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.