Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4) (9 page)

Edna perks up. “She’s been friendly with the Stutz girl. They went to a singing last week after worship. Amy is her name.”

I write down the name and turn my attention to the sheriff. “Do you know where the Stutz family lives?”

He nods. “Just down the road.”

I go back to Edna. “Is there anything else you can think of that might help us find her?”

When the woman looks away, I turn my attention to Levi. The Amish man stares down at the tabletop. He knows something, too; I see it in the slump of his shoulders, the cord of tension in his neck. I’m sure Tomasetti and Goddard sense it as well, and the only thing we can do at this point is wait them out and hope they open up.

For a full minute, the only sounds come from the hiss of the lantern’s wick and the ticking of the mantel clock on the shelf. Then Levi raises his gaze to mine. “She has been associating with some
Englischers.
”

Edna jerks her head his way. “Levi . . .”

“What are their names?” I ask quickly.

“We do not know.”

“Does she have a boyfriend?”

The Amish couple exchange a look I recognize. A look I’ve seen before. One I understand all too well. One I saw in the eyes of my own parents. Shame. The need to secrete away the sins of their child. I know this because I was once that sinful child. This is the question they’ve been avoiding. The answer is one they don’t want to divulge. A reality they don’t want to acknowledge. Not even between them. Certainly not to us outsiders. But I also know it’s the reason we’ve been invited into this Amish home.

Levi tightens his lips as if against words he doesn’t want to utter. “We think the English boy was courting her.”

“Did Annie tell you that?”

The Amish man shakes his head. “Dan Beiler saw them together in town.”

“Do you know the boy’s name?”

“No.” He looks everywhere except into my eyes. “He has a car. She disappears sometimes and will not tell us where she’s been.”

“Do you know what kind of car?”

“We don’t know,” Levi spits out.

“She will not speak of him to us,” Edna says, choking out the words.

“We forbade her to speak to the
Englischers,
” Levi says. “She would not listen.”

“Our Annie thinks she knows her mind.” Edna’s voice cracks on the last word. “When she wants something, there is no stopping her.”

“But her faith is strong,” Levi adds. “She loves her family. She is kind and submits to God.”

I know that sometimes even the faithful find themselves face-to-face with the devil.

“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. King. You’ve been very helpful.” I shake hands with both of them. “We’re going to do our best to find your daughter.”

Tomasetti, Goddard, and I stand as a single unit. As we start toward the door, I mentally add Amy Stutz to my list of possible sources of information. But the person I most want to speak with is the boyfriend. Any cop worth his weight knows that when a female goes missing, the first suspect is always the man who claims to love her.

Ten minutes later, Goddard, Tomasetti, and I are standing on the front porch of the Stutz house. Goddard has knocked twice, but no one has answered the door. “We’re batting zero,” he says with a sigh.

Tomasetti peers through the window as if expecting to discover someone lurking behind the shades. “I thought the Amish spent their evenings at home,” he growls. “Early to bed and all that bullshit.”

Goddard looks to me, the resident Amish expert. “Any idea where they might be?”

“Visiting a neighbor, maybe.” I look around, taking in the long shadows of late afternoon.

“We could wait,” Goddard suggests. “See if they show.”

“We need the name of the boyfriend,” Tomasetti mutters.

I drift to the porch rail and look out across the pasture, where eight Jersey cows and two young horses graze the lush grass. A thin layer of fog hovers in the low-lying areas. Twilight birds and crickets mingle with a cacophony of bullfrogs from the pond, where a profusion of cattails flourish. How many times growing up did I lie in my bed at night with the window open and listen to these very same sounds? How many times did I wonder what the world was like beyond the confines of the farm? I feel the memories pushing at the gate. But I don’t open it.

Goddard clears his throat. “Let’s grab a bite to eat and come back.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Tomasetti says.

And then we’re back in the Tahoe, following Goddard down the lane through plumes of billowing white dust.

I’m still thinking about the boyfriend. “If Annie and her boyfriend are tight and he knows she’s missing, why hasn’t he come forward?”

“Maybe he’s guilty of something.”

“Or they could be together.”

“Considering the blood at the scene, that would be a best-case scenario.”

We’re nearly to the end of the lane when, in my peripheral vision, I notice a flash of blue through the dust. I glance over and see an Amish girl in a blue dress standing on the shoulder. Brown paper bag in hand, she’s braving a thick bramble of raspberries. She’s picking the berries, I realize.

“Stop,” I say abruptly.

Tomasetti hits the brakes hard enough to throw me against my shoulder harness. The tires grab and the Tahoe slides to an abrupt stop. He puts the SUV in park and tosses me a speculative look. “Amy Stutz?”

“Age looks about right.”

A few yards ahead, Goddard’s brake lights come on and he pulls over.

I open the door and start toward the girl. Her eyes widen when she realizes I’m coming toward her. “Hi there,” I begin in my most friendly voice.
“Wei bischt du heit?” How are you today?”

“Ich bin zimmlich gut.” I’m pretty good,
but she’s looking at me as if I’m an ax murderer, and I can tell she’s thinking about making a run for the house.

“My name’s Kate. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m a police officer.”

“Oh. Hello.” It’s a duty greeting. She doesn’t want to talk to me, but she’s too polite not to respond when she’s been addressed by an adult, even if they’re English. I guess her to be about fifteen years old. She’s wearing a plain blue dress with a gauzy white
kapp
that’s been left untied at her nape, and on her feet are a cheap pair of sneakers.

“I’m looking for Mr. and Mrs. Stutz,” I begin.

“They’re visiting the Beiler family down the road. To see the new baby.”

“What’s your name?”

“Amy.”

I make a show of looking at the raspberry bushes. “How are the berries?”

“Juicy.” She peers into the bag. “Not too many bugs.” She eyes the Tahoe. “They’re not for sale.
Mamm
makes jam.”

She’s a pretty girl with hazel eyes and a sunburned nose. Her hands are dirty from picking berries and she’s got a purple stain next to her mouth.

“Do you know Annie King?” I ask.

“
Ja.
”

I see scratches on her arms from the thorny bushes and I can’t help but remember all the times my
mamm
sent me to pick raspberries or blackberries. I always returned scratched and bleeding, but it was always worth the pain because I ate as many as I harvested.

“Did you know she’s missing?” I ask.

The girl’s expression falls. “I heard.”

“We’re trying to find her.”

She looks down at the bag in her hand.

I spot a ripe berry growing low on the bush, pull it off, and eat it. “They
are
good.”

“My
datt
says it’s because of all the rain.”

I pluck a few more berries and drop them into her bag. “I understand you and Annie are friends.”

“She’s my best friend.”

I nod. “Her
mamm
and
datt
told me Annie has some English friends. Did she ever talk about them?”

The girl steps away from me, as if the act of distancing herself will make me and my questions go away. “I don’t know anything about that.”

I tilt my head to make eye contact. “Are you sure?”

She begins picking berries at a frantic pace, pulling off leaves and small branches and throwing them into the bag.

“You’re not in any trouble,” I tell her. “Neither is Annie. We just want to find her. Her parents are worried.” I pick a few berries and drop them into her bag.

The words seem to get through to her. She lowers her hand and gives me her full attention. “She has too many English friends. She’s been riding in their cars. Smoking. You know,
Englischer
kind of things. I told her it was against the
Ordnung,
but . . .”

I nod. “Sometimes young people do things. They make mistakes.”

For the first time, she looks at me as if I might not be the enemy.

I’m aware of Tomasetti in the Tahoe a few yards away, waiting, watching us. “Did Annie ever mention a boyfriend?”

She moves a branch aside and pulls off a big purple berry. “
Ja.
”

“Do you know his name?”

She stops what she’s doing and looks at me. I see in her eyes a tangle of misery and confusion and the terrible weight of a fear she doesn’t understand—all of it tempered by the hope that her friend is okay. “She asked me not to tell.”

“We think Annie could be in danger.” I wait, but she doesn’t respond, so I add, “Honey, you’re not in any trouble. Okay? We just want to find her. If you know something, please tell me.”

Her brows go together and for the first time I get a glimpse of the full scope of the war waging within her: the need to be loyal to her friend; the tenet to remain separate from me; the need to tell what she knows because Annie could be in danger. “His name is Justin Treece,” she says finally.

“Thank you.” I pull out my pad and write down the name. “Is there anything else you can tell me that might help us find her?”

She bites her lip. “Annie has a phone,” she blurts. “I saw her talking on it.”

“A cell phone?”

She nods. “I’m scared for her.”

“Why?”

“I just am.”

I reach out to touch her, to reassure her and thank her for her help, but she snatches up her bag and pushes past the bushes with such speed that I hear the stickers snag on her dress. She runs toward the house without looking back.

I watch until she disappears around the side of the house, and then I slide into the Tahoe and tell Tomasetti what I’ve learned. “Why are the parents always the last to know?” he growls.

“Probably because they don’t ask enough questions.”

“Or maybe some teenagers are pathological liars.”

“Such a cynic.” I tsk. “You should try having a little more faith in our youth.”

“I could, but there’s this pesky little detail called reality.” He’s already got his phone to his ear, calling Goddard. “We got a name,” he says without preamble. “Justin Treece.” Tomasetti’s face darkens and he scowls. “Shit. You got an address on him?” He listens for a moment and ends the call.

“That didn’t sound good,” I say.

Tomasetti drops his phone onto the console and puts the Tahoe in gear. “Treece did a year in Mansfield for beating the hell out of his mother.”

Justin Treece lives with his parents in a run-down frame house on the outskirts of Buck Creek. The neighborhood is a downtrodden purlieu of postage stamp–size houses with ramshackle front porches and yards with grass trampled to dirt. Several houses are vacant, the windows either boarded up with plywood or open to the elements. The roof of the house next to the Treece place is fire-damaged; a hole the size of a tractor tire reveals blackened rafters and pink puffs of insulation.

“Damn, looks like Cleveland,” Tomasetti says as we idle past.

“Welcome to the other side of the tracks,” I mutter.

A beat-up Toyota pickup truck with oversize tires sits in the driveway next to an old Ford Thunderbird. “Looks like someone’s home.”

In front of us, Goddard’s cruiser pulls over to the curb two houses down from the Treece place, and we park behind him. Tomasetti and I meet him on the sidewalk.

“Vehicles belong to the parents,” the sheriff tells us. “Trina drives the Thunderbird. Jack drives the Toyota.”

“What about the kid?” Tomasetti asks.

“Last time I stopped him, he was in an old Plymouth Duster. Him and his old man tinker with cars, so it could be in the garage out back.”

“Exactly how bad is this kid?” I ask.

“He’s only got that one conviction.” Goddard shakes his head. “But it is a doozy. To tell you the truth, I think that little bastard is on his way. In ten years, he’ll be in the major league.”

“Or in prison,” Tomasetti puts in.

Goddard motions toward the house. “The whole lot of them are regulars with the department. Domestic stuff, mostly. Parents get drunk and beat the shit out of each other. Kids run wild. It’s sad is what it is.”

Having been a patrol officer in Columbus for a number of years, I’m all too familiar with those kinds of scenarios. It’s a sad and seemingly hopeless cycle, especially for the kids. Too many of them become victims of their environment and end up like their parents—or worse.