“It’s my birthday,” I snap.
“It’s just another day to everyone else.”
“Shush, you two.” Sarah arranges the loaves alongside the pints of berries. “We’ll have all this stuff sold in no time,” she says. “We’ll get down to the creek this afternoon when it’s nice and hot.”
Sarah, always the diplomat. The peacemaker.
Jacob sets the box of change on the tabletop. “I think our Katie is just anxious to see Joseph.”
“I am not,” I say, but my face heats, revealing the truth.
“Or maybe she just wants to do something fun on her birthday,” Sarah soothes.
Smirking, Jacob goes to the buggy and climbs onto the seat. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
Sarah waves. I don’t bother, instead leaving him with a glower.
Clucking to the horse, Jacob snaps the reins and starts toward home.
I make my way behind the table, trying not to notice the car that speeds by, the face in the passenger window staring at me as if I’m some kind of exotic livestock.
“At least there’s a breeze,” Sarah says as she rearranges the eggs and berries. “A cake or two would have been nice. Or some pies.”
“Nice to eat, maybe.” But I have to admit, she’s created an attractive display. The red berries. The rustic bread Mamm wrapped in cellophane. The brown eggs in the big wire basket. And those pretty little jars of apple butter.
“You did a good job on the sign, Katie. I like the blue.”
I look at the sign and, despite my sour mood, a sense of pride moves through me. I found the old piece of wood in the barn last week. Datt sawed it to size and I spent most of last evening penciling in the letters and then filling them in with the paint Mamm had left over from the kitchen cabinets.
Sarah pulls out the paperback novel she’s been reading and leans back in the lawn chair. Not for the first time I wonder how she can always be so content. It’s not yet noon and already the back of my neck is wet with sweat and I’m pretty sure I’ve got a mosquito bite or poison ivy on my ankle.
“Oh, look, our first customer!”
I glance up to see a silver car with wide tires and a loud engine pull onto the gravel shoulder. In the back of my mind, I’m hoping it’s a large family and they’ll buy two of everything. My heart sinks when I see the two teen-aged boys. When they shut down the engine, I hear the radio blaring some rock-and-roll music that’s all the more tantalizing because it’s forbidden.
They get out and start toward us. They’re older than Sarah and me. Probably sixteen or seventeen. Both boys are wearing blue jeans and T-shirts. Reflective sunglasses. The one with long blond hair is smoking a cigarette.
“Hi, girls.” The blond guy grins, revealing crooked teeth. “Whatcha selling today?”
The second boy hangs back slightly, but he’s eyeing Sarah and me with a little too much interest. He’s got dark, curly hair and a gold hoop in his earlobe.
“We have eggs, bread, and raspberries,” Sarah tells him.
“And apple butter,” I add, hoping they’ll buy.
Curly Hair laughs. “Wow. Did you hear that, Mike? Eggs, bread, and fucking raspberries. Shit.”
I glance at Sarah. “I don’t like the look of them,” I tell her in Deitsch.
She shrugs. “It’s okay, Katie.”
“Si sinn net kawfa,” I tell her. They’re not going to buy.
“Ruich,” she says. Quiet.
I start to go around to the back of the table, but the blond guy steps in front of me. “It’s rude to talk Amish to people who ain’t Amish.”
Heat flushes my face. Keeping my eyes on the ground, I try to go around him, but he steps into my way.
“I think she called you a homo, dude,” says Curly.
The blond grins at me. “You call me a homo?”
My heart rolls and begins to pound. “No.”
“I think she said fucking homo,” says Curly.
The blond dips his head, so his face is only a few inches from mine. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”
I shake my head, unable to look at him. I don’t even care if they buy anything now. I just want them to leave.
“She’s kind of cute for an Amish girl,” Curly says.
“Except that dress.”
“Yeah, but it’s what’s under the dress that counts.”
Again, I try to sidestep the blond so I can reach the relative safety behind the table, but he blocks me, grinning. He’s standing so close I can smell the stink of cigarettes on his breath.
“You are kind of cute,” he whispers. “How old are you?”
Curly makes his way to the table and looks down at our display. “Hey, can we try these berries before we buy?” Without waiting for an answer, he snatches a handful of raspberries from one of the containers and crams them into his mouth.
“Damn! Those are tasty!” he exclaims, chewing messily so that the red juice dribbles down his chin.
The blond boy points at his friend’s chin, laughing, then picks up the container, tips his head back, and empties the remaining berries into his mouth.
Sarah shoots me a worried look. “Come around here, Katie.”
Again, I try to go around the boy. This time he grasps my arm. “Where do you think you’re going, Katie?”
“You owe three dollars for those berries.” I’d intended the words to come out strong, but my voice is shaking.
“Three bucks?” The blond boy spits out the mouthful of berries. Red juice sprays the front of my dress, specks of it hitting me in the face.
Curly bursts into raucous laughter.
“Don’t speak with them, Katie,” comes my sister’s voice.
The pounding of my heart nearly drowns out her voice. I’m frightened of these two boys, but I’m also angry, because Sarah and I spent all morning picking those berries and now these two are going to ruin everything.
“You owe three dollars.” I didn’t intend to say the words; they just came out. Surprisingly strong this time.
The curly-haired boy laughs harder. “Dude, I think she’s going to kick your ass.”
“Naw, she just wants my body.” The blond boy turns away and strolls along the table, running his fingertips over the tablecloth where Sarah displayed the bread and eggs and raspberries with such care. He pretends to accidentally knock one of the loaves of bread to the ground. “Aw, hell, look what I did!” he exclaims.
I go to the fallen loaf, snatch it off the ground. “Go away and leave us alone.”
“Or what?” The blond boy snags an egg from the basket and hurls it at our sign. Yolk and shell splatter, yellow dripping down its face.
“Damn, those are some fresh fuckin’ eggs!” Curly says, slapping his knees.
I make a grab for the basket, but he shoves me away with his forearm. I reel backward, land hard on my rear in the grass and dust. My temper kicks, and I’m on my feet in an instant. My vision narrows until all I see is the blond boy’s face. He reaches for another egg. Vaguely, I’m aware of the sound of shod hooves against asphalt. The boys hear it, too. They turn. I look over to see our neighbor Joseph King climb down from his datt’s old hay wagon.
An egg flies toward the horse, smacks it hard in the chest. The animal startles, snorting and stomping its hooves.
Curly and the blond boy double over with laughter.
Joseph gets an odd look on his face. Reaching into the wagon, he grabs the buggy whip and stalks over to the blond boy. Air whooshes as Joseph swings it like a bat. Leather cracks against the blond boy’s chest. The boy yowls, puts up both arms to defend himself. The curly-haired boy takes a step forward, but Joseph is ready. He swings the whip a second time, strikes the boy’s arm.
“That fuckin’ hurt!” Curly screams.
Joseph swings the whip again, rakes it across the front of his thighs. Curly raises his hands and dances away.
The blond boy turns tail and runs.
“Get out of here!” Joseph swings the
whip again, nicks the blond boy’s back. “Both of you! Go on! Git!”
The curly-haired boy lurches toward the car, his sneakers sliding in gravel as he rounds the front. The blond boy yanks open the door, scrambles into the car. Once behind the wheel, he gives Joseph the finger. “Fuck you, Amish freak!”
Joseph darts to the vehicle, flips the whip around, and brings the heavy butt down on the hood hard enough to leave a crease.
“Fucker!” the blond boy leans out the window, his mouth open and flapping. “Look what you did to my car!”
The vehicle jets backward. Gravel shoots out from beneath the tires, striking the produce stand like a hail of bullets. Gears grind and then the car lurches forward. The tires squeal on the asphalt and then they’re gone.
Sarah has already come around the table with a napkin to wipe raspberry juice and spittle from my face and dress. I’m brushing grass from my skirt. But I can’t take my eyes off of Joseph. I can’t believe he did what he did. That he did it to protect me.
He takes the time to check his gelding before coming over, running his hands over the animal’s chest, scraping off the egg and shell with his palm and slinging it to the ground. Securing the whip in its holder, he pats the animal’s rump and then strolls over to Sarah and me as if nothing happened.
“You girls okay?” he asks.
“We are fine.” Sarah actually sounds a little miffed about what Joseph did.
Not me. “Is your horse okay?” I ask.
“Sonny don’t take things too personal,” Joseph says. “Can’t see someone doing that to him. He’s old and still works hard. I think he deserves a little bit more respect.”
“Me, too.”
I’m aware of Sarah looking at me. Probably thinking I’m being too friendly with Joseph. But I can’t look away.
Joseph motions in the general direction in which the car drove off. “Those two are trouble.”
“We know,” Sarah says.
“I don’t think they’ll be back, though,” he says.
“We’re glad you came by when you did,” I tell him.
His eyes smile, but his mouth doesn’t follow suit. “Datt and me are going to bale hay this afternoon. Tell Jacob I won’t be down to the creek till later.”
Sarah and I exchange glances. We both know he’s not asking about Jacob.
“I’ll tell him,” Sarah says.
“We’re going to find that trunk and pull it out today.” Joseph’s eyes land on me. “You, too, runt.”
I can’t stop the grin that overtakes my face. “I’m not a runt.”
“That’s a likely story.” Turning, he climbs into the buggy and drives away.
* * *
I haven’t thought of that day on Hogpath Road in years. The event made one hell of an impression on my twelve-year-old psyche. That was the day I fell in love with Joseph King.
We never found the trunk in the creek that summer, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Sarah, Jacob, Joseph, and I swam every afternoon we could get away. We dove as deep as we dared. We dug in the gravel and mud. I suspect we knew there was no trunk; it was just another one of Joseph’s tall tales. But what an adventure it was to search.
Joseph became my hero that summer. I never told anyone. I knew nothing about the ways of the world, but even at that tender age, I sensed that if the subject had been broached, something I wasn’t quite ready to understand would have tarnished our relationship. And so we swam. We played tag and hide-and-seek and baseball. That winter was a cold one and we spent hours out on the ice playing hockey.
Joseph’s datt was killed in the buggy accident that next year, along with the old gelding Joseph was so fond of. Joseph was never the same after that. Nothing was the same for any of us.
CHAPTER 14
I’m generally pretty adept at keeping a healthy emotional distance from cases that affect me personally. I’ve learned to compartmentalize, cram all those gnarly, self-defeating emotions in a box and deal with them at an appropriate time and in a manner that doesn’t include three glasses of wine or, God forbid, that bottle of vodka we keep in the cabinet above the fridge. According to Tomasetti, it’s all about perspective and moderation—and not necessarily in that order.
My feelings about the death of Joseph King are complex. The sense of loss is surprisingly keen. Some small part of my heart is broken because my childhood friend is dead, five children have been left without a father, and a piece of my past is gone forever. By all indications Joseph’s life was fraught with bad decisions heaped atop poor judgment, and both of those things ultimately played a role in bringing it to a violent and early close.
It’s the lingering sense of injustice that grates on my cop’s sensibilities. The knowledge that the whole truth hasn’t been told, will probably never be known, and the accused isn’t around to set the record straight.
It’s been twenty-four hours since the SWAT sniper took the shot. The children are expected to be reunited with Rebecca and Daniel Beachy sometime today. Once the crime-scene unit was finished at the Beachy house and Joseph’s body was removed by the coroner’s office, half a dozen Amish women descended and cleaned up the mess. That’s the thing about the Amish. When one of their own—or anyone for that matter—gets sick or is hurt and in need, they drop everything and rush in to help.
Joseph’s death hit me harder than I expected. The truth of the matter is I went for years without thinking of him. When I did, it was just in passing or when I was feeling nostalgic or maybe when I drove past that old roadside stand on Hogpath Road. Until yesterday, that was the extent of my recollection. I’d only known him for five years after all. In the scope of a lifetime, a drop in the bucket.
But they were formative years. A period in which every experience is a first and you feel every little thing all the way to your soul. If an Amish girl could have a superhero, a playmate, and a big brother all rolled into one, Joseph King was mine. He was my friend. My coconspirator. My partner in crime. And, later, my first big crush. He was larger than life, and for a short span of time, I worshiped the ground he walked on.
Now, when I think of him, I won’t wonder what he’s done with his life or if he’s happy with the way things turned out. I’ll think of the way he died and the role I played.
In the last twenty-four hours, everything that was said and done inside that house has replayed in my head a hundred times. I see the expression on Joseph’s face when he told me he didn’t kill his wife. I hear the truth in Sadie’s voice when she relayed the story about the stranger in the house the night her mamm was killed. Was someone there that night?
It’s nine A.M. and the Painters Mill police station is swarming with media when I arrive. A white SUV bearing the Channel 16 logo has taken up residence in my reserved parking spot. I park next to it and watch a cameraman unpack equipment from a van while a petite blond in a fuchsia-colored jacket and skirt sprays a cloud of something on her hair.
Apparently, several media outlets have caught wind of the photo of Joseph King and me, and they’ve come here in the hope of obtaining some juicy morsel. I get out of the Explorer, take the time to write a parking citation for the owner of the white SUV, and tuck it beneath the windshield wiper.
I cross the street at a fast clip. By the time I go through the door, my cop’s suit of armor is securely in place. The usually quiet reception area is occupied by several young reporters and a photographer who has a striking resemblance to a wildebeest.
Eyes turn my way. Once I’m recognized, they rush me.
“Chief Burkholder!” A journalist in stilettos makes a beeline toward me, moving with awe-inspiring speed despite the pencil skirt and heels, and thrusts a microphone in my face. “Chief, can you tell me what transpired inside the house between you and Joseph King?”
“No comment,” I say without looking at her.
“We’d like to hear your side of the story,” she presses.
Ignoring her, I make tracks to the reception desk, barely managing to avoid
another reporter in a neon green dress with the tattoo of a dragon on her right ankle.
“Chief Burkholder!” she screeches. “Tell us about your relationship with Joseph King.”
Skid is standing outside his cubicle checking out her legs. Despite my mood, I smile as I pluck messages from my slot.
“Chief!” Lois gets to her feet. The headset she’s wearing is askew. Her hair is sticking out on one side as if she’s run her hands through it and never bothered to smooth it back down. She’s holding a fistful of pink message slips.
“Thanks.” I take the slips from her.
“Oh, almost forgot.” She shoves two purple folders at me. “Mona left these for you.”
Taking the folders, I motion toward the reporters. “How long have they been here?”
“Forty-five minutes or so.”
Behind me, I hear the shuffle of shoes, the clanging of equipment. I turn to see four reporters and two cameramen standing inside the door. Two are on the phone. The other three shove microphones at me, shouting out questions.
“Chief Burkholder, can you tell us what happened in that farmhouse?”
“Is it true that you and King were once lovers?”
“Were you romantically involved with Joseph King?”
“Did he sexually assault you while you were being held hostage?”
“Was it consensual?”
Dear God.
I bring my hands together sharply several times. The room goes silent. Even the phone quiets. “The good news is,” I tell them, “I’ll be sending out a press release. The bad news is you have five minutes to leave the premises.”
A hipster guy in skinny jeans and a neat little goatee shakes the press ID hanging around his neck. “Um, hello? We have a right to be here, Chief Burkholder.”
“This is a non-public-forum public property.” I send a pointed look at the clock on the wall, aware that there’s at least one camera rolling, so I keep my tone cool and professional. “You now have four minutes to vacate the premises or I will begin writing trespassing citations. Do you understand?”