large plastic bowl. I’m not surprised to see that they’re making pies. If food were a cure-all, the Amish would be the healthiest culture in the world.
Moving into the next room, I see Bishop Troyer and a silver-haired woman sitting in straight-backed chairs someone dragged in from the kitchen. All four Slabaugh children sit side by side on a sofa, lined up like sad little ducks. One of the cushions has a hole in it. I see a closely matched piece of fabric has come loose, and I know at some point Rachael Slabaugh had tried to patch it. It was probably one of a thousand things on her list of chores. A chore she will never get the chance to complete.
“Katie.” The bishop stands and extends his hand to me.
“Thank you for coming.” I take his hand and we shake. “I’d like to speak to you if you have a few minutes.”
“Of course.”
The bishop looks over his shoulder at the woman. She gives a minute nod, telling him without words that she’ll remain with the children.
I’m keenly aware of the children’s eyes on us. They’re wondering about their fates, I realize. Where will they live? Who will take them in? Will they be kept together or will they be separated, the family shattered once again? Little Ike still looks at me as if I might be able to conjure forth his dead
The house is getting crowded, so I motion toward the front door and we step onto the porch. For the span of several heartbeats, the only sound comes from the tinkle of sleet against the roof.
I break the silence. “Do the Slabaughs have relatives?” It’s so cold, my breath billows when I speak.
“There is a brother.” The bishop looks out across the darkened field. “We will take care of those children.”
I wait for more information on the brother, but he doesn’t offer it. “What’s his name?”
“Adam.”
“Does he live around here?”
“Millersburg, I believe.”
I stare at his profile, wondering why he’s so reluctant to offer information about Adam Slabaugh. “I need to notify next of kin.”
The bishop turns his attention back to me. “What of the children, Katie?”
“Children Services will probably place them with relatives. Or the brother.”
The bishop shakes his head so hard, his jowls jiggle. “Not Adam.”
“Why not?”
“He is not Amish. Solly would not have wanted his children raised by a man who has been excommunicated.”
The reason behind his earlier reluctance suddenly becomes crystal clear. “Is there any other family?”
“No.”
“Bishop, with all due respect—”
He cuts me off. “These children were raised Amish. An Amish family would feel blessed to take them in and raise them as their own.”
“This isn’t a matter of Amish versus English.”
The bishop gives me a sage look. “Yes, it is.”
It’s an old argument, one that’s taken on a painful new twist this morning because four young lives hang in the balance. “The decision isn’t mine to make,” I tell him. “Nor is it yours. I’ll have to involve Children Services.”
For the first time, the bishop looks alarmed. “No, Katie. Do not do that. Your English government does not care about the Amish way. They do not care about the broken hearts of those children.”
I’ve known Bishop Troyer since I was a child. He was tough on me when I was an unrepentant teenager and made the decision to leave the plain life behind. We’ve had many disagreements over the years. But my respect for him is high. I’m old enough now to know he’s a decent man with a good heart and a fair mind. None of those things changes my responsibilities.
“Can you see to it that someone stays with the children until we get this settled?” Under any other circumstances, I wouldn’t ask. In fact, I would have already notified Children Services and asked for a social worker to assist with placement in temporary foster homes. But because these children are Amish, I know they will be safe and loved in the hands of their brethren.
The old bishop nods and says,
I’ve heard the old adage before. Because I know life isn’t always that kind—even if you’re Amish—I don’t respond. “I’ve got to tell Adam about his brothers and his sister-in-law.” I turn to leave, but he reaches out and snags my arm.
“These children have lost enough,” he says. “Do not take them away from everything they know. Do not take their faith from them.
I leave with those words ringing in my ears.
CHAPTER 4
There are few things I’ve done in my life that are more difficult than telling someone they’ve lost a loved one. It’s a helpless, hopeless feeling to break that kind of news and not be able to do anything as the bottom drops out of that person’s world. In my nine years of law-enforcement experience, I’ve seen grief in all its insidious forms. Though I’m merely the messenger, I’ve been cursed, screamed at, threatened, spit on, and struck. Cops aspire to believe they’re not affected by such things. But it takes a toll. That’s one of many reasons I’ve never put the burden of notification on my officers. Still, I don’t ever go alone. This morning, I’ve got Glock with me.
Adam Slabaugh lives on a well-kept farm on a quiet township road between Millersburg and Painters Mill. The old house is white, with a green tin roof, green shutters, and a wraparound porch that’s sheltered by a hulking spruce. The place sits on a hill, overlooking acres and acres of plowed fields. I park the Explorer in the gravel area between the barn and the house and shut down the engine.
For the span of several heartbeats, Glock and I sit there, watching snow gather on the windshield.
“Hell of a way to start someone’s day,” he says.
“Hell of a way to start our day.”
“Is this guy going to take the kids?”
I tell him about my conversation with Bishop Troyer. “Might be some problems there.”
“Tough situation for the kids,” he says.
“And everyone else involved.”
Neither of us wants to walk up to that house and knock on the door. Of course, we don’t have a choice. I reach for the door handle first. We’re midway to the house when the back door opens. A Border collie and a fat yellow Labrador bound out, tails wagging, tongues lolling. Behind them, a man shrugs into an insulated coat and closes the door behind him. He’s a tall, thin man who doesn’t look Amish. No beard. No hat or suspenders. But he possesses the kind eye I’ve come to associate with the culture.
“Good morning.” He’s still buttoning his coat when he reaches us. “Is something wrong?”
Glock and I start toward him. “Adam Slabaugh?” I ask.
He has light blue eyes, which remind me of a summer sky, and a face that has seen a lot of years of Ohio’s sometimes extreme elements. He takes in our uniform parkas, and his eyes go wary. I see his shoulders stiffen in a brace, and I know at some point he’s done this before. “Yes?”
I show him my badge and identify myself. “There’s been an accident. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”
“Accident?” His gaze flicks to Glock and then back to me. “What happened? Did someone get hurt?”
“I’m afraid so.” I motion toward the house. “Would you like to go inside and sit down, so we can talk?”
“Must be bad if you want me to sit down.” He looks down at his boots, blows out a breath, as if preparing himself for the blow. “Who is it?”
“Are Solomon and Abel Slabaugh your brothers?”
