you?”
Eyes fixed on the tabletop, Mose shakes his head. “They just called me names. Stuff like that.”
I nod, running it through my head. “Where did the buggy whip come from? They were in a truck.”
Mose shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe they got horses at home. Had some tack in the truck.”
A knock sounds at the door. Before I can rise, Samuel answers and two paramedics walk in.
Mose’s eyes widen when he spots them; then he turns his gaze to me. “I don’t want to go with them. I can’t. I want to stay here.”
“You’re injured. You need to get yourself checked out at the hospital.”
“I’m not hurt.”
“Mose—”
“I want to stay here!” Panic flares in his eyes. “Why can’t I just stay here?”
Grappling for patience, I squeeze his arm. “Calm down,” I say, helping him to his feet. “I need for you to be smart about this. Do you understand?”
“I want to stay here.”
“Go with the paramedics. Get yourself checked out. I’ll meet you at the hospital later. Now go.” I nod at the nearest paramedic.
He gives a small nod back, then smiles at Mose. “You ever ridden in an ambulance before, buddy?” he asks.
“No,” Mose mumbles.
“Well then, you’re in for a treat. Come with me and we’ll get you all fixed up.”
Taking a final, lingering look over his shoulder at Salome, Mose lets himself be led out the door.
I spend three hours at Pomerene Hospital in Millersburg while Mose is X-rayed, scanned, and stitched. I try squeezing him for more information about the perpetrators who beat him. He cooperates but isn’t able to offer anything helpful in the way of identifying the men. A couple of times, I sensed him holding back, but I wasn’t sure so I let it go. In the end, I chalk his reticence up to the fact that he shouldn’t have been out on that road to begin with.
By the time I get him back to Bishop Troyer’s farm, it’s after 6:00 P.M. I was supposed to hook up with Tomasetti for lunch, but somehow the afternoon blew by and we never connected. He assured me he’d call if news came back on the Skoal can, but he hasn’t. Prints are a long shot. Still, I can’t help but be hopeful.
I should go back to the station, type up my report on Mose’s assault, and add it to the growing file of hate crimes against the Amish. I should swing by the house, grab a shower and some food, and empty the trash. Of course, I’m not going to do any of those things.
It’s too early for a drink. That’s not to mention the small fact that I need to be sober if we get a break in the case. Neither of those things keeps me from pulling into the lot of McNarie’s Bar and walking inside.
The place is quiet this evening. I catch McNarie’s eye and take a seat at my usual booth. A moment later, he sets a tray in front of me. Two shots, a Killian’s, and a pack of Marlboro Lights. “You’re becoming one of my best customers, Chief.”
I pick up one of the shot glasses and tap out a cigarette, already anticipating the burn of the booze. “Do me a favor and don’t tell anyone, okay?”
“A closed mouth is one thing that separates a good bartender from a great one.”
“One of many reasons I come here.”
Grinning, he goes back to work.
I down both shots in quick succession. I want another, but I light up instead. The beer is ice-cold and goes down like a cherry slush on a hot day. Around me, the other patrons go about the business of getting drunk. A fat biker in coveralls shoots pool with a skinny guy wearing an FFA jacket. At the bar, an old man with white hair spilling from a John Deere cap sits hunched over a cup of coffee. A long brown cigarette smolders in the ashtray next to his cup. A few booths down from mine, a young couple sits on the same side of the booth, their legs entwined beneath the table, a beer sitting untouched in front of them. They have better things to do than drink.
The sight of the young couple makes me think of Mose and Salome. I still haven’t heard back from the police department in Connersville, Indiana, to verify Mose’s story about his parents. When I do, I’ll ask them to run a cell phone out to the Amish bishop to see if he can fill in any of the blanks about Mose’s adoption.
I don’t want to sit here and analyze why I’m drinking at a time when I shouldn’t be. Of course, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. That’s when I acknowledge the possibility that Tomasetti’s right: I’m too emotionally invested in these kids. I want to think it’s because they’re young and innocent and Amish. But I’ve never been very good at lying to myself. Those kinds of lies make life too easy, and some of us are destined to suffer.
I care about those kids. I think about them too often. I feel connected to them in ways I shouldn’t, because I know sooner or later those emotions are going to come back to bite me. While those feelings extend to all four children, it’s Salome who’s commandeered my heart. Maybe it’s because she reminds me of myself when I was that age—innocent, impressionable, more vulnerable than she could know, and looking for trouble. I know what it’s like to be ravenous for a life you know you can’t ever have, to want with such fierceness that it hurts, to feel the initial slap when fate doles out that first heaping portion of disappointment.
Salome is in for some heartache, and most of it will be her own doing. Some people—and I’m at the top of that list—never learn to settle for less. It’s all or nothing. We continue butting our heads against brick walls, expecting the bricks to crumble, when most often they remain steadfast.
The Amish community as a whole is the same way—a battle-scarred wall that has withstood centuries of assault—yet their way of life has never faltered. They can be unforgiving of transgressions, but they can also be as welcoming as a mother’s embrace. When there is a fall from grace, it’s usually long and arduous, with a lot of emotional cuts and scrapes along the way. My own fall was fatal in many ways. It cost me a lot—my family, my standing in the community. It killed a part of me I’ll never be able to get back, put me on the path of no return. At the same time, it also opened doors that otherwise would have remained closed and locked down tight. I still had my dreams and hope for the future. I had the drive to achieve them. Those things sustained me when nothing else would.
I want to spare Salome the agonies of my own past, save her from making all the same mistakes I did. I want her to be happy and fulfilled. I can’t help but wonder:
Raising my beer, I make eye contact with McNarie. He gives me a nod, and I know another round of salvation is on the way. But it’s not going to arrive quickly enough to keep me from confronting a part of my past I haven’t yet faced, a demon taunting me with truths I can no longer avoid.
Salome is only a couple of years younger than the child I would have had if I’d decided not to have an abortion after Daniel Lapp raped me.
“Chief Burkholder.”
I’m so immersed in my thoughts, I didn’t notice the door opening. I didn’t see Sheriff Rasmussen walk in and head my way. Surprise and discomfort take turns punching me when I look up at him. It’s after hours; I have every right to be here. Still, all I can think is,
“Mind if I join you?”
“Sure.” I try to smile, but my cheek muscles feel paralyzed. “You know what they say about drinking alone.”
“Yeah.” Chuckling, he slides onto the seat opposite me. “It’s not nearly as fun as drinking with someone else.”
He smells like cold air and sandalwood. We’re looking at each other, two contenders sizing each other up. He looks comfortable, glad to be here, ready to wind down with a beer. I feel as if I’ve been waylaid.
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
Feeling like an idiot, I snuff out the cigarette. “I don’t.”
“Okay.” He says the word as if he understands. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t.
McNarie crosses to the booth and, without looking at me, sets two more Killian’s on the table between us, then slides a shot glass in front of me. Eyeing the shot glass, Rasmussen picks up his beer, tips it at me, and then
