by Julie Kramer
But tonight, shrieks of delight came from the fields. Young and old visitors arrived to tour Maze of Mystery. Horses and buggies were hitched across from motor vehicles.
But no sign of the Yoder family.
The Amish were hard to distinguish from each other with their uniform garb, so I kept close watch for the trio. Finally, I saw them clutching their tickets, and followed them inside the corn maze.
I kept quiet and distant, surprised to see Miriam carrying a kerosene lantern from the buggy. A sign by the entrance the other day had cautioned No Open Flames, but technically her fire was enclosed by glass and steel.
As for me, I had a flashlight tucked in my purse.
Staying behind the Yoders proved easy for the next half hour. Then the three split up, apparently racing each other among the corn stalks for the exit.
Hannah disappeared with a pack of other children, so even though she was the one I most wanted to talk to, I decided to stick with Miriam. I would confront her about what I found in Sarah’s diary. She moved slowly, like she was giving the rest of her family a head start. Using her lantern, she also paused to admire scarecrows holding scythes and pumpkin decorations displayed along the paths.
I didn’t want to stall too long before approaching her directly, in case she caught up with the other two. So I hid off the path, lurking in the corn, waiting for her to come my way.
“Hello, Miriam,” I called out a minute later.
She didn’t recognize me in the dark, so I shined the flashlight on my face. Then on hers. Seeing me, she looked upset.
“It’s me, Riley Spartz.”
“You?” Miriam swung the lantern back and forth, as if checking to see if anyone else might interrupt us and rescue her.
“Back with your devil’s tongue?” she whispered. “You said Sarah could rest. Your English questions would end. Yet here you are.”
That was the most I’d ever heard Miriam say in one stretch.
“Except I found this. So I had to return.” I showed her Sarah’s journal and flipped through the pages so she could place her handwriting. “I know now why you were shunning your daughter. She wrote down the evil things her brother did to her. Apparently you found it easier to forgive him than her.”
Miriam didn’t ask what I was talking about. She already knew.
She reached for the notebook. “Her words belong to me. I am her mother.”
“No.” I clutched the diary tight to my chest. “This is evidence. Sarah wrote what happened between her and Gideon. And you. How could you protect your son, and leave your daughter in such danger?”
I knew the answer even though she remained quiet. In the Amish culture, men were dominant and women submissive. This was proof.
“Even worse than his abuse, have you considered that he probably killed Sarah?”
“No.” She shook her head, and the lantern waved erratically. I moved to the center of the path, putting space between me, fire, and dry corn tassels.
“Have you ever asked him?” I said. “Or were you afraid of the answer?”
“She had no need,” said a voice from behind me. Gideon stood watching us. “She knows I didn’t commit murder.”
Gideon was armed with a weapon, a scythe, apparently stolen from one of the scarecrows.
With wooden shaft and curved metal blade, scythes were the preferred tool for mowing grass or reaping crops centuries ago. I had dismissed these as mere props, but just then Gideon swung the edge at a row of corn and with a whoosh sound, cut the stalks clean.
Suddenly, Gideon looked less like an Amish man and more like the Grim Reaper.
Medieval folklore always depicted Death holding a scythe as a harvester of souls. At that moment, I had no doubt Gideon had slain Sarah. Now Death was stalking me.
“I know you killed your sister, Gideon.”
“That I did not.”
By now, the maze seemed empty of other visitors. And we were farthest from the exit. The odds of an outsider intervening were slim. But I spoke loudly, just in case.
“I have read her journal, Gideon. I know what you did. And you wanted her to forgive your abuse. I would not have pardoned you either.”
“I did not kill her.”
He swung, and like a razor, the scythe came close to my arm.
“Yet you almost killed me now.”
He didn’t disagree.
“She was going to turn you in to the English law,” I said. “That’s why you turned from molester to murderer. Did you confess that sin to your church?”
He screamed at me to stop, then took another plunge with the blade. I held my purse out for protection and he slit it, contents spilling onto the ground, including my cell phone.
I was afraid to turn and run, because the time I needed to pivot would be all the time he needed to kill. To survive, I needed to keep my eye on the scythe.
All I could do was back up. Slowly and carefully. But defense seldom saves lives. I needed to act. But how? I had no weapon. Fumbling in a side pocket of my purse, all I could find was the cursed rubber spatula. I flung it at him.
As he laughed, I noticed Gideon’s pacing becoming predictable. Swing. Pause. Swing.
Then I remembered Xiong’s glorious martial-arts kick in the alley behind the Hmong quilt house. If I kicked Gideon where it hurt men most, just as the blade finished its arc, I might escape the maze alive.
CHAPTER 83
Stop blaming my son.” This time, Miriam’s voice came from behind me. I felt like the Yoders had me surrounded.
Miriam chose that moment to distract me from my counterattack on Gideon by claiming that she had killed Sarah. I had a hard time seeing this as a case of maternal filicide—child murder—but then I remembered Miriam tearing the head off my Amish doll. So I kept quiet to hear her story.
Gideon also appeared intent on listening to what his mother had to say because his scythe swing slowed. For safety, I kept my eye on him. For reparation, I kept my ears on her.
“I went to save her soul.” Miriam recounted an ill-fated visit to Everything Amish and how hopeful she felt seeing Sarah still garbed in apron and bonnet.
“The buggy is waiting outside, I told her. But she refused to follow. ‘No, Mamm,’ she told me, ‘I am staying here.’
“I assured her she would be welcomed back to the church when she knelt and confessed her error. All would be forgiven, and she would be able to teach school.” Miriam wiped her eyes. “Hannah missed her sister so much.”
But Sarah had apparently held fast to her decision to remain with the English. An argument ensued between them, Miriam calling her daughter “insolent.”
“No, Mamm. I am not the one damaging our family.”
Miriam explained that during the shunning, Sarah had seemed her most docile. She puzzled, how could her daughter have changed so much in so few days? And she panicked when she heard Sarah’s plan.
“I’m going to tell the English about Gideon,” Sarah had told her. “I have made up my mind. This will protect Hannah. They will remove him or they will remove her. Our family secret will be finished.”
“I told her she must keep quiet.” Reliving the scene was upsetting to Miriam, and she moved closer toward her son. “But Sarah would not listen. I told her she was also to blame.”
“Me? Blame?” Sarah had apparently reacted with shock in that appraisal from her mother. I also was stunned by Miriam’s attributing the guilt to her daughter.
“Bishop Stoltzfus and I have discussed this,” Miriam had said. “The trouble with you and Gideon has happened so many times for so many years, you must also be at fault.”
Gideon had stopped swinging the scythe. I wasn’t sure whether it was because he agreed or disagreed with his mother about the blame. Since he seemed momentarily catatonic, I stole a glance at Miriam. She was crying as she reiterated their final encounter, and how Sarah had suddenly accused her.
“Me? How about you, Mamm? Scolding me for the sins of my brother. You are to blame for
him. You should have stopped this long ago.”
Miriam put her head in her hands, the kerosene lantern wobbling. I imagined her headache was also a heartache. Every night as she tried to sleep she probably heard Sarah’s words repeated. You are to blame for him.
That’s when Miriam stopped talking. However the tale ended, it seemed too painful for her to continue. But news stories need closure and reporters need answers.
“What happened next?” I asked her.
Miriam didn’t answer.
“How did Sarah die?” I continued.
She looked at Gideon, even though I was the one with the persistent questions. He volunteered nothing to defend or accuse his mother. He seemed almost mesmerized by her narrative, like he was hearing some of the details for the first time.
“Miriam, you said you killed Sarah. So how did she die?” I repeated.
That appeared one question too many. Gideon jumped in to end the conversation. “When Sarah left the Amish, she was already dead to us. It makes no difference how she died.”
“I imagine it mattered to Sarah,” I said. “And I’d like to hear the truth, Miriam, if you’re ready to tell it.”
“Stop asking your English questions,” Gideon said. “My mother has been forgiven by the bishop, she does not have to talk to you.”
His talk of forgiveness was interesting. “What did your church forgive you for?” I asked her.
“Don’t answer,” Gideon said.
“No, I want to speak,” Miriam replied. “She fell. We quarreled and Sarah fell.”
It seemed a stretch for a young woman to die in a fall, then end up naked in a sinkhole. But Miriam insisted it was an accident, and described how she had grabbed her daughter’s arm, to take her home.
“She told me, ‘I am staying, Mamm. You’re the one who should leave,’” Miriam said. “I tried to drag her toward the door, but Sarah pulled away from me.”
Everything Amish was crowded with furniture displays. Miriam described how Sarah fell, hitting her head against the corner of a sturdy table. She slid downward, her body collapsing to the floor. There was no blood. Sarah was unconscious, but still breathing. The girl looked like she was merely sleeping.
CHAPTER 84
I tried waking her,” Miriam continued. “But Sarah didn’t move.”
“Did you consider calling for help?” I asked. “The store has a telephone.”
I knew it wasn’t that simple. The Amish were not conditioned to seek medical help during emergencies. They tended to wait it out, and see if the condition improved on its own.
“I thought this was God’s way of returning my daughter to me,” she said. “I would take her home, and when Sarah woke, she would be glad to be back with her family.”
Everything Amish was closing soon. So Miriam alternated between dragging and carrying the girl to the backseat of the buggy. She had yanked a quilt down from the middle of a hanging row on sale and used it to cover Sarah.
“I had wanted to keep her warm,” she said.
I didn’t ask her whether she also wanted to ensure no one else would see her passenger. Knowing it was unusual for Miriam to be out alone after dark, I pictured her angst as she drove the whole way back to the farm.
She ignored me to glance over at her son as she recounted the happenings of that night, recalling that Gideon had been waiting to take the reins when she arrived home. “He started to ask where I’d been, but I cut him off and ordered him to help me bring his sister inside.”
But it was too late. When they pulled back the quilt to check on Sarah, she stared at them accusingly from the back of the buggy. Her eyes were glassy, her body limp. I recalled the medical examiner’s conclusion about blunt-force trauma and bleeding on the brain and knew from past cases how unpredictable such injuries could be. At least, Sarah had died quickly.
“I didn’t want Hannah to see her, so we pulled the buggy into the barn,” Miriam explained, “while we thought about what to do.”
No doubt, Sarah’s death would mean unwelcome questions from outsiders. I imagined Miriam felt conflicting emotions: guilt and relief. Essentially, she had to decide between her daughter and her son. Except she had already chosen long ago.
“So which one of you had the idea to hide her body?” I asked.
Gideon spoke: “We both agreed it best.”
“I asked him to leave Sarah and I alone for a few minutes,” she said.
Sarah had wanted to be English, so she would be. Miriam erased her Amish identity by unbinding her hair and removing her garments. Unclothed and decomposed, it would be harder to identify Sarah.
“When I took off her bonnet, I felt a bump on the back of her head.” Miriam gave a small sob. She was ashamed of her daughter’s nakedness. “So I rolled her in the quilt, and told Gideon to hide her someplace where she would be thought English if found.”
And that was how Sarah ended up in the sinkhole.
In the minds of the Amish, English frequently died from violent crimes. The Yoders’ hope was for Sarah to rot and never be recognized as Amish again. To anyone who inquired about her whereabouts, they would shrug and simply reply that she was in the bann and had left their world. Eventually the questions would stop. People would forget about Sarah.
But they did not. Her anonymity was short-lived.
By the end of the story, Gideon had remembered he held a scythe. And his next swing demonstrated he had a much worse scheme in mind than cutting off my hair. Visions of the headless Amish doll came to my mind.
“Is your mother telling the truth, Gideon? If you’re not a killer, then prove it by not killing me. Amish reject violence. Don’t let her destroy your faith.”
He seemed momentarily confused, so as he swung, I made my move for survival. Thrusting my foot outward, while twisting backward, I attempted the critical kick—and messed up. Without practice, without Xiong, such combat did not come naturally to me. Instead of striking Gideon, my kick hit the kerosene lantern Miriam was holding. The glass broke, fuel and flame flew into the dry corn, and within seconds the maze was on fire.
I heard a scream, but it wasn’t mine. Or Miriam’s. Or Gideon’s.
The screams came from Hannah. I don’t know how long the little girl had crouched amid the stalks, watching our altercation, but definitely too long.
CHAPTER 85
Almost immediately, I smelled smoke. Nearby stalks and tassels were fully engulfed. And the fire was spreading fast throughout the field, much faster than any forest fire I’d ever covered. In the darkness, the danger was vivid. If I waited much longer, I’d be smelling burnt flesh as well as burnt corn.
Gideon and his mother were on one side of the flames, Hannah and I on the other. I grabbed the little girl’s hand and ran.
I didn’t think about the other two. And maybe that was wrong, but a nine-year-old and I were racing death and losing. And maybe this was the hell that Miriam and Gideon deserved.
Instead of an exit, our path led to a dead end. Fire followed us close behind, and ahead. I tried a new direction, cutting through the corn.
The heat was almost unbearable. Hannah was holding tight to my waist. Burning was such a bad way to go. And while minutes earlier the flames seemed to light the way out, smoke now formed a thick wall obstructing our vision.
We were both coughing. I tore off Hannah’s bonnet and held it over her nose so she could breathe better. I once shot a news story about escaping from a burning building by crawling on the floor, where the air was cooler. That technique didn’t seem to work in a cornfield because the flames had fuel to burn, from ground to sky.
Then I remembered my tour of the corn maze. And the employee shortcut. I forced myself to concentrate, which was difficult while surrounded by smoke and sparks. Finally I located the homestead’s windmill against the night sky and I got my bearings.
By then Hannah was too weak to walk.
CHAPTER 86
Minutes later, I stumbled out of the maze with the Amish girl cl
utched in my arms, our clothes blackened, faces blistered, and eyebrows singed.
Firefighters eventually arrived and put a plastic mask over Hannah’s face and pumped oxygen into her lungs before an ambulance arrived to take her to the hospital. I tried to tell them two more people were trapped inside, but they could do nothing but let the field burn. All twelve acres of corn maze burned like fire and brimstone. Later reports said flames and smoke could be seen in the darkness more than twenty miles away. Like curious moths, gawkers came to watch.
Neighboring fields and other farm buildings would also have been consumed as the corn maze turned into a raging prairie fire, but then the heavens opened up and the promised storm delivered biblical rain.
People sought cover from the downpour. But to me, the water was refreshing, and diminished the smell of smoke. So I stood, allowing myself to become drenched, welcoming the rainfall. Though the inferno had destroyed the corn maze, the squall could not wash the vivid sights and sounds from my imagination of what it must have been like for Miriam and Gideon to burn alive.
CHAPTER 87
I remained standing, almost numb, as ambulances and squad cars pulled out of the corn maze parking lot, sirens blaring. I couldn’t understand what could be more urgent than the chaos underfoot. Then I learned a pickup had crashed into a horse and buggy a couple of miles down the road.
Word spread the truck driver had been speeding toward the fire scene to watch the burn. The buggy, without lighting or a reflective triangle, was almost invisible along the dark route.
I headed toward the collision, but traffic was being directed away from the scene. So I parked and walked up to the police line where pieces of broken wood and wheels lay scattered across the road, illuminated by the flashing lights of emergency vehicles.
I showed my media pass to a state patrol officer who had worked on another accident reconstruction case I’d covered years ago. Then I pointed toward the body of a dead horse along the shoulder. “Was that the only casualty?”
