“I’m afraid we made a wrong turn,” I tell her.
“Happens all the time out here,” she says easily.
“Good place to get lost,” Tomasetti says.
She hesitates an instant and then nods. “That it is. Where you folks trying to get to?”
“Back to the highway,” he tells her.
She motions toward the lane from whence we came. “Just make a left at the end of the lane and go right on Abbottsville Road. Highway’s four miles down. Can’t miss it.”
“Got it,” he says.
“Mom?” comes a male voice. “Everything okay?”
I glance toward the barn to see a lanky young Amish man approach, an egg basket in his right hand, his gaze settling first on me and then on Tomasetti. He’s wearing gray trousers and a black barn coat with a dark, flat-brimmed hat.
“Everything’s fine,” the woman says easily.
The young man is in his early twenties, and I can’t take my eyes off him. Neither can Tomasetti. Maybe because he’s the spitting image of a younger—and much less damaged—Tucker Miles.
No wonder Angela didn’t want to be found.
As if realizing we’re staring, the woman reaches out and gives the young man’s arm a squeeze. “This is my oldest, Mark. Everyone calls him Bean.”
The man ducks his head as if embarrassed by his mother’s open affection, then raises the basket. “You folks need eggs?” he asks. “They’re fresh and we got plenty.”
I glance over at Tomasetti. “We could take a dozen back to the bed-and-breakfast.”
“A dozen it is, then.” He pulls out his wallet and looks at Angela Blaine. “How much do we owe you?”
“Three dollars ought to keep us in chicken scratch a few more days.”
He hands her a five and tells her to keep the change.
“We got milk, too,” the young man tells us. “It’s fresh.”
“We don’t advertise,” the woman says quickly, “since the government started citing the Amish.”
“We don’t need any milk.” I offer a smile. “But your secret’s safe with us.”
The Amish woman tilts her head and gives me a closer look, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“I think we have everything we need now,” Tomasetti replies and we start toward the Tahoe.
Tomasetti and I don’t speak again until we’re on the highway, heading back to the bed-and-breakfast. I break the silence with, “I wish there was some way we could let Harley and Fannie know Angela Blaine is alive and well.”
He shrugs. “I think this is one of those times when the lost are better off staying lost.”
“And Harley can continue to enjoy his ghost story.”
“Case closed?” he asks.
I smile at him. “Definitely.”
Glancing away from the road, he sets his hand over mine. “I guess that means you and I can get back to our vacation.”
“Tomasetti, that’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”
A HIDDEN SECRET
She thought she’d been prepared. What a fool she was, to think she could do this on her own. Stupid, stupid girl. If she hadn’t been in such a dark place, she might have laughed at the magnitude of her own idiocy. At the moment, she didn’t think she’d ever laugh again. Wasn’t even sure she’d survive.
The pain was worse than anything she’d ever experienced in her life. Like a hand that had been thrust into her body, grasping at the very core of her, pulling and tearing until she was turned inside out. She screamed and panted and cursed. She writhed on her bed, crying uncontrollably, wet with sweat and twisting in the sheets. She’d sought relief on the floor, the hardwood cool against her face. She tried lying in a bathtub full of warm water, like she’d read in the books. Nothing helped. The pain only worsened as the night wore on. It became part of her, a vicious and unrelenting thing, beating her down, until she lay still, staring into the darkness, saving her breath for the next onslaught.
She’d never felt so alone. She’d never been so scared. Oh, how she wished he were here with her. Between the waves of pain, she talked to him. She cried for him; told him how much she loved him. How much she missed him. Then another surge engulfed her and she wished, not for the first time, that she was the one who’d died instead of him.
Twice, she almost called for an ambulance. Anything to end the suffering. Then she thought of her dad. How disappointed he’d be. She thought of her friends and how they would look at her if they knew. She thought of those who would never be her friend and she knew they’d turn this into something it wasn’t. None of them would understand. She had to get through this. Alone.
An earthquake of agony tore through her. She bit down on the cloth between her teeth. She gave in to the urge to bear down. She pushed hard. Gave it her all. She just wanted it out of her body. She wanted this to be over. She wanted it gone so she could get on with her life.
Oh, God! Oh, God!
A final push. Animal intensity. Muscles quivering. Primal sounds squeezing from her throat. Sweating and grunting like a beast. The cruel fist clenching and tearing low in her belly. Her eyes fluttered. Her vision went dark. For an instant, she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t hear but for the buzzing inside her head.
The pain shifted and eased. She sucked in a breath. Her senses returned. For an instant, she lay there, panting and exhausted, trying to absorb the magnitude of what she’d done.
After a moment, she sat up. A sob tore from her throat when she saw the bluish, bloody mass. A dark shock of hair matted with blood. Tiny hands and feet moving. Wrinkled red face. Little mouth mewling like a kitten.
She should have anticipated the blood. Warm and wet and slick on her skin. Bright red and shimmering against the floor. The sight of it terrified her anew. Not because it had come from her body, but because she didn’t know how she would get it cleaned up before someone discovered her secret.
Panic nipped at her with sharp teeth. She’d read all the books; she knew what to do. Hands shaking, she grasped the scissors. Not thinking, not letting herself feel, she snipped.
More blood.
Another cry.
And the final tie was severed.
* * *
The bishop dreamed of repairing the fence. The one on the south side of the pasture that had been kicked last spring by that rambunctious bay colt, knocking the third rail off the post. His wife had been after him to fix it for weeks now. He’d never admit it, but it was getting harder and harder to keep up with all the chores around the farm these days. Kneeling, he set the bubble level atop the board, set the nail against the wood, and let the hammer fly with a satisfying whack!
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The old man startled awake. Disoriented, he sat up, listening, unsure what had roused him. A noise outside his window? One of the animals? He glanced over at his wife, sleeping soundly beside him, and sighed. It seemed the livestock always got into trouble at night. The horses. The milk cows. That little pygmy goat that had gotten separated from its mother last week. It didn’t matter how secure the pasture or barn, they always found a way to escape. Might as well rise now and get a jump on the day’s chores.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound was faint, a barely discernible rap from downstairs. A neighbor stopping by to let him know that fat little goat had escaped its pen again? The little rascal was more trouble than he was worth. But the old man smiled as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was reaching for his clothes draped over the rocking chair when he heard the other sound. Not the goat, but the soft mewl of an abandoned kitten. Or a cat that had been injured, judging from the intensity of its cry. Whatever the case, it needed help.
He dressed in the darkness of the bedroom. Black trousers. Blue work shirt. He pulled his suspenders over bony shoulders and then wriggled into his black coat. On his way to the door, he plucked his flat-brimmed hat from the hook on the wall.
The steps creaked beneath his stockin
g feet as he made his way downstairs. The clock on the wall in the living room told him it wasn’t yet four-thirty. He was thinking about a hot cup of coffee and helping himself to one of his wife’s apple fritters as he went into the kitchen and lit the lantern. He carried it back through the living room to the front door. Setting the lantern on the table, he opened the door. There was no one there. He looked down; surprise quivered through him at the sight of the plastic laundry basket. A quilt inside. But who would leave an injured animal on his doorstep?
Something moved within the quilt. The sound that followed sent him back a step. Alarm fluttered deep in his gut. He pressed his hand to his chest. He’d fathered eleven children; he’d heard enough crying in his lifetime to know this was no animal, but a child, and a newborn at that.
Bending, he carefully peeled away a corner of the quilt. Sure enough, the wrinkled red face of an infant stared back at him. Tiny mouth open. Chin quivering. Hands fluttering.
The old man’s heart turned over. “En bobli,” he whispered. A baby.
He figured he’d held a hundred or more babies in the eighty-one years he’d been on earth. It had been awhile—even his grandchildren were older now—but holding one of God’s children was something a man never forgot. Ignoring the arthritis in his knees, he knelt, plucked the child and quilt from the basket, and brought both to his chest.
“Vo du dich kumma funn?” he cooed in Pennsylvania Dutch. “Where did you come from?”
A rustle from the darkness beyond the porch startled him. Something moved on the other side of the lilac bushes that grew alongside the driveway. Cradling the baby, he stepped back and squinted into the shadows beyond the porch.
“Who goes there?” he called out.
He listened, thought he heard footsteps against gravel, faint and moving away. “Hello? Who’s there?”
The only reply was the whisper of wind through the trees. Whoever had left this child on his doorstep was gone.
“Was der schinner du havva?” What’ve you got there?
He jolted at the sound of his wife’s voice, turned to see her, still clad in her nightgown, a thick cardigan sweater draped over her shoulders, creeping down the stairs, a lantern in her hand.
Taking a final look outside, the bishop closed the door and started toward his wife. “I believe God has sent us a package from heaven.”
She thrust the lantern toward him. Her step faltered; her eyes went wide when she spotted the baby. “Oh Good Lord! En bobli?” She looked from the child to her husband. “Where did it come from?”
“The porch,” he told her. “Wrapped in the deppich, inside a laundry basket.”
Recovering from her shock, she set the lantern on the table against the wall. “Someone left it? But who would do such a thing?”
The bishop shook his head. “A mother who’s lost her way.”
His wife’s eyes attached to the baby. “Oh, poor little thing.” She held out her arms, and he slipped the child into them. Though they were old, they remembered how to handle a baby. He wondered how many times over the years they’d passed a crying infant back and forth as a young couple building their family.
“It’s cute as a button,” his wife purred. “Look at that little nose.”
“Do you think it’s Amisch?” the old man asked.
“The deppich”—the quilt—“is Amisch.”
He looked toward the door. “I wonder how long it was out there in the cold.”
His wife made a sound, as if the thought distressed her. “I bet it’s hungry.” She clucked her tongue. “I don’t have a baby bottle in the house. But I do have some goat’s milk in the refrigerator.”
“Goat’s milk?”
“Easier on the stomach,” his wife told him. “I can use my finger and get a few drops in its belly.”
Looking down at the child in her arms, she trilled. “Witt du wennich eppes zu ess?” Want you a little something to eat?
The bishop stared at the tiny, wriggling infant and, despite the worry weighing him down, he smiled. “Don’t fret, Little One,” he said. “It’s all part of God’s plan.”
He caught his wife’s gaze. “The English police will want to know about this,” he said.
“Es waarken maulvoll gat,” she replied. There’s nothing good about that. “Ich bag nix dagege.” But I don’t object.
He nodded. “So be it.”
Cradling the child against her, his wife turned and started toward the kitchen.
* * *
A middle-of-the-night phone call is never a good thing when you’re the chief of police, even in a small town like Painters Mill, Ohio. The chirp of my cell phone yanks me from a deep sleep. One eye open, I grapple for it on the table next to my bed. “Burkholder,” my voice rasps.
“Chief, sorry to wake you.”
It’s my graveyard-shift dispatcher, Mona. She sounds worried.
“No problem.” I push myself to a sitting position and shove the hair from my eyes. The clock on the nightstand tells me it’s not yet five A.M. “What’s up?”
“I just took a call from the Amish bishop,” she tells me. “He says he found a baby on his doorstep about twenty minutes ago.”
“A baby?” I’m out of bed and reaching for my bra draped over the chair, yanking a fresh uniform shirt from the closet.
“Yup. A newborn.”
“Any sign of the mother?”
“Just the baby.”
“Is it hurt? Or injured?”
“He didn’t think so.”
I consider that for a moment. “Call Holmes County Children’s Services, will you? They’ve got an emergency number for after hours. Tell them to meet me out there ASAP. And let the ER folks at Pomerene Hospital know we’re on our way.”
“Got it.”
“And call Bishop Troyer back. Tell him I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Sure thing, Chief.”
I end the call, my dispatcher’s words tumbling uneasily in my brain. A newborn.
“Kate?”
I look toward the bed to see John Tomasetti flip on the light. For an instant we squint at each other. “I caught the tail end of the conversation.” He throws back the covers and steps into trousers. “What’s up?”
I tell him about Mona’s call.
“Abandoned?” he asks.
“Apparently.” I feel the grimace overtake my face. “I’ve got to get out to the bishop’s farm. If it’s a newborn, it may need medical attention.”
“You want some company?”
“You mean officially?”
“Or unofficially. Whatever works.”
Usually, when dealing with the Amish, I prefer to do it alone. They’re more likely to speak freely to me than to my counterparts, mainly because of my Amish roots and the simple fact that I’m fluent in Pennsylvania Dutch. But there’s nothing usual about this call and I think it might be best to bring a partner along. Especially since John Tomasetti is an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation.
I smile at him. “You think you’ll manage to behave yourself?”
He snags a shirt from his closet and shrugs into it. “I’ll do my best.”
“That’s a likely story.” But I grab my equipment belt off the chair and buckle it at my hip. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Bishop David Troyer and his wife live on a farm just south of Painters Mill. I’ve known the bishop for as long as I can remember. When I was twelve, my datt caught me smoking a cigarette with a neighbor boy by the name of Brodie Mathis. It was a serious offense for an Amish girl, made worse by the fact that Brodie was five years my senior and an Englischer, to boot. It wasn’t my first show of disobedience, and my datt delivered a robust “smacking” when he got me back to the house. The following Sunday after worship, he made it a point to put me before Bishop Troyer, who proceeded to lecture me on the importance of obedience and the benefits of being a “good child.” The bishop possesses a powerful presence and, in my twelve-year-old heart, he wa
s the closest thing to God I’d ever encountered. It was a formative experience. After that day, my opinion of him hovered somewhere between terror and awe. It wasn’t until I’d graduated into adulthood that I realized while he can be judgmental, his words sometimes harsh, he is also kind and generous and fair.
I take the long gravel lane of the Troyer farm with a little too much speed. Ahead, the windows of the old farmhouse glow yellow with lantern light.
“Any idea who might’ve left their baby here?” Tomasetti asks as I pull up beside a ramshackle shed.
“Since it was left with the bishop, I suspect she’s Amish.” I consider that as I put the Explorer into Park and kill the engine. “Then again, if an Amish woman or girl had an unplanned pregnancy and felt she couldn’t handle a newborn, it seems like the most likely place to leave a baby would be with her parents.”
“Unless there are problems at home.”
I glance at him and nod. “Hopefully the bishop will be able to shed some light.”
I grab my Maglite, and Tomasetti and I take the sidewalk to the back door. I’ve not even knocked yet when the door opens and I find myself staring at the bishop. Clad in black with a long, steel-wool beard, eyes as dark and penetrating as mica, he’s still got that powerful presence that intimidated me so completely as a child.
“Katie.” His usually stern face is a mask of worry this morning.
“Bishop.” I look past him toward the kitchen. “Thank you for calling me.”
“It seemed like the right thing to do.” His eyes flick to Tomasetti.
Extending his hand for a shake, Tomasetti introduces himself, using his official title. “Is the baby healthy?” he asks.
“If that baby’s cry is any indication, she’s as healthy as a horse.” Stepping back, the bishop ushers us inside. “This way.”
The mudroom is dimly lit, too warm, and smells of coffee and frying scrapple, an Amish breakfast staple. The plank floor creaks beneath our shoes as we cross to the kitchen. I find the bishop’s wife, Ada, standing at the sink, cradling a small, wriggling bundle against her generous bosom.
A Simple Murder Page 5
