“I know. And I know you’re worried about me. But you’re going to have to trust me.”

The words echo for a beat too long before I say, “I’ll see you tonight.”

He hangs up without responding.

*   *   *

I’ve just booted up my computer when my most senior officer, Roland “Pickles” Shumaker, peeks his head into my office. “You wanted to see me?” he asks.

At the age of seventy-six, Pickles has been a member of the Painters Mill PD for over fifty years. He’s my only auxiliary officer and puts in about ten hours a week, usually at the school crosswalk. During the 1980s he worked undercover narcotics and took down one of the largest drug rings in the state. His glory days ended a few years ago when, during a call for a domestic dispute, he was attacked by an aggressive rooster. Pickles shot and killed the chicken, which happened to be a prized animal owned by a woman who dabbled in local politics. The town council got involved and Pickles nearly lost his job. I’m well aware that a police chief must choose his or her battles wisely. But I couldn’t see throwing away fifty years of service over a dead chicken, so I went to bat for him and, by a narrow margin, saved his job. The move cost me politically, and I fell out of favor with some of the town council members, a few of whom are still pressuring me to retire Pickles. So far, I’ve been successful in holding them off and will continue to do so as long as I’m chief or until Pickles voluntarily decides he’s ready to throw in the towel.

He’s slowed down the last couple of years, but he never misses a day of work, he’s never late, and more important, he’s still an effective cop. He’s a fixture in this town—a favorite of many citizens, including me—and stands in testament that age doesn’t define the person or what they can accomplish.

“You were around when the Hochstetler crime happened, weren’t you?” I begin.

He shuffles into my office and lowers himself into the chair adjacent my desk, bringing a wave of English Leather aftershave with him. “First major crime of my career, and let me tell you something, it gave me nightmares.”

I tell him about the Amish peg doll found in Dale Michaels’s mouth. “We’re not making that bit of information pubic, but the doll was inscribed with the Hochstetler name. I’m wondering if you remember any kind of connection between Dale Michaels and the Hochstetlers.”

“Well, my memory isn’t what it used to be, but I sure don’t recall Michaels’s name coming up in the course of the Hochstetler case. Michaels was probably just a kid back then.”

I recap everything I know about the case so far, including the final calls Michaels made before his murder. And the text to Blue Branson. “Do you know Blue?” I ask.

“Thirty-five years ago, I had more run-ins with Branson than my own wife.” Pickles’s brows knit. “He was quite a troublemaker in his youth.”

I tell him about my earlier conversation with Blue. “Blue told me Dale Michaels attended services at his church sometimes. Evidently, he hadn’t yet read the text about Dale Michaels’s mysterious meeting.”

“That’s interesting,” Pickles says. “Because now that you mention it, I remember Blue Branson and Dale Michaels running around together as teenagers. Michaels was a good kid. Kept his nose clean. Blue, not so much.”

“That is interesting.” I wonder why Blue would lie about something so seemingly benign. “What kind of trouble did Blue get into?”

“I arrested him for felony assault back in the early ’80s. He was out of high school by then. Got a conviction for it, too.”

“So our righteous pastor has a checkered past.”

“I’ll say. Night I busted him … it was a bar fight. Saturday-night crowd. Rowdy place called Suzy’s Lounge that burned down a few years back. I was off duty, having a drink, and I saw Blue coldcock a guy with a set of brass knuckles.” Setting his elbows on his knees, Pickles leans closer to my desk, his eyes level on mine. “One punch, and that guy was in a coma for a week, lost his front teeth, and let me tell you, he wasn’t the same when he woke up. All over a ten-dollar game of pool.”

“Sounds like Blue has a temper.”

“Or a mean streak that runs right up his self-righteous back.” His eyes hold mine. “You think he had something to do with Michaels’s death?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him.

“Well, once upon a time, they ran in the same circles. If they’d had some kind of falling out”—he shrugs—“might be worth looking into.”

We fall silent and for a moment the only sound comes from the rain smacking against the window and the ringing of the switchboard in the reception area.

I turn to my computer and pull up the spreadsheet from the BCI technician. “I’m working through Michaels’s phone records. Right before calling Blue Branson, he made a call to Jerrold McCullough. Another one to The Raspberry Leaf, a gallery owned by Julia Rutledge.”

Pickles sits up straighter. “I think McCullough ran with them, too. He was a big-shot high school football star. I remember him because he got aggressive with a girl once and she called the law. No one pressed charges and everything sort of got swept under the rug. But I always had my doubts about that guy.”

“Chief?” Skid taps on the doorjamb and enters my office. Nodding at Pickles, he passes a sheet of paper to me. “This just came in on Blue Branson.”

Taking the paper, I scan the list and read it aloud. “Arrested in 1978 for possession of a controlled substance. No conviction. Two years later, he was convicted of felony assault and did four months in Mansfield. Nothing after that.”

“He’s kept his nose clean since he found God and turned his life around,” Pickles says dryly. “But thirty-five years ago, he was a scary fuckin’ guy.”

I consider everything I know about Blue Branson and the stark contrasts between the man he is now and the man who chalked up an arrest record—and I can’t quite reconcile the two. “Do you think Blue’s church is some kind of cover for something else?”

“Oh, no.” Pickles gives a short laugh. “I think that son of a bitch got saved, all right. But all the praying in the world can’t change who you are, and it doesn’t erase the things you did in your past. I think Old Blue’s trying hard to save his own soul. And I think he’s probably got a ways to go before he gets the job done.”

*   *   *

Fifteen minutes later, Skid and I are in my Explorer heading south on a gravel track that runs parallel with Painters Creek. The ditches on both sides of the road are filled to the brim with runoff from the rain. The gravel beneath the tires feels spongy and I can hear the mud and stones pinging against the wheel wells. We cross a small bridge and even in the darkness, I can see that the creek is swollen to twice its normal size. If the rain doesn’t let up soon, we’re going to be dealing with serious flooding issues.

I park next to a brown Riviera, circa 1975, and shut down the engine. Through the trees, I see the yellow glow of lights and the silhouette of a modest frame house.

“So Michaels called McCullough a few hours before he was murdered?” Skid asks.

I’d briefed him on the case on the drive over. “Pickles says they knew each other when they were young. I thought it was worth a visit.”

We get out of the Explorer. The woods around us are extremely dark, so I grab my Maglite and aim it toward the house. The cone of light illuminates a crude path through the trees. Gravel, clumps of concrete, and pieces of plywood are tossed about haphazardly, forming just enough of a walkway to keep our shoes from being swallowed by mud.

The drizzle is cold against my face and hands as I start down the path. It winds through mature trees and eventually takes us to the front porch, which is lighted with a bare yellow bulb. I open a storm door and knock. While we wait, I discern the roar of rushing water from Painters Creek behind the house. I wonder how far the house is from the water.