Irene Mast stands at the counter, running water into an old-fashioned percolator. She’s a substantial woman, barely over five feet tall, with thinning silver hair and a bald spot at her crown. She wears a light blue dress with a white apron and low-heeled, practical shoes. The ties of her kapp dangle down her back. She hasn’t said a word since we were introduced a few minutes ago, but she immediately set about making coffee and bringing out a tin of peanut-butter cookies.
“I understand you’re a deacon, Mr. Mast,” I say.
The man looks down at the plate in front of him, gives a single, solemn nod.
“It is a heavy burden,” Irene tells me.
“We’d like to talk to you about your son, Noah,” Tomasetti begins.
The woman’s back stiffens at the mention of her son, but when she turns to us, her expression is serene. “It’s been nine years now.” She doesn’t look at us as she pours coffee into cups.
That’s when I notice the fourth place setting: a plate and silverware, a cup for coffee, a plastic tumbler for milk.
“Nine years is a long time,” I say.
Irene sets a plate with two cookies on it in front of me. “At first, we hoped, you know. We prayed a lot. But after so much time . . . we’ve come to believe he is with God.”
“Do you believe he left of his own accord?” I ask. “Or do you think something bad happened to him?”
The Amish man looks down at the plate in front of him. He’s got blood spatter on his shirt, a red smear on the back of his neck. He didn’t wash his hands when he came in.
“Noah got into some trouble,” Perry says. “The way young men do sometimes.”
“What kind of trouble?” I ask.
“The drinking, you know. The listening to music. And he liked . . . the girls.”
“He confessed his sins before the bishop,” Irene adds.
In the eyes of the Amish, confessing your sins is the equivalent of a “Get out of jail free” card. No matter how heinous the offense, if you confess, you are forgiven.
“The English police say Noah wanted to leave the plain life,” Perry says after a moment. “I don’t know who told them that. We don’t believe it. We never did.”
“Noah loved being Amish.” Emotion flashes in Irene’s eyes. “He was a humble boy with a kind and generous heart.”
“What do you think happened to him?” Tomasetti asks.
Perry shakes his head. “We don’t know. The things the Englischers say . . .” His voice trails off, as if he’s long since tired of saying the words.
I skimmed the file that had been amassed on Noah before leaving the sheriff’s office. A missing-person report was filed. People were interviewed, searches conducted. The cops—and most of the Amish, too—believed the boy ran away.
“What did the Englischers say?” I ask gently.
The Masts exchange a look, and an uncomfortable silence falls. We let it ride, giving them some time.
“There were rumors.” Perry grimaces. “And not just among the English. Some of the Amish young people . . . knew things.”
“Idle gossip.” His wife sends him a sharp look. “All of it.”
Tomasetti trains his attention on Perry. “Like what?”
The Amish man stares into his coffee. “There is a man. Gideon Stoltzfus. He used to be plain, but he could not abide by the Ordnung and was put under the bann. I’ve heard he helps young Amish men leave the plain life.”
“He is a Mennischt.” Irene spits the word for Mennonite as if it has a bad taste.
“After Noah disappeared, we found out he’d been in touch with Stoltzfus.” Perry blows on his coffee and slurps. I see blood under his fingernails, cookie crumbs in his beard, and I look away. “We believe Gideon may have filled Noah’s young mind with untruths about the Amish.”
“The Mennonites recruit,” Irene says.
Being formerly Amish myself, I know men like Stoltzfus exist. There’s a man in Painters Mill who helps young Amish leave the lifestyle. He runs a sort of Underground Railroad, giving them a place to stay while they transition. Contrary to what the Masts believe, these men are not the brainwashing monsters they’re made out to be, but a bridge to an alternative lifestyle. But if Noah met with Stoltzfus, it wasn’t in the file.
“Do you think Stoltzfus helped Noah leave?” I ask.
“I don’t know what to believe.” Taking a final sip of his coffee, Perry gets to his feet. “I need to get back to work.”
Tomasetti and I rise simultaneously. Neither of us touched the cookies or coffee.
“Thank you both for your time,” I say.
Without speaking, Perry, Tomasetti, and I start toward the door. I’m keenly aware of the silence in the house, broken only by the clink of dishes as Irene clears the table and the hollow thud of our boots on the floor, and I can’t help but think that this is a very lonely house.
We’re midway through the mudroom when Irene calls out, “If you find our Noah, you’ll bring him back to us, ja?”
Perry continues toward the door, not even acknowledging her. Tomasetti and I stop and turn. “If we learn anything new, you’ll be the first to know,” I tell her, and we step into the night.
Tomasetti and I are midway down the lane before speaking. “What do you think?” he asks as he turns onto the highway that will take us to Buck Creek.
“Kid’s been gone nine years and they still set the table for him.” I sigh. “That’s one sad, lonely couple.”
“Losing a kid . . .” He grimaces. “Fucks up your life.”
There are a lot of themes running through this case, threads that hit a little too close to home for both of us. I think about the parallels, the jagged lines that connect us in so many unexpected ways. “It’s interesting that Noah Mast and Annie King had talked about leaving the Amish way of life,” I tell him.
“Do you think it’s relevant?” He turns onto a township road, the headlights washing over tall rows of corn. “Some kind of pattern?”
“I don’t know. But it’s unusual. Most Amish kids are content to remain Amish. They’re happy and well adjusted. Tomasetti, something like eighty percent of kids go on to be baptized.”
“Maybe it’s a connection.”
I glance at the dash clock. Another hour has flown by. It’s already nine o’clock. “Let’s go talk to talk to Stoltzfus.”
Tomasetti cuts me a look, and in the dim glow of the dash lights, I see him smile. “Get Goddard on the horn and get an address.”
I call Goddard for the address while Tomasetti pumps gas. According to the sheriff, the formerly Amish man lives a quiet life and keeps his nose relatively clean. I relay the highlights to Tomasetti as we enter the corporation limits of Buck Creek.
“Thirty-two-year-old white male. One arrest. No convictions. He’s worked at the Martin-Bask Lumberyard for six years. Unmarried. No known children.”
“Sounds like a pretty boring guy.”
“Except he runs an Underground Railroad for young Amish people trying to leave the lifestyle and was known to speak to at least one Amish teen who is now missing.”
“Guess that excludes him from the boring category.” Tomasetti turns onto Township Road 5 and heads south. “What was the arrest for?”
“Trespassing.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Goddard remembered the incident. Apparently, a local Amish man discovered Stoltzfus in his barn at four o’clock in the morning, having sex with his son.”
“Bet that was a shocker. Son over eighteen?”
I nod. “It was consensual. The Amish guy got in contact with the cops. They arrested Stoltzfus, filed a report. But once the complainant had a chance to think about the consequences—mainly, outing his son—he decided not to press charges.”