Skid meets me halfway. “You okay, Chief?”
“Just pissed.”
“Kid’s got a hell of a jab.” He motions toward Adam Slabaugh. “So what’s his story?”
“Says he came to ask the kids to live with him.”
“Guess it didn’t go down too well.” Nodding, Skid looks over his shoulder at Mose. “Kid says he doesn’t want to go.”
A few yards away, Mose stands alone, his hands cuffed behind his back, staring down at the ground. Ohio doesn’t have a mandatory arrest law, though in domestic violence situations a warrantless arrest is the preferred course of action. Since it’s my call and there are extenuating circumstances, I probably won’t take him in. But I need to let him know this kind of behavior won’t be tolerated.
“Keep an eye on the uncle, will you?” I say to Skid. “I’m going to talk to the kid.”
“Sure thing, Chief.”
I’m midway to Mose when I spot Bishop Troyer and his wife talking with another Amish couple, and I decide to give Mose a few more minutes to cool off while I get some information from them. “Bishop Troyer.”
He turns to me, bows his head slightly. “Chief Burkholder.”
“Can you tell me what happened?” I ask.
While the bishop isn’t above giving me an “I told you so” look, I know he won’t lie to me. “Adam Slabaugh arrived about twenty minutes ago and demanded to speak with the children. Of course, we turned him away at the door.” He grimaces. “But Adam would not leave. The children ran out to speak with their uncle. Mose and Adam began to argue.”
“Did Slabaugh touch the boy?”
“No, he did not.”
“What about Mose? Did he strike his uncle?”
The bishop hesitates, struggles with some internal conflict, then gives a minute nod. “
Neither of us is happy with the answer, but I thank him anyway and start toward Mose.
The bishop stops me. “Katie, the children have been through a terrible ordeal. Do not cause them further suffering.”
Since it’s my policy not to make promises I can’t keep, I turn away and continue on toward Mose. Salome is standing beside him, speaking quietly, as if trying to calm him down. Her eyes are red, her cheeks shiny with tears. Mose watches me approach, as if I’m his executioner. He knows he screwed up.
I call out the girl’s name. She jerks around. Her mouth opens in surprise, then she looks down at the ground. “Go inside,” I say to her.
She looks at Mose, then back to me. “He was only trying to protect us.”
“Go inside,” I repeat. “Right now.”
Something in my voice convinces her I’m serious, because she takes a final look at her brother, then starts toward the house.
I stop a few feet from Mose. The belligerence I saw earlier in his expression slips away, leaving in its wake the expression of a young man who knows he’s going to have to own up to what he’s done.
“I don’t want to live with my uncle,” he says without preamble.
“At the moment, where you’re going to live is the least of your problems,” I say. “You struck a police officer.”
“I didn’t mean to. I thought you were—”
“You were out of control and itching for a fight.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“You assaulted your uncle. You assaulted me. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t cart you off to jail right now.”
Glaring in the direction of his uncle, Mose yanks on the cuffs binding his wrists behind him. “He killed my
It’s the third time I’ve heard that statement. Each time, the words sent a chill through me. “That’s a serious accusation, Mose. Do you know something about what happened that morning that you haven’t told me?”
He stares at the ground.
“What makes you think your uncle had something to do with the death of your father?”
“He hated my
“Why?”
“Because he wants us. He wants to be our
I move closer, lower my voice. “Do you honestly believe your uncle killed your parents and your uncle?”
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t meet my gaze.
“Did your uncle do something to make you believe that, Mose?”
“No,” he mutters reluctantly.
“Then why did you say it?”
Mose doesn’t answer, but for the first time he looks remorseful. Looking down at the ground, he drags his toe across the brown grass. “I don’t want to go with him.”
“You mean to his farm?”
He nods. “Don’t make us go with him.”
“That’s not up to me.”
“Tell the social people to leave us alone.”
“Why are you so dead set against living with your uncle?”
He raises his eyes to mine. “My
Sensing I’m getting only part of the story, I take a calming breath. “You can’t stay here at the farm by yourself.”
“It’s my farm,” he says defiantly. “I know how to care for the livestock. I know how to work the land.”
“I’m sure you can. But you’re only seventeen years old.”
“I’m a man.”
“Legally, you’re still a minor. I have to obey the law.”
“English laws are not for the Amish. I’m not going with him. He is not Amish.
There’s no translation needed; I’m all too familiar with the phrase. I heard it a thousand times growing up, especially after I’d decided not to join the church.
“I know this is hard,” I tell him.
“You don’t know anything,” he snarls.
I sigh. “I was older than you are, but I lost my parents, too.”
“It’s not the same.”
“You’re right. It’s not the same.” I pause, studying him, trying to figure out how to reach him. “I’m trying to help you, Mose. I’m not your enemy. I just want what’s best for you and your brothers and sister. Children Services—”
“No!” Panic flares in his eyes. “The social people will separate us. They’ll take the farm and leave us with nothing.”
The unspoken nuances of the situation crystallize in my mind, like a tiny puzzle with a thousand pieces flying together to make a picture. One I wish I’d detected before now, because for the first time I realize I’m being manipulated. “This isn’t about whether your uncle is Amish, is it, Mose?”
Refusing to meet my gaze, he digs a trench in the mud with the toe of his work boot.
“This is about your wanting to stay here on the farm with your siblings, isn’t it?”
When he finally raises his eyes to mine, they’re filled with tears. “That’s what my
“Your
