my tiptoes to see inside. At first, all I see is a typical kitchen. There’s a clay pot on the sill where a basil plant flourishes. Yellow countertops. White cabinets. A doorway that leads to the front of the house. No sign of anyone, but the baby continues to cry frantically.

Since I’m no longer in Holmes County, I tug out my cell and dial 911. When the dispatcher answers, I quickly identify myself as a police officer and explain the situation. “There may be an unattended infant inside the home,” I tell her. “I need a welfare check.” I relay the address.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a cat in the window. A fat orange tabby, looking at me through the glass. I don’t pay much attention. Then the cat raises its paw and leaves a red smear on the glass. The hairs on my nape stand on end.

“I got blood,” I tell the dispatcher. “I’m going to make entry.”

I hit END, scramble around to the porch. Grabbing a terra-cotta pot from the step, I go to the door, avert my face, and break the glass. I reach through the opening, unlock the door, yank it open.

Then I’m in the kitchen. The first thing I notice is the smell. A combination of dirty diapers and an unflushed toilet. “Ruth Petersheim! Mark! Police!”

Sunlight spills in through the window. The scream of the baby echoes throughout the house. In my peripheral vision I see the cat dart out the door. The counters are mottled with … something. I look closer, realize with burgeoning concern that the counters are covered with bloody paw prints.