Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

the buzz of hundreds of flies. They’re feeding on the blood, I realize.
    The stain is a red-black slick nearly four feet in diameter, mostly dry now, except for the center. I can smell the deep copper scent of it. At least one vehicle has driven through it, leaving a decent impression of the tread. The CSU will take tire-tread imprints, but my gut tells me that more than likely they were made by an inattentive motorist who simply didn’t notice. At some point, some small animal left paw prints at a place where it may have lapped at the blood.
    It’s a macabre scene in the crepuscular light. Like the sheriff, I hope for some benign explanation—a deer struck by a car. But in my gut, I know it’s human blood. I know something terrible happened here. In light of the fabric satchel lying a few feet away, I’m pretty sure it happened to the missing girl.
    I look at Tomasetti. “Is that a fatal amount?”
    He grimaces. “Hard to tell. Maybe.”
    “She could have been walking alongside the road and got hit by a car,” Goddard says, but he doesn’t look convinced.
    “With that kind of scenario, it seems like internal injuries would be a more likely result,” I say.
    “And there’s no body,” says Tomasetti.
    “Maybe whoever hit her put her in the car,” Goddard offers. “Took her to the hospital.”
    “No skid marks,” I say.
    “Unless it wasn’t an accident.” Tomasetti glances at the sheriff. “Did you check area hospitals?”
    Goddard nods. “I’ve got my secretary checking.”
    Around us, the forest goes silent, as if in reverence, due to the violence that transpired just a short time ago in this very spot.
    Tomasetti scans the surrounding woods. “Do you have the manpower to search the area?”
    “I can probably round up some volunteers.” Goddard unclips his phone from his belt but then pauses to indicate the tire marks. “What do you think about those?”
    Tomasetti squats and studies the tread mark. “CSU might be able to lift tread imprints. If we can match those to a manufacturer, we might catch a break.”
    “How old do you think this blood is?” Goddard asks.
    Tomasetti shakes his head. “There’s quite a bit of drying around the edges. Spatter is dry.” He looks up, and I realize he’s trying to figure out how much sun gets past the trees. “Doesn’t get much sun here. It’s humid. I’d say six or seven hours.”
    The sheriff jerks his head. “I’ll get to work on those volunteers.”
    Stepping away from the scene, Tomasetti pulls out his phone, punches in numbers, and begins speaking quietly.
    I study the scene, trying to envision what might have happened. The bag lies on the gravel shoulder, about four feet from the bloodstain. A couple of ears of sweet corn still wrapped in their husks have spilled out of it, looking out of place on the asphalt. I cross to the bag for a closer look. It’s a satchel made of quilted fabric—an Amish print—and looks homemade. My mamm had a similar one when I was a kid; she used it when she went to the grocery store or into town for supplies.
    Pulling a pen from my jacket pocket, I squat next to the bag and use the pen to open it and peer inside. I see green peppers, another ear of sweet corn, and tomatoes that have gone soft in the heat. Straightening, I cross to the sheriff. “Is there a vegetable stand nearby?”
    He blinks at me, as if realizing he should have already explored that angle. “The Yoders run a stand a couple miles down the road.”
    “You talk to the folks at the stand?”
    “Not yet,” he says sheepishly. “There ain’t no phone out there.”
    The statement sounds like an excuse, and he knows it. The last thing I want to do is ruffle local feathers. By all indications, he’s competent and capable. Still, I’m surprised that hadn’t occurred to him.
    Looking chagrined, he pulls his phone from his belt. “I’ll get one of my deputies out there.”
    I walk the scene, memorizing as much of it as I can. The location of the pool of blood, the proximity of the satchel in relation to the blood, the angle of the tire tread.
    When he ends the call, I ask, “Did you photograph the scene?”
    “Not yet.”
    “Have you checked registered sex offenders in the area?”
    “My secretary is pulling it now.”
    We study the scene for a minute or so and then I ask, “What can you tell me about the family?”
    “Girl’s parents are Edna and Levi King. They’re Old Order. Nice folks, though. I think they got about