She motions at the tank she’s wearing. “I made this! Look at it. It’s beautiful, but Mamm won’t let me wear it. She won’t even let me sell it at the Carriage Stop. She says it’s got too much ornamentation and that it’s prideful.”
The words tumble out of her in a rush, too fast and falling over one another, as if she’s been holding them inside and some invisible dam has burst. I recall a vague memory from a couple of months ago: My sister, Sarah, telling me about this girl’s needlework. I hadn’t paid much attention at the time; my sister and I have been dealing with our own issues. But Sarah had gone on about Sadie’s talent. How she’d already sold a dozen quilts at one of the tourist shops in town and customers couldn’t seem to get enough. There’s a part of me that hates the idea of snuffing out that kind of passion. Too many people slog through their lives without it. It is a view, of course, that would not be welcomed by the Amish.
“So are you going to take me to jail?” she asks, looking a little too excited by the prospect.
“I’m going to take you home.”
Sighing as if jail is the better option, Sadie reaches into her pocket, pulls a brown cigarette from a pack, and lights up. I can tell by the way she does it, she’s not a smoker.
“Put that out,” I tell her.
“Why, Katie? You smoke. I saw you. At the graebhoff. Why can’t I?”
“Because you’re fifteen and it’s illegal.” I snatch the cigarette from her and toss it out the window.
She stares at me with clear, watchful eyes that don’t miss a beat. It’s strange, but I find myself feeling self-conscious because, for some crazy reason, this girl looks up to me. She’s learning things she probably shouldn’t, wanting things that, if she remains Amish, she won’t ever possess. It’s a recipe for heartache, and I want no part of it.
“I don’t want to go home,” she tells me.
“Here’s a news flash for you, Sadie. You don’t always get what you want.” I glance over my shoulder. All but two of the kids have left. Glock is speaking with Angi McClanahan. She’s flirting with him, probably trying to get him to remove the cuffs. He jots something in his notebook, steadfastly unaffected.
“Stay put,” I tell Sadie. “I’ll be right back.”
I start toward Glock. He glances up and meets me in the center of the bridge, so that we’re out of earshot of both girls. “What do you think?” I ask him.
Glock shakes his head. “Were we that dumb when we were teenagers?”
“Probably.”
He glances down at his note pad. “Apparently, the two girls were fighting over some guy. McClanahan made contact first. Other girl threw the first punch.”
“I’m so glad I’m not a teenager.”
“I’d kinda like to be the guy they were fighting over, though.”
We grin at each other.
“So who’re we taking to jail?” he asks.
“I’m going to let them off with a warning and have a chat with the parents.”
“Good call.” He nods his approval. “Fewer reports to write.”
“Will you drive McClanahan home? Talk with her folks?”
“Sure.”
I glance over at Sadie Miller and sigh. She’s leaning against the windowsill, her foot propped against the wall, smoking a clove cigarette, watching me. “I can’t believe kids still smoke those things,” I mutter.
Glock nods in agreement. “They’ll kill you, that’s for sure.”
As I start toward the girl, I figure we both know there are far more dangerous ills facing our young people and that most of us are at a complete loss as far as how to keep them at bay.
CHAPTER 2
Forty-five minutes later, I’m pulling out of the long gravel lane of the farm where Sadie Miller lives with her parents and four siblings. I’m adept at reading people, regardless of culture, and I’m pretty sure that when Sadie and I initially walked in, they thought I was the one who’d given her the black eye. Deserved or not, I’ve earned a reputation among the Amish.
I did my best to remain objective as I explained what had happened. Esther and Roy Miller listened quietly, but I saw the distrust in their eyes—perhaps even a little suspicion. I heard a lot more silence than questions. By the time I left, I was starting to doubt if they believed any of what I’d told them.
Had this been a non-Amish family, I’d still be in there, listening to the parents defend their child or, perhaps, deflecting cheap shots aimed at me and my department. Not so with the Amish. There was no finger-pointing or laying of blame or absurd rationalizations. Amish parents are generally strict with their children; obedience is ingrained at a young age and enforced with “smackings” when necessary.
Sadie is past the age where a smacking would be effective. But I have no doubt she will be punished for her disobedience, more than likely by the assignment of some unpleasant chore. I wonder if it will be enough.
I’m tired, still thinking about Sadie, on my way to the station to file my end-of-shift reports when my cell phone chirps. Mild annoyance transforms into plea sure when I see Tomasetti’s name on the display, and I pull on my headset. “Morning, Agent.”
“I called earlier and got voice mail. Everything okay?”
“Sorry. Got tied up with a stop.”
“Cows?”
“Worse,” I tell him. “Teenagers.”
“That is worse.”
“At least with cows, you know what you’re getting.”
“Less bullshit anyway.”
John Tomasetti is an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation in Cleveland. We met a year and a half ago, when he assisted with the Slaughterhouse Murders case. It was a tumultuous time for both of us, not only professionally but personally. His wife and two children had been murdered just nine months before, and he was an emotional basket case. He’d been taking some heavy-duty prescription drugs and mixing them with alcohol, a coping mechanism run amok that had put his career on the skids and sent his life careening out of control. There were probably other things going on as well that he didn’t see fit to reveal. But then, people like us excel at keeping secrets, especially when they’re big ones.
It was my first major case as chief, and my personal connection to the killer made for an extremely stressful investigation. The murders themselves were shocking and brutal—the things of nightmares. Somehow, in the course of all that depravity and blood, Tomasetti and I became allies. We became friends and, later, lovers. In the end, we broke that damn case wide open.
“Have you slept?” He knows I covered the graveyard shift last night.
“I’m heading home as soon as I file reports.” In the back of my mind, I’m wondering if he’s going to drive down. If he’s got the weekend off and wants to spend some time with me. It’s been a month since I last saw him. Something inside me surges at the thought, but I quickly bank it. I’m still reluctant to trust any emotion that packs so much power and comes with such ease.
“I just got handed a case,” he tells me. “I was wondering if you’d be interested in coming up to consult.”
For a moment, I’m too shocked to answer. The request is unusual in the extreme. I’m a small-town chief of police. I spend my days mediating domestic disputes, breaking up fights, and investigating the occasional theft. Small-town crime. Why would he need me when he has a plethora of sophisticated resources at his fingertips through BCI? “This doesn’t have anything to do with cows, does it?” I ask.
He chuckles. “Missing persons. Two so far, but the case is developing.”