the back of one of those horses.
They were happy, innocent times, and though that part of my life was far from perfect, the memories evoke an uneasy sense of longing. It’s not that I want to be Amish again or that I want to recapture my youth or a past I know is forever gone. But invariably when I remember those days, I can’t help but think of all the things I left unfinished. Mostly my childhood, which was cut short long before its time. So many things I left unsaid, most of it to my family. But if I’ve learned anything in my thirty-three years, it is that no matter how badly you want a redo, life never makes such allowances.
I think of Annie King and I wonder if she was content living here with her family. If she found comfort in being part of this tight-knit community. Or was she like me? Perpetually discontent and pining for things she could never have. I wonder where she is at this very moment. If she’s frightened and wishing she was back here with her brothers and sisters and the monotony of farm life. I wonder if years from now she’ll look back and, like me, wish she’d done things differently.
“Looks like they’ve got company.” Tomasetti’s voice snaps me out of my fugue.
Two Amish men in blue work shirts, straw hats, and dark trousers with suspenders stand at the barn door, watching us. “They’re probably neighbors,” I tell him. “Here to help with the search or care for the livestock while the family deals with this.”
I follow his gaze. A few yards away, two Amish girls are trying to wrestle a large dog into a beat-up washtub. The girls are about ten years old. They’re wearing plain green dresses, their mouse brown hair pulled into buns at their napes. Their feet are bare and dirty, and the dresses haven’t fared much better. The simplicity and innocence of the sight makes me smile.
All children are innocent, but Amish children possess a particular kind of innocence. They believe the world is a good place, that their parents never make mistakes, that everyone they meet is their friend, and that if you pray hard enough, God will answer your prayers. It’s particularly shattering for an Amish child when she realizes none of those things are true.
Tomasetti and I watch the girls for a moment, each of us caught in our thoughts. That’s when it strikes me that these girls are about the same age his own would have been had their lives not been cut short by a career criminal who thought he’d make an example of a cop who crossed him. That was three years ago, and I know Tomasetti is still clawing his way out of that bottomless pit of despair. Most days, I think, he succeeds. But sometimes when I look into his eyes, I see the dark place in which he resides.
He cuts me a sideways look. “I think the dog is going to win.”
“My money’s on the girls.” I smile at him.
“Are you telling me I shouldn’t underestimate the determination of an Amish girl?”
“Especially when she’s got her sister to help her. Dog doesn’t stand a chance. One way or another, he’s going to get that bath.”
He parks adjacent to a rail fence next to the sheriff’s cruiser and kills the engine. Neither of us speaks as we take the sidewalk to the porch and wait for Sheriff Goddard.
“Damn, it’s humid.” Before he can knock, the door swings open. I find myself looking down at a little boy whose head comes up to about waist level. He’s blond-haired and blue-eyed, with blunt-cut bangs that are crooked from a recent trim. His small nose is covered with a smattering of freckles.
“Hello there, little guy,” Sheriff Goddard says. “Is your mom or dad home?”
The little boy squeals and runs back into the house.
“You’ve got a way with kids,” Tomasetti says.
The sheriff glances sideways at us. “Same situation with women.” He looks at me. “No offense.”
I withhold a smile. “None taken.”
He’s barely gotten the words out when an Amish man enters the mudroom and crosses to the door. He’s tall—well over six feet—with muscled shoulders and the beginnings of a paunch, divulging the fact that, despite his fitness, he’s a well-fed man. He’s blond and has a brown beard that reaches halfway down his belly, telling me he’s married. I guess him to be in his mid-forties. Dressed in black trousers, suspenders, and a vest over a white shirt, he is an imposing figure.
His eyes are the color of onyx beneath heavy brows, and they take in our presence with no emotion. “Can I help you?” he asks, but he makes no move to invite us inside.
“Afternoon, Mr. King,” Sheriff Goddard begins. “We’d like to talk to you about your daughter.”
The Amish man’s expression remains impassive as his eyes move from Goddard to Tomasetti and me.
Goddard introduces us, letting him know which agency we represent. “They’re here to help us find Annie, Mr. King. We were wondering if you and your wife could answer a few questions.”
King’s eyes narrow on me. I’m not sure if he recognized my last name as a common Amish one or if he’s merely curious because I’m from Holmes County. He doesn’t ask, turning his attention to Goddard. “Do you have news of her?” he asks.
“We think we found her bag,” the sheriff tells him.
A quiver runs through King, as if hope and terror are waging war inside him. “Where?”
“A couple of miles from the vegetable stand,” Goddard says. “Have you had any luck on your end?”
The man’s shoulders fall forward and he shakes his head. “No,” he says, and opens the door.
We enter a mudroom with a scuffed plank floor and two bare windows, which usher in plenty of light. I see six straw hats hanging neatly on wooden dowels set into the wall. Muddy work boots are lined up on a homemade rug. An ancient wringer washing machine that smells of soap and mildew has been shoved into a corner. A basket filled with clothespins sits on the floor next to the machine.
King leads us through a doorway and into a large, well-used kitchen. The aromas of bread, seared meat, and kerosene greet me, and the same sense of deja vu from earlier grips me. Light filters in from a single window over the sink, but it’s not enough to cut the shadows. Dual lanterns glow yellow from atop a rectangular table covered with a blue-and-white-checkered cloth. Scraped-clean plates and a smattering of flatware and a few drinking glasses litter the table’s surface, and I realize that though it’s not yet four o’clock, this family has just finished dinner. That’s when I notice the one place setting that hasn’t been touched. Annie’s, I realize. It’s a symbol of their hope that she will return, of their faith that God will bring her back to them and their prayers will be answered. It’s been a long time since I put that kind of faith in anything. It makes me sad to think that this family might soon realize that some prayers go unanswered.
An Amish girl barely into her teens gathers dishes from the table and carries them to the sink, where an Amish woman wearing a dark blue dress, white apron, and a gauzy white
“
The woman turns, her mouth open in surprise. I guess her to be at least a decade younger than her husband. I suspect that at one time she was beautiful, but there’s a hollowed-out countenance to her appearance. The look of the bereaved. I doubt she’s eaten or slept or had a moment’s peace of mind since her daughter went missing. Despite her faith, worry for her child’s well-being has begun eating away at her like some flesh-eating bacteria that can’t be stopped.
“I’m Kate Burkholder,” I tell her. “We’re here to help you find Annie.” Before even realizing I’m going to move, I’m across the kitchen and extending my hand. I sense the collective attention of Goddard and Tomasetti on me, and I address her in Pennsylvania Dutch. “Can we sit and talk awhile?”
The woman blinks at me as if I’ve shocked her. Out of sheer politeness, she raises her hand to mine. It’s wet and limp and cold, and I find myself wanting to warm it. Her eyes sweep to her husband, asking for his permission to speak with me, I realize, and I try not to be annoyed with her. His gaze levels on me. I stare back, not missing the hardness of his expression or the mistrust in his eyes.
He gives her a minute nod.
“I’m Edna.” She raises her eyes to mine. “
CHAPTER 5
