In the Amish community, when someone does something deemed immoral, he or she is expected to confess before the congregation and ask for forgiveness. If the accused follows that protocol, despite the seriousness of the mistake, that person is redeemed in the eyes of the community.
What if this is about redemption? What if, using some twisted logic, Gideon Stoltzfus takes it upon himself to cull the “bad Amish” from the community? In a perverse, fanatical way, it makes sense. Deliver the salvageable. Expunge the unredeemable.
I park behind a black four-wheeled buggy and kill the engine. The stench of the hogs washes over me like a wave of stagnant water when I get out. The afternoon has grown hot; humidity presses down like a wet blanket. The wind has gone still and a row of black clouds roil above the treetops to the west, telling me I’ll probably be driving to Buck Creek in the rain.
“Terrific,” I mutter as I look around. The farm is so quiet, I can hear the hogs grunting and milling about in the pen on the other side of the barn. A lone blue jay scolds me from the branches of a maple tree in the side yard as I start toward the house. I ascend the steps to the porch and knock.
I wait a beat and knock a second time, using the heel of my hand. Frustration creeps over me when no one answers. Damn it. Cupping my hands, I peer through the window, but the mudroom is silent and dark. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I turn and scan the area, wondering if they could be feeding the stock or be baling hay in the field. Not for the first time, I curse the Amish people’s aversion to modern conveniences. A phone would make this so much easier.
Leaving the porch, I take the sidewalk back to the Explorer. I reach for the handle, yank open the door. For an instant, I stand there, undecided. I need to get to Buck Creek, hopefully before the sky opens up. But the death of the Mast’s daughter ten years ago must be delved into.
“Shit.” Slamming the door, I start toward the barn. I pass the slaughter shed, where Tomasetti and I talked to Perry Mast just two days ago. The severed hog heads are gone, but I can see the indentations in the grass, the oily smears of blood. The door is closed, so I continue on toward the barn. I pass by a chicken coop with an attached wire aviary where a dozen or so hens scratch and peck the ground.
The smell of the hogs grows stronger as I near the barn. To my right, several pink snouts poke between the boards of the fence, and I know the pigs are watching me, hoping for a snack. I slide open the big door and step inside, giving my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. The interior is shadowy and smells of moldy burlap and pig shit. Dust motes float in the slant of murky light coming in from a grimy window on the west side.
“Hello?” I call out. “Mr. and Mrs. Mast?”
A pigeon coos from the rafters above. An antique-looking manure spreader stands next to a big hay wagon that’s missing a wheel. A rusty hand auger leans against the wall. A leather harness hangs from an overhead tack hook. I can smell the saddle soap from where I stand. Several empty burlap bags lay scattered on the floor in the corner. Kernels of corn glow yellow against the dirt floor.
“Hello? Mr. Mast? It’s Kate Burkholder.”
I cross to the window at the back and look out. Below, a small pen houses a dozen or more Hampshire hogs. Some are lying on their sides in the shade; others root around in a shallow mud puddle. To my right, in a larger pasture, two old draft horses and a sleek Standardbred gelding stand beneath the shade of a walnut tree, half-asleep, swatting flies with their tails.
I turn my attention to the field beyond the pasture, hoping to see someone cutting hay, but there’s no thresher or wagon or team of horses. The Masts aren’t home, and now I’m going to have to hang around before heading to Buck Creek.
“Damn,” I say with a sigh, knowing the day is going to be a bust.
I leave the barn. I’m closing the door behind me when I notice the greenhouse to my right. Some Amish use them to get a head start on their seedlings until the soil is warm enough to plant. I head that way on the outside chance someone’s there, but I know it’s wishful thinking. I’ve already decided that instead of waiting here for the Masts to return, I would be better off speaking to someone at the sheriff’s office and, if I can find him, to the Amish bishop. Hopefully, someone will be able to shed some light on the death of Rebecca Mast.
Midway to the greenhouse, I pass by a fire pit surrounded by a low stone retaining wall. A steel fifty-gallon drum vented with bullet holes stands upright in the center of the pit. Growing up, we handled our trash much the same way, by putting everything that couldn’t be composted into a big drum and burning it. If we were lucky, Datt would let Jacob and Sarah and me roast marshmallows.
Thunder rumbles like the long, low growl of a cross dog. The wind has picked up just enough to turn the maple leaves silver side up, their shimmering surfaces contrasting sharply against the black sky. I smell the acrid scent of ash and something else that gives me pause.
I breathe in deeply, trying to place the smell. It’s earthy and spicy and slightly exotic. It reminds me of Christmas ham at the farm. Clove, I realize, and my heart begins to pound. Turning, I walk back to the fire pit, step down off the retaining wall, cross to the drum, and peer inside. It’s half-full of partially burned trash. I see part of a cereal box, a melted bread wrapper. The smell of clove is stronger, definitely emanating from inside the barrel.
Using my foot, I shove the drum onto its side. Ash flies as the contents spill out on the ground. Looking around, I spot a charred branch and use it to poke through the ashes. I uncover an old piece of garden hose, a plastic flowerpot. Bending, I upend the barrel. That’s when I notice the partially burned pack of cigarettes.
Clove cigarettes.
For the span of several heartbeats, all I can do is stare while my mind scrambles to make sense of what I see. It’s the same brand Sadie was smoking that day on the bridge. What are the odds of an Amish couple having a pack of clove cigarettes in their trash? The same obscure brand that a missing girl was known to smoke?
I pull out my phone and dial Tomasetti. “I think I have something,” I say by way of greeting.
“Lay it on me.”
I tell him about the cigarettes. “Sadie Miller smoked the same brand.”
“Where are the Masts?”
“There’s no one here.”
We fall silent, and I know he’s running this new information through his brain, seeking that elusive connection that will make everything click. “Tomasetti, I think they might be involved.”
“Kate, another kid went missing last night,” he tells me. “A boy. Sixteen years old.”
“Shit,” I mutter. “Where?”
“Alexandria. About fifty miles north of here.”
“Amish?”
“Yeah.”
“Troubled?”
“He’s had a couple of scrapes with the law. We’re still gathering information.”
“He fits the pattern,” I hear myself say.
“Get out of there.” He says the words easily, as if they are a suggestion that has just occurred to him. But I sense he’s worried about my being here alone. “I’ll get started on a warrant.”
A clap of thunder makes me jump. “Look, the sky’s getting ready to open up.” I start toward the Explorer. “I’ll give you a call from the sheriff’s office.”
“Be careful.”
“You know it,” I say, but he’s already disconnected.
Smiling, I shake my head. “Tomasetti,” I mutter, and reach for the door handle. I’m sliding behind the wheel, stabbing the key into the ignition when I notice the door to the slaughter shed is standing open.