“Is she completely diminished mentally?” he asks.
“Not so much that I felt I needed to discount everything she said. And I got the distinct impression she’s afraid.”
Tomasetti falls silent, digesting; then he asks, “What’s your gut telling you? Do you think it’s possible someone killed him because of what happened with the kid seven years ago?”
“I think the timing of it and the circumstances are suspect.”
“Why now?” he asks. “After so much time?”
“Maybe the parents or a parent or even a family member recently found out what happened and who was involved, and they decided to … take back what had been stolen from them.” I pause, thinking about the notes. “Look, I’m going to try the midwife one more time tomorrow before I leave, talk to the new bishop, then I’ll head back.”
After hanging up with Tomasetti, I go back to my search engine, using a multitude of criteria for a missing child five to ten years ago, but nothing comes back. I strike out with the law enforcement databases, too. No newspaper stories. I even spend some time floundering around some of the social media sites. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
I go back to the file I brought with me, rereading every report, every interview transcript, every form, and my own personal notes. One name that keeps popping up is Marlene Byler, Mary Yoder’s sister. I think about familial connections. The rumors surrounding her death. Is there some nexus I’m not seeing? I flip the page, look at the crime scene photos, desperately seeking something—anything—I missed before, all to no avail.
By the time midnight rolls around, I can’t keep my eyes open. I shut my laptop cover, turn off the TV, and exhaustion drags me into a hard sleep.
CHAPTER 15
Sixty-four hours missing
The river moved with an uneasy restlessness. Wind whipped the surface into waves more befitting a lake. The brown current boiled with turbulence. The eddy near the bank formed a whirlpool, sucking leaves and debris into the depths. The family of muskrats that had been living in a push-up near shore had moved to the marsh across the road. Even the red-shouldered hawk that had nested in the birch tree had left for higher ground.
Something coming, she thought.
Sadie Stutzman stood on the back porch and watched the water slither past the muddy bank. Dawn teased the horizon above the treetops to the east. Snow pattered the brim of her winter bonnet and dampened the shoulders of her shawl, but she barely noticed the cold or wet.
She loved the river. The sight of it. The smells. She loved the land with its fickle ways and hidden threats. She’d been born here, raised in this very house. She’d been married in the old barn, which had been swept away by the river going on thirty years ago. She’d lost her husband here a decade ago. Somehow, she’d grown old. This morning, watching the water that was as cloudy and troubled as her own mind, she knew she would probably die here, too. Such were the joys and agonies of life.
Taking a final look at the river, she pushed open the door that took her into her small kitchen. In anticipation of the snow, she’d pulled the last of the mint from the little patch that grew along the side of the house. Tearing off a few leaves, she dropped them into a mug and poured hot water from the teapot she kept simmering on the stove. Mint tea always calmed her. This morning, with her mind in turmoil, she figured she might need two cups.
She couldn’t stop thinking about the English policewoman who’d come to her, asking questions, digging up things she had no business digging into. The woman had no idea what she was doing. If she wasn’t careful, Kate Burkholder was going to unearth something awful. Something dangerous. Dummkopp, she thought. Idiot. It was a harsh judgment; the woman was just doing her job. She had no way of knowing that the truth would only make things worse. That some questions were best left unasked.
The exchange haunted her throughout the night. If only she could hurl the memories into the water and let them be sucked into one of those eddies to be buried in the mud and darkness. Perhaps the stroke had been one of God’s tender mercies. In His eternal kindness and wisdom, He would erase the memory of that night, of what she’d done. What they’d done. He would ease her pain. Forgive her. Restore the peace she’d lost seven years ago.
Thanks to Kate Burkholder, it was all coming back.
Clutching the mug of tea, Sadie shuffled through the kitchen, down the hall, and entered her bedroom. She set the cup on the night table next to her bed, lit the lantern, and opened the drawer. The sight of the notes sent a shiver through her. She picked them up anyway and read.
It is mine to avenge; I will repay. In due time their foot will slip; their day of disaster is near and their doom rushes upon them.
The Bible quote was from Deuteronomy 32:35. She’d found it in her mailbox the morning after Bishop Schwartz was killed. Most people would have laughed at such a thing, imagining some harebrained teenager playing tricks. Not Sadie. She’d known right away it was no joke. She knew who’d written it, and she knew why.
She flipped to the second note.
If a thief is caught breaking in at night and is struck a fatal blow, the defender is not guilty of bloodshed …
The threat was not lost on Sadie. The question foremost in her mind was: How did they find out? Only a handful of people knew what had been done. None of them would have talked about such a thing. Not by choice.
A seven-year-old little girl is missing. She’s Amish. Innocent.
Those were the words she couldn’t get out of her head. The words that were a knife to her heart. Sadie cursed Kate Burkholder for saying them. She cursed herself for what she’d done. For what she’d let happen. For not having the courage to tell the truth.
“You are with me, Lord, so I won’t be afraid. What can human beings do to me when I have You?” She recited the psalm from memory as she tucked the notes into the envelope. Untying the strings of her winter bonnet, Sadie slipped it from her head and set it on the rocking chair in the corner. Picking up her mug, she blew out the lantern and left the bedroom.
She knew the English policewoman would be back. Kate Burkholder didn’t have a timid spirit. Next time, Sadie would tell her the truth. She would end this. Deliver that sweet child from evil—if it wasn’t already too late.
Sadie was midway down the hall when she felt the cold air wrap around her ankles. She stopped, listening, her heart jumping in her chest. Door’s open, she thought, and she knew.
“Du dauerte iahra,” came a whispered voice from the living room. You took her.
She saw him then, a silhouette in the dim glow of lantern light. A mountain of a man, standing there, stone still. Eyes like tiny fires.
“I saved her life.” Despite the fear crawling over her, Sadie held her ground. “You’d best take her home.”
“She is home.” He started toward her. Purpose in his strides. Intent in his eyes.
Dear God.
Sadie turned and ran. But she was old. Two steps and he was upon her. A predator on prey. No chance of escape.
“I was trying to help you!” she cried.
The first blow fell upon her, sent her to her knees. Pain streaked across her scalp. The cup flew from her hand, warm tea splashing on the wall, her dress, her legs. Then she was on the floor, the carpet scratchy against her cheek. Head reeling, she looked up at him. “Please don’t hurt her!”
“Thou shalt not steal,” he said.
Before she could retort, he raised his foot, brought it down hard, and the night swallowed the day.
CHAPTER 16
Sixty-five hours missing
I wake a little before seven A.M. to two inches of snow and a sunrise of monochrome gray. By eight A.M. I’m back on the road. I swing by a small grocery store, grab a cup of coffee, and an extra for Sadie Stutzman along with a dozen blueberry muffins; then I take the county road south toward the river. I’m not above plying a potential witness with food and caffeine.
I drive past the same properties as yesterday. Something about the snow
makes them look not quite so dilapidated. Muddy tire tracks mar the driveway of the Stutzman place. As I pull up to the house and shut down the engine, I wonder who’s already been here so early. She doesn’t seem like the kind of individual who gets a lot of visitors.
Grabbing the cardboard tray containing the coffee and muffins, I wade through snow and mud and take the steps to the front porch. A dusting of snow on the concrete reveals footprints. None are clear, but judging from the size, they belong to a male and they haven’t been there long.
I move the storm door aside and knock. “Sadie?” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder.”
I wait a full minute. There’s no sound from inside and no one comes to the door. Undeterred, I head around to the rear in case she’s up early and working on her earthen levee project. The horse whinnies at me from its pen. Waiting for hay, I think, and I wonder why it hasn’t yet been fed. I glance toward the mound of earth Sadie was working on yesterday, but the snow hasn’t been disturbed. I take the steps to the tiny porch to knock. A thread of worry goes through me when I find the door open a few inches.
“Sadie? Hey, it’s Kate Burkholder. Is everything all right?”
No answer.
I stand there, holding the cardboard tray, thinking about the tire tracks in the driveway, the footprints on the porch, debating. I call out her name again, but no one answers.
“Damn it.” Setting the tray on the concrete, I push open the door. The interior is dimly lit and so quiet I can hear the wind whistling through the eaves. The smell of something burning and overripe bananas float on cold air.
“Sadie?”
I step into the kitchen. It’s small. Lots of clutter. Something sizzles to my right. There’s a low-burning blue flame beneath an old-fashioned teapot. The water has boiled over. The source of the smell. Evidently, it’s been burning for some time. I twist off the gas.
The house is a boxy structure with narrow doors and low ceilings that lend a slightly claustrophobic ambience. I pass through the kitchen, pause in the doorway that opens to the living room. Like the rest of the house it’s a small, messy space. Lanterns, paperback books, bundles of yarn, and various knitting projects are scattered atop a rustic coffee table. An orange and green afghan that looks as if it’s been mauled by a pride of cats is draped over a sofa the color of pea soup. A hook rug covers threadbare carpeting. There’s a darkened hallway to my left.
“Sadie?”
Shadows fill the room, so I go to the front window and open the curtains. Dim light seeps in. I glance into the hallway to my left. The thread of worry I’d felt earlier augments into an adrenaline punch when I see the Amish woman lying on the floor, a small heap, unmoving.
“Oh, no.”
I go to her and kneel. She’s sprawled on her right side with her left arm above her head. Wearing the same dress as yesterday. A mug lying on its side. Urine has soaked into her skirt and puddled on the floor. Something dark smeared on her kapp. I know she’s dead even before I see her face. Cloudy eyes open and staring. Mouth sagging. Darkish tongue hanging out between hit-or-miss teeth.
“Oh, Sadie.” I press my fingers to her carotid artery, but there’s no pulse. A chill coils at the base of my spine when I realize her flesh isn’t yet cold to the touch.
I have no way of knowing what I’ve walked into. Sadie was an elderly woman, a stroke victim, and well into her eighties. She could have fallen during the night and broken a hip. She could have had another stroke or a heart attack. Any number of things could have happened. But I can’t stop thinking about the tire tracks in the driveway. The footprints on the front porch.
Rising, I step back, slide my .38 from the holster. The hallway is dark; with my other hand I tug the mini Maglite from my jacket pocket. No movement in the bedroom or bathroom beyond. In the periphery of the beam, the old woman’s flesh is colorless. Her lips dry and nearly purple. The smear on her kapp snags my attention. Blood, I realize. A dribble of it runs from her ear to the crease of skin at her throat. Something not right about her face.…
I shift the light. Horror burgeons when I realize one side of her skull has been crushed.
“Shit. Shit.”
Every sense attuned to my surroundings, I back away, retrace my steps. The floor creaks behind me. I spin, catch a glimpse of the rocking chair an instant before it crashes into me. The curved slat strikes my temple. Pain sears across my scalp. The armrest slams against my left shoulder. The force sends me to my knees. My .38 clatters to the floor.
A jet engine of adrenaline roars through me. A dozen thoughts register at once. My attacker is male. Tall. Heavily built. Beard.
I dive for the .38. An instant before I reach it, a hand slams down on my shoulder. Fingers dig into muscle and skin, yank me backward with such force that I spin, land on my back. He comes down on top of me, straddles my midsection, draws back to punch me.
I bring up both knees, drive them against his spine. He rocks forward, unfazed, but it buys me an instant. I ram the heel of my hand into his face. The cartilage in his nose crunches. His head snaps back.
His fist careens off my left cheekbone. Stars scatter in my peripheral vision. Pain zings. I’m at a huge disadvantage, weight and strength and position. We’re in the hall, hemmed in by the narrow space. I do the only thing I can and bring up my right leg, hook it over his head, my heel against his throat, and send him backward. He growls like an animal. He’s off balance now, halfway off me. I bring up my other leg and stomp his chest. The force drives him back. Not for long. He lunges at me, throws a wild punch.
“I’m a cop!” I scream. “I am armed! Get the fuck off me!”
His fist bounces off my knee as I bring it up. I kick at him with both feet. My right heel glances off his chin. He grabs my ankle, but I punt his hand away with my other foot.
Kicking, wildly and without aim, I roll, launch myself at the .38. My hand finds the butt.
He comes down on top of me, a boulder slamming against my back. I’m facedown, my right arm extended, gripping my weapon. A fist comes down on my head like a sledgehammer. My chin slams against the floor. My teeth clack together. My finger is inside the guard.…
“Get off me! I’m armed! I will shoot you!”
My screams fall on deaf ears. He’s straddling the small of my back. A second punch lands between my shoulder blades. Pain tears the breath from my lungs. His fist slams against the right side of my head. Red and white lights flash. My ear rings. Hands fumble, find my neck. Viselike fingers clamp around my throat, squeezing.
He pulls me backward, lifts the top part of my body off the floor, then shunts my head down. My forehead and nose slam against the floor. Another round of stars. Pain climbs up my sinuses. The warmth of blood on my lips. The copper taste of it in my mouth.
I yank the .38 toward me, bend my arm at the elbow, aim as best I can over my shoulder, and I take a blind shot. The explosion rocks my brain.
My attacker goes rigid. An animalistic howl tears from his throat. I pull the trigger again. He rolls off me. I twist, crabwalk back, bring up the gun. “Police! Get on the ground! Get on the ground!”
I see his silhouette against the window, coming toward me, and I pull off another shot. I hear a whoosh! A piece of furniture flung at me, something heavy hitting my arm. Another zing of pain. A damn chair.…
I kick it aside, hear it clatter across the floor. He’s nowhere in sight, but I hear him moving around in the living room. “Get your fucking hands up!” I scream. “Get them up! Get on the ground or I will shoot you dead! Do it now!”
The chair flies at me from the mouth of the hall. I block it with my foot. I catch a glimpse of him as he sprints to the kitchen.
I scramble to my feet, dizzy, stumble right, hit the wall with my shoulder. “Police! Stop!”
I follow, round the corner, see him go through the back door. “Police! Halt!”
The man jumps from the porch, streaks across the yard. Then I’m through the door. I level my .38 at the man.
> But he’s gone.
* * *
The deputy with the Scioto County Sheriff’s Office arrives on scene in fourteen minutes. I’m sitting in the Explorer, which I’ve moved to the road’s shoulder in front of the house. I was able to preserve some of the tire-tread imprints, but not all of them, and the snow is melting quickly. The prospect of capturing plaster impressions doesn’t look good.
The deputy isn’t happy with me. For pulling into the driveway. For letting myself into the house. For touching the victim and corrupting a crime scene like some backwoods rookie. He’s not shy about letting me know. I don’t blame him, so I let him take his jabs. In my defense, I had no way of knowing what I was walking into.
“You make a habit of walking into other people’s homes when they don’t answer the damn door?” he asks.
“She was elderly. She’d recently had a stroke. I figured a welfare check was in order.”
It’s a pretty good reason to enter a residence. He’s still not pleased.
“Do you need an ambulance?” he asks.
“I’m fine.”
Within minutes, another deputy arrives on scene, followed by an ambulance from Portsmouth and a fire engine from the Ironton Fire Department. I’m standing next to my Explorer on the shoulder of the road in three inches of mud when a trooper with the Ohio State Highway Patrol pulls in. In the last two hours, I’ve been questioned by three deputies and a female trooper. I’ve relayed the turn of events half a dozen times. I expect I’ll be retelling it a dozen more before I’ll be allowed to proceed with what I need to get done.
“Chief Burkholder.”
I turn to see Deputy Martin Harleson approach. He’s frowning at me, but his hand is outstretched so I shake it.
“You’ve certainly had a run of bad luck since you’ve been here in Crooked Creek,” he says.
“I’m not sure it has much to do with luck.”
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