Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

point Sadie was here.
    I glance over my shoulder, see the sheriff wading through knee-high grass fifty yards back. “Rasmussen! I think I found something! Bring the camera!”
    Nodding, he starts toward his vehicle.
    I return my attention to the skid mark. Cursing the swiftly falling darkness, I follow the direction of the skid to a disturbance in the gravel and a place where the grass has been flattened by a tire. It’s as if someone made a U-turn in the middle of the road. There’s no identifiable tread. Five feet from the skid mark, I find the one thing I didn’t want to find: a dark, irregularly shaped stain. I know immediately it’s blood.
    “Goddamn it,” I mutter, staving off a crushing sense of helplessness.
    “Looks like blood.”
    I turn at the sound of Rasmussen’s voice.
    He pulls a Mini Maglite from his belt and sets the beam on the stain. “Might not be hers.” He looks around, his eyes going to the wooded area at the bridge. “Could be from an animal that got hit. Raccoon or possum that came up from that creek.”
    “Maybe.” But I don’t think that’s the case. More than likely, if an animal had been struck by a car, the carcass would be lying nearby. I motion toward the cigarette butt a few feet away. “Sadie Miller smoked clove cigarettes.”
    We kneel next to the stain. There’s not enough blood to form a pool like the one in Buck Creek. This one is elongated and looks more like a smear, or a scrape.
    Wishing for a magnifying glass, I lean close. I see what looks like bits of flesh that have been abraded by the rough surface. My eyes land on something in the center of the stain, sending a scatter of goose bumps over my arms. “A hair,” I hear myself say.
    “Human?”
    “I don’t know. It’s long. Same color and length as Sadie’s.” I straighten, look at him. “I’m going to call Tomasetti and get a CSU out here.”
    He looks around. “Kate, I hate to say this, because this could turn out to be nothing. But it almost looks like a hit-and-run involving a pedestrian.”
    A dozen arguments spring to mind. We’re overacting. Reading things into this that aren’t there. Chances are, a deer or dog or a fucking raccoon got hit. But considering everything we know, his theory is solid. Too damn solid.
    “He ran her down,” I whisper. “And he took her.”
    He tilts his head to catch my eye, then holds my gaze. “I know you have a connection to this girl. If you want me to—”
    “I can handle it.” I know he’s thinking about the Slabaugh case and the fact that I used deadly force. I guard my secrets well, but he knows I’m still dealing with the aftereffects.
    He nods, but his eyes are knowing. “I’ll get a roadblock set up and get some photos.”
    I unclip my phone, surprised that my hands are shaking. Impatient with myself, I punch speed dial to get Tomasetti. He answers with his usual growl and I fill him in on Mandy Reigelsberger’s sighting of Sadie Miller and the scene Rasmussen and I discovered.
    “You sure the hair is human?” he asks.
    “I’ve never met a raccoon with long hair.” Neither of us laughs. “I was wondering if you could send a CSU.”
    “I can have someone there within the hour.”
    “I owe you one.”
    “I’ll remind you of that next time I see you.”
    I almost ask him when that will be, but I don’t want to sound needy. Maybe because, at the moment, I am. “Anything on your end?”
    “We have a witness who claims Gilfillan with the Twelve Passages Church had contact with Annie King, targeted her for recruiting. Goddard brought him in for questioning.
    In terms of the case, unearthing that kind of connection is huge. “You don’t sound too excited.”
    “Witness is a flaky son of a bitch. Known meth user. Disgruntled because he was kicked out of the church.”
    “So he’s got an ax to grind.”
    “Maybe.” But his voice is uncertain. “Or maybe Mr. Meth is telling the truth and Annie King didn’t want to be recruited and things went sour. I’m working on a search warrant now.”
    I think about Gilfillan in terms of Sadie’s disappearance. “Does he have an alibi for last night?”
    “He claims he was home. Alone.”
    The need to be there, to talk to Gilfillan myself, burns through me. Is it possible the self-proclaimed pastor is preying on Amish youths who are confused about the religious path they want to follow?
    “Keep me posted,” I say.
    “You know I will.”

 
CHAPTER 16
     
    One of the most difficult