Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

down.

“Calm down.” I give her a shake to let her know I’m serious.

Ignoring me, she crab-walks forward and lashes out at the other girl with her foot, trying to get in a final kick. I wrap my hands around her bicep and drag her back several feet. “That’s enough! Now cut it out.”

“She started it!” she screams.

Concerned that I’m going to lose control of the situation before backup arrives, I point at the most sane- looking bystander I can find, a thin boy wearing a Led Zeppelin T-shirt. “You.”

He looks over his shoulder. “Me?”

“I’m not talking to your invisible friend.” I motion to the second fighter, who’s sitting on the ground with her legs splayed in front of her, her hair hanging in her face. “Take her to the other side of the bridge and wait for me.”

I’m about to yell at him, when a girl with a pierced eyebrow steps forward. “I’ll do it.” Bending, she sets her hands on the other girl’s shoulder. “Hey. Come on.”

I turn my attention to the girl at my feet. She’s glaring at me with a belligerent expression, breathing as if she’s just come off a triathlon. A drop of mascara-tinged sweat dangles from the tip of her nose and her cheeks glow as if with sunburn. For an instant, I find myself hoping she’ll take her best shot, so I can wipe all that bad attitude off her face. Then I remind myself that teenagers are the only segment of the population entitled to temporary bouts of stupidity.

“If I were you,” I say quietly, “I’d think real hard about what you do next.”

I look around, gauging the crowd. They’re still agitated, a little too close for comfort, and restless in a way I don’t like, especially when I’m outnumbered twenty to one. Keeping my hand on the girl’s shoulder, I straighten and make eye contact with a few of them. “You have thirty seconds to clear out, or I’m going to start arresting people and calling parents.”

When they begin to disburse, I glance at the girl. She’s eyeballing her friends, gesturing, sending them nonverbal messages teenager-style, and I realize she’s enjoying her fifteen minutes of fame.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

She gives me an “Eat shit” look. But she’s smart enough to know this is one standoff she’s not going to win. “Angi McClanahan.”

“You got ID on you?”

“No.”

I extend my hand to help her up, but she ignores it and jumps to her feet with the grace of a fallen figure skater going for the gold. She’s a pretty girl of about sixteen, with blond hair and blue eyes, freckles sprinkled over a turned-up nose. Her build is substantial, but she carries it well, the way young women do. The sleeve of her T-shirt hangs off her shoulder. I see scratch marks on her throat, another on the inside of her elbow. There’s blood on her jeans, but I don’t know where it came from.

“Are you injured?” I ask. “Do you need an ambulance?”

She gives me a withering look. “I’m fine.”

“What happened?”

She jabs a finger in the direction of the other girl and her lips peel back. “I was out here hangin’ and that fuckin’ ho jumped me.”

The words dishearten me, but it’s the hatred behind them that chafes my sensibilities. I don’t know when kids started talking this way, but I detest it. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not naive. I’ve heard worse words in the course of my law-enforcement career, many of which I’ve been the target of. But hearing that kind of rhetoric from such a pretty young woman somehow shocks me.

I reach for the cuffs tucked into a compartment on my belt, yank them out. “Turn around.”

“Dude.” Her gaze slides down to the cuffs and she raises her hands. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Put your hands behind your back.” Grasping her bicep, I spin her around, snap one end of the cuffs onto her right wrist, and draw it behind her. “Give me your other hand. Now.”

“Please don’t . . .” She’s upset now. On the verge of tears. Starting to shake.

I don’t feel much in the way of compassion. Grabbing her free wrist, I snap the cuff into place and crank it down. The too-sweet scent of drugstore perfume mingles with the stink of cigarettes and comes off her in waves. Grasping the chain link between the cuffs, I guide her to the window. There, I turn her around, lean her against it, and put my finger in her face. “Do not move from this place,” I tell her. “Do not speak to anyone. Do you understand?”

Mouth tight, she refuses to answer and looks away.

When I turn my back, she mutters, “Bitch.” I let it go and start toward the crowd. Most of the teens have disbanded, but there are several stragglers, their eyes bouncing from me to Angi, hoping for more fireworks.

The crunch of tires on gravel draws my attention and I see the Painters Mill PD cruiser pull up behind my Explorer. Relief flits through me when Officer Rupert “Glock” Maddox emerges. A former marine with two tours in Afghanistan under his belt, Glock is my best officer, and I’m invariably glad to see him, especially when I’m outnumbered, whether by teenagers or cows.

The remaining teens give him a wide berth as he walks onto the bridge. He has that effect on people, though he doesn’t seem to notice. “Whatcha got, Chief?”

“A couple of Einsteins thought it might be fun to roll around on the ground and beat the shit out of each other.”

He glances past me at the handcuffed girl. “Females?”

“It’s the new thing, I guess.”

“Damn. That’s just wrong.” Shaking his head, he slants a doleful look my way. “Girls didn’t fight when I was a kid.”

“Evidently, stupidity is an equal-opportunity condition.” I motion toward Angi McClanahan and lower my voice. “See what her story is. If she gives you any shit, arrest her.”

He pats the Glock at his hip. “Hey, I’m an equal-opportunity kind of guy.”

I withhold a smile. “I’m going to talk to Muhammad Ali over there.”

I find the second fighter on the opposite side of the bridge, standing next to the girl with the pierced eyebrow. Both girls are facing away from me, staring out the window, elbows on the sill, smoking clove cigarettes.

“Put the smokes out,” I tell them as I approach.

Two heads jerk my way. The girl with the brow hoop turns to me, tamps out her cigarette on the sill, and then drops it to the floor. The one who was fighting flicks hers out the window to the creek below, then faces me. For the first time, I get a good look at her face. Recognition stops me cold. I know her. Or at least I used to, and I’m pretty sure she’s Amish. For an instant, I’m so shocked that I can’t remember her name.

“Hey, Katie,” she says sweetly.

I stare hard at her, racking my memory, unsettled because I’m coming up short. She’s about fifteen, with gangly arms and legs and a skinny butt squeezed into jeans at least two sizes too small. She’s got pretty skin, large hazel eyes, and shoulder-length brown hair streaked blond by the sun. She took at least one punch to the face, because I see a bruise blooming below her left eye.

She smirks, a shifty amusement touching her expression. “You don’t remember me.”

My brain lands on a name, but I’m not certain it’s correct. “Sadie Miller?”

She dazzles me with a smile that’s far too pretty for someone who was on the ground and throwing punches just a few minutes ago. She’s the niece of my sister’s husband, and I almost can’t believe my eyes. The last time I saw Sadie was at my mother’s funeral, just over three years ago. She’d been about twelve years old, a cute little tomboy in a blue dress and white kapp; all skinny legs, scabby knees, and a gap between her front teeth. I remember her so well because she was sweet and social, with a natural curiosity that had appealed to me even through my grief. She was one of the few Amish girls who could hold her own with the boys and had no qualms about speaking her mind to the adults. I ended up spending most of my time with her that day, mainly because most of the other Amish refused to talk to me.

This young woman looks nothing like that cute little Amish girl. She’s tall and beautiful, with a model-thin