“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.”
We zip past a mailbox at the mouth of a gravel lane, and Tomasetti hits the brakes. “That was it.” Throwing the Tahoe into reverse, he backs up and pulls in. A minute later, we park next to a white Ford F-150. A single porch light illuminates a two-car garage with a door in need of paint. A cord of split logs is stacked neatly against the west side. The house is a small white frame structure with green shutters and a deck in the back.
We exit the vehicle and take the sidewalk to the porch. Tomasetti knocks and we wait, watching each other, not speaking. Then the door swings open and I find myself staring at a baby-faced young man with brown hair and matching eyes. He wears a Metallica T-shirt with faded jeans and dirty white socks. His hair is sticking up on one side, and I suspect we roused him from a nap.
“Can I help you?”
I can tell by his inflection that he grew up Amish. He’s got that distinctive accent I recognize immediately.
“Gideon Stoltzfus?” Tomasetti presents his identification.
“Yeah.” He blinks at the ID. “What’s this about?”
“We’re working on a case and we’d like to ask you a few questions,” I say. “Can we come in?”
“Uh . . . sure.” He opens the door cautiously, as if expecting us to pounce on him and wrestle him to the ground.
We follow him to a small kitchen that smells of burned popcorn. The place is comfortable and relatively clean, but I can tell it’s a bachelor pad. Knotty-pine cabinets line robin’s egg blue walls. I see faux granite countertops. An obese dachshund lies on a grimy throw rug by the sink, probably deaf, because it didn’t bark when we entered. There’s a high-tech coffeemaker with a built-in grinder and timer. A tiny micro wave sets on the counter, its door standing open. Cheap art hangs on the wall. Country music rumbles in another part of the house. I hear the yappy bark of a second dog, which has apparently been barred access to visitors.
At the counter, Stoltzfus turns to us and shoves his hands into his pockets. “You want some coffee or something?” He motions to a small table that’s not quite large enough for three people.
“We’re fine.” Tomasetti’s smile looks like a snarl.
Stoltzfus is an unassuming man with a quiet demeanor. He’s wondering why we’re here. His eyes shift from Tomasetti to me and he begins to fidget. I wonder why he’s so nervous.
Tomasetti lets him sweat for a minute before asking his first question. “I understand you run an Underground Railroad for young people wanting to leave the Amish way.”
“Underground Railroad?” Stoltzfus laughs, but it’s a tight, tense sound.
Tomasetti glowers. “What’s so funny?”
Stoltzfus’s Adam’s apple bobs twice. “I’ve never heard it put like that. It sounds kind of dramatic.”
“Why don’t you clear things up for us and just tell us what you do,” I say.
His eyes flick again from Tomasetti to me. “Am I in some kind of trouble?”
“We just want to know how you work.” I offer my best
girl-next-door smile. “Why don’t you start by telling us how you find the young people who need help.”
My reassurance seems to bolster him and he calms down. “Word of mouth, mostly. Buck Creek is a small town. People talk, and that includes the Amish. I usually hear about it when one of these kids wants to leave.”
“How do you make contact?”
“Usually, they contact me.”
“You used to be Amish?” I ask.
He looks down, and I realize whether he recognizes it or not, he’s still conflicted. “I’ve been gone ten years now.”
“Do you mind if I ask why you left?” I ask.
“I couldn’t abide by the rules. I mean, living without electricity and a car was bad enough. But I wanted to go to college.” He shrugs. “I didn’t want to be a farmer. I didn’t want that kind of future.”
“Any regrets?”
His eyes lock onto mine. “I miss my family. I have four younger sisters. They looked up to me.” He gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Hell, I still drive by the place. How pathetic is that?”
I find myself liking him despite my resolve to remain neutral. “You see your siblings?”
He breaks eye contact, looks down at his stocking feet. “Parents don’t want me seeing them. They think I’m a bad influence, I guess.”
I nod, understanding more than he could know. “What happens after a young person makes contact with you?”
“I offer him a place to stay. Lend him money if he needs it. Counsel him.” Stoltzfus likes to talk, I realize, and he’s warming to us. “It’s harder than most people think. Leaving, I mean. You see, when you’re Amish, your family is everything to you. It’s like they’re your whole universe. A lot of young people want to leave but don’t because of their families. So I give them a neutral place, without judging them, and without the pressure of their families or the elders.”
“You’re Mennonite now?”
He nods. “The religious beliefs are similar, but you don’t have to live your life as if it’s the eighteenth century.”
I pause to give Tomasetti an opening. “What can you tell us about Noah Mast?” he asks.
All semblance of tranquillity leaves Stoltzfus. His left eyelid begins to flutter. “I didn’t really know him. Noah was a few years younger than me, but I’d see him around. After I left, he got in touch with me and told me he wanted to leave. Asked me how to do it.”
“Did you help him?”
“I would have, but I never heard from him again.”
“At the time, had you been actively helping other Amish youths leave the lifestyle?”
“Well, I wasn’t organized about it, not like I am now. But yeah. I helped a couple kids back in those early days. I mean, it had been so hard for me.” Another nervous laugh. “I felt . . . compelled to help others.”
“What else can you tell us about Noah?” Tomasetti says the words amicably, but his stare is intense.
“Alls I remember is he told me he wanted out. I gathered he wasn’t getting along with his folks. I offered to help him.” Stoltzfus shrugs. “Next thing I know, he’s missing.
“Were you surprised?”
“Not really. I figured he’d just done it on his own.”
“Do you know Annie King?” Tomasetti asks.
His eyes go wide, and he begins blinking. He looks at us as if realizing he’s wandered into a lion’s den and his only escape is now blocked. “You guys don’t think I had anything to do with that, do you?”
“Did you know her?” Tomasetti repeats.
“No.”
“Did you have any contact with her?”
“No!”
“She didn’t approach you? Ask you to help her?”
“Lookit, I never met her. Never talked to her. And that’s the truth.”
CHAPTER 9
“He’s either a damn good liar or he’s telling the truth,” Tomasetti says as he makes the turn onto the highway that will take us to the motel.
“I believe him,” I say. “At least with regard to Noah Mast.”
“Seemed kind of nervous.”
“You were snarling at him.”
“I wasn’t snarling.” But in the dim light of the dash, I see his mouth curve.
Feeling the drag of thirty-six hours without sleep, I look out the window. “No one seems like a good fit.”
“Until we find someone more viable, we’ve got to go through the motions.” He glances away from his driving. “You hungry? There’s a restaurant down the road from the motel.”
“I saw it. The Flying Buck.” Having not eaten since last night, I’m starving. “And it’s a bar, Tomasetti, not a restaurant.”
“Since our restaurant choices are limited, we could probably have a beer with a burger without breaking too many rules.”
“No shots, though.”
“Suits would probably frown upon that.”
It’s nearly ten o’clock when we pull into the gravel lot of the Flying Buck. Our headlights wash over a single vehicle, a nondescript Camry that looks as if it’s just been waxed. The building itself is actually a double-wide mobile home painted in green camo. A hunting mural depicts two Labradors bounding through water and two orange-vested hunters taking aim.
A gravel walkway takes us to a covered porch scattered with tables for summertime dining. We enter through a thick wooden door capped with a set of twelve-point antlers. The interior is dim and smells like dozens of other bars where I’ve spent too much time—a combination of cooking grease, liquor, and cigarette smoke. An old Allman Brothers song about one more silver dollar crackles from a single overhead speaker. The bar is to our right, an ancient slab of wood that’s seen more than its share of calloused elbows, slurred speech, and spilled beer. A hunched old man in a cowboy hat sits with his leg crossed over his knee, smoking a pipe. The rest rooms are in the back. A sign says SIT THE HELL DOWN. We choose a table at the rear.
Tomasetti pulls out my chair for me. I want to believe he’s doing it because he’s a gentleman. But I know he will never sit down in any public place with his back to the door. Some people might call that paranoid. Not me. Maybe because I know if some crazy shit walks in with a gun, Tomasetti will be ready.
A skinny waitress with blue-gray hair and bony legs rushes to our table and slaps down menus. “Hi, folks. You here for dinner or drinks?”
“Both,” Tomasetti says. “And not necessarily in that order.”
She chuckles. “That’s what I like to hear. What can I get for ya?”
We order two bottles of Killian’s Irish Red and burgers with fries, and the waitress hustles away.
“What bothers me about Stoltzfus,” Tomasetti begins, “is that he’s put himself in the position of having access to disgruntled Amish teenagers.”
Something scratches at the back of my brain, but I can’t quite reach it. “Child predators operate much the same way.”
“And he’s had contact with at least one of the missing.”
The waitress returns to the table with our beers and two frosty mugs. “Be right back with those burgers.”
Tomasetti pours. We pick up the glasses and, watching each other over the rims, drink deeply. It’s the first alcohol I’ve had since the Slabaugh case six months ago, and I don’t want to acknowledge how good it goes down.
I’m still thinking about Stoltzfus when my cell vibrates against my hip. I glance down at the display, expecting another frantic call from Auggie. I’m surprised to see a name I don’t recognize on the display.
I answer, saying, “Burkholder.”
“This is Suzy Fisher.”
Surprise ripples through me at the sound of her voice. Not only is it unusual for an Amish person to use the telephone but it’s also late—well past bedtime for an Amish woman. “Hello, Mrs. Fisher. Is everything all right?”
“I’m sorry about the lateness of the hour,” she says breathlessly. “But I couldn’t sleep. I took the buggy to town to use the pay phone there.” She chokes out
the words, as if her throat is too tight. “Eli doesn’t know.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “What is it?”
“I didn’t tell you something today that I should have. I think it might be important.”
“About Bonnie?”
“Ja.” Only then do I realize she’s crying. “Bonnie loves babies. She loves children. She’s so excited about teaching at the school in the fall.”
I wait, knowing there’s more.
“Chief Burkholder, she was confused about the baby.”
“What do you mean?” But even as I voice the question, realization dawns. “She didn’t want the child?”
“We would have loved the child.”
“Mrs. Fisher, did Bonnie talk about terminating the pregnancy?”
“It goes against our belief system.” She begins to cry in earnest. “I tried to talk her out of it, but she was so ashamed. So determined to do this thing. It was the last time I saw her.”
The words shock me. Most Amish believe abortion is murder. During my lifetime, I’ve known two Amish women who terminated pregnancies. One of them, though she confessed her sin before the congregation, felt so condemned by her peers, she ended up leaving the Amish way. The other committed suicide.
“Mrs. Fisher, I know it wasn’t easy for you to come forward with this,” I tell her. “Thank you. I think this could be important.”
“Please find her for us, Chief Burkholder. We don’t care about her mistakes. We just want her back.”
“I’ll do my best,” I tell her. “I promise.”
The line goes dead. I take my time clipping my phone to my belt, then turn my attention to Tomasetti and recap the conversation. “She never told her husband.”
“It sounds like these two girls—Bonnie Fisher and Annie King—were behaving way outside of Amish norms,” Tomasetti says after a moment.
I nod in agreement, thinking of the third girl, whose family was killed in the buggy accident. “It would have been helpful to talk to Leah Stuckey’s parents to see if she was somehow acting out, too.”
“Might have helped us figure out if their behavior somehow ties in to their disappearances.”