Goddard looks to me, the resident Amish expert. “Any idea where they might be?”
“Visiting a neighbor, maybe.” I look around, taking in the long shadows of late afternoon.
“We could wait,” Goddard suggests. “See if they show.”
“We need the name of the boyfriend,” Tomasetti mutters.
I drift to the porch rail and look out across the pasture, where eight Jersey cows and two young horses graze the lush grass. A thin layer of fog hovers in the low-lying areas. Twilight birds and crickets mingle with a cacophony of bullfrogs from the pond, where a profusion of cattails flourish. How many times growing up did I lie in my bed at night with the window open and listen to these very same sounds? How many times did I wonder what the world was like beyond the confines of the farm? I feel the memories pushing at the gate. But I don’t open it.
Goddard clears his throat. “Let’s grab a bite to eat and come back.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Tomasetti says.
And then we’re back in the Tahoe, following Goddard down the lane through plumes of billowing white dust.
I’m still thinking about the boyfriend. “If Annie and her boyfriend are tight and he knows she’s missing, why hasn’t he come forward?”
“Maybe he’s guilty of something.”
“Or they could be together.”
“Considering the blood at the scene, that would be a best-case scenario.”
We’re nearly to the end of the lane when, in my peripheral vision, I notice a flash of blue through the dust. I glance over and see an Amish girl in a blue dress standing on the shoulder. Brown paper bag in hand, she’s braving a thick bramble of raspberries. She’s picking the berries, I realize.
“Stop,” I say abruptly.
Tomasetti hits the brakes hard enough to throw me against my shoulder harness. The tires grab and the Tahoe slides to an abrupt stop. He puts the SUV in park and tosses me a speculative look. “Amy Stutz?”
“Age looks about right.”
A few yards ahead, Goddard’s brake lights come on and he pulls over.
I open the door and start toward the girl. Her eyes widen when she realizes I’m coming toward her. “Hi there,” I begin in my most friendly voice. “Wei bischt du heit?” How are you today?”
“Ich bin zimmlich gut.” I’m pretty good, but she’s looking at me as if I’m an ax murderer, and I can tell she’s thinking about making a run for the house.
“My name’s Kate. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m a police officer.”
“Oh. Hello.” It’s a duty greeting. She doesn’t want to talk to me, but she’s too polite not to respond when she’s been addressed by an adult, even if they’re English. I guess her to be about fifteen years old. She’s wearing a plain blue dress with a gauzy white kapp that’s been left untied at her nape, and on her feet are a cheap pair of sneakers.
“I’m looking for Mr. and Mrs. Stutz,” I begin.
“They’re visiting the Beiler family down the road. To see the new baby.”
“What’s your name?”
“Amy.”
I make a show of looking at the raspberry bushes. “How are the berries?”
“Juicy.” She peers into the bag. “Not too many bugs.” She eyes the Tahoe. “They’re not for sale. Mamm makes jam.”
She’s a pretty girl with hazel eyes and a sunburned nose. Her hands are dirty from picking berries and she’s got a purple stain next to her mouth.
“Do you know Annie King?” I ask.
“Ja.”
I see scratches on her arms from the thorny bushes and I can’t help but remember all the times my mamm sent me to pick raspberries or blackberries. I always returned scratched and bleeding, but it was always worth the pain because I ate as many as I harvested.
“Did you know she’s missing?” I ask.
The girl’s expression falls. “I heard.”
“We’re trying to find her.”
She looks down at the bag in her hand.
I spot a ripe berry growing low on the bush, pull it off, and eat it. “They are good.”
“My datt says it’s because of all the rain.”
I pluck a few more berries and drop them into her bag. “I understand you and Annie are friends.”
“She’s my best friend.”
I nod. “Her mamm and datt told me Annie has some English friends. Did she ever talk about them?”
The girl steps away from me, as if the act of distancing herself will make me and my questions go away. “I don’t know anything about that.”
I tilt my head to make eye contact. “Are you sure?”
She begins picking berries at a frantic pace, pulling off leaves and small branches and throwing them into the bag.
“You’re not in any trouble,” I tell her. “Neither is Annie. We just want to find her. Her parents are worried.” I pick a few berries and drop them into her bag.
The words seem to get through to her. She lowers her hand and gives me her full attention. “She has too many English friends. She’s been riding in their cars. Smoking. You know, Englischer kind of things. I told her it was against the Ordnung, but . . .”
I nod. “Sometimes young people do things. They make mistakes.”
For the first time, she looks at me as if I might not be the enemy.
I’m aware of Tomasetti in the Tahoe a few yards away, waiting, watching us. “Did Annie ever mention a boyfriend?”
She moves a branch aside and pulls off a big purple berry. “Ja.”
“Do you know his name?”
She stops what she’s doing and looks at me. I see in her eyes a tangle of misery and confusion and the terrible weight of a fear she doesn’t understand—all of it tempered by the hope that her friend is okay. “She asked me not to tell.”
“We think Annie could be in danger.” I wait, but she doesn’t respond, so I add, “Honey, you’re not in any trouble. Okay? We just want to find her. If you know something, please tell me.”
Her brows go together and for the first time I get a glimpse of the full scope of the war waging within her: the need to be loyal to her friend; the tenet to remain separate from me; the need to tell what she knows because Annie could be in danger. “His name is Justin Treece,” she says finally.
“Thank you.” I pull out my pad and write down the name. “Is there anything else you can tell me that might help us find her?”
She bites her lip. “Annie has a phone,” she blurts. “I saw her talking on it.”
“A cell phone?”
She nods. “I’m scared for her.”
“Why?”
“I just am.”
I reach out to touch her, to reassure her and thank her for her help, but she snatches up her bag and pushes past the bushes with such speed that I hear the stickers snag on her dress. She runs toward the house without looking back.
I watch until she disappears around the side of the house, and then I slide into the Tahoe and tell Tomasetti what I’ve learned. “Why are the parents always the last to know?” he growls.
“Probably because they don’t ask enough questions.”
“Or maybe some teenagers are pathological liars.”
“Such a cynic.” I tsk. “You should try having a little more faith in our youth.”
“I could, but there’s this pesky little detail called reality.” He’s already got his phone to his ear, calling Goddard. “We got a name,” he says without preamble. “Justin Treece.” Tomasetti’s face darkens and he scowls. “Shit. You got an address on him?” He listens for a moment and ends the call.
“That didn’t sound good,” I say.
Tomasetti drops his phone onto the console and puts the Tahoe in gear. “Treece did a year in Mansfield for beating the hell out of his mother.”
CHAPTER 6
Justin Treece lives with his parents in a run-down frame house on the outskirts of Buck Creek. The neighborhood is a downtrodden purlieu of postage stamp–size houses with ramshac
kle front porches and yards with grass trampled to dirt. Several houses are vacant, the windows either boarded up with plywood or open to the elements. The roof of the house next to the Treece place is fire-damaged; a hole the size of a tractor tire reveals blackened rafters and pink puffs of insulation.
“Damn, looks like Cleveland,” Tomasetti says as we idle past.
“Welcome to the other side of the tracks,” I mutter.
A beat-up Toyota pickup truck with oversize tires sits in the driveway next to an old Ford Thunderbird. “Looks like someone’s home.”
In front of us, Goddard’s cruiser pulls over to the curb two houses down from the Treece place, and we park behind him. Tomasetti and I meet him on the sidewalk.
“Vehicles belong to the parents,” the sheriff tells us. “Trina drives the Thunderbird. Jack drives the Toyota.”
“What about the kid?” Tomasetti asks.
“Last time I stopped him, he was in an old Plymouth Duster. Him and his old man tinker with cars, so it could be in the garage out back.”
“Exactly how bad is this kid?” I ask.
“He’s only got that one conviction.” Goddard shakes his head. “But it is a doozy. To tell you the truth, I think that little bastard is on his way. In ten years, he’ll be in the major league.”
“Or in prison,” Tomasetti puts in.
Goddard motions toward the house. “The whole lot of them are regulars with the department. Domestic stuff, mostly. Parents get drunk and beat the shit out of each other. Kids run wild. It’s sad is what it is.”
Having been a patrol officer in Columbus for a number of years, I’m all too familiar with those kinds of scenarios. It’s a sad and seemingly hopeless cycle, especially for the kids. Too many of them become victims of their environment and end up like their parents—or worse.
“Wouldn’t surprise me if this kid is involved with this missing girl,” Goddard tells us. “He’s got a hot head and a big mouth.”
“Bad combination,” I say.
“They armed?” Tomasetti asks.
“We searched the place once a few months back and didn’t find anything. But nothing would surprise me when it comes to this bunch.” Goddard divides his attention between the two of us. “So are you guys packing, or what?”
“Never leave home without it,” Tomasetti replies.
I open my jacket just far enough for him to see the leather shoulder holster where I keep my .22 mini-Magnum.
“Well, lock and load, people.” He motions toward the house. “Let’s go see what Romeo has to say.”
We take a sidewalk that’s buckled from tree roots and riddled with cracks. A tumbling chain-link fence encircles the front yard. I glance between the close-set houses and see a tiny backyard that’s littered with old tires. Beyond, a detached garage with peeling yellow paint and a single broken window separates the yard from the alley.
“Light on in the garage,” I say.
“Kid hangs out there a lot. Listens to that weird-shit music loud enough to bust your fuckin’ ear drums.”
“Do the parents work?” Tomasetti asks as we take the concrete steps to the front door.
Goddard nods. “Jack Treece is a mechanic at the filling station in town. He’s good, from what I hear. Probably where the kid got the knack. Trina works down at the bowling alley. Tends bar most nights.”
“What about Justin?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I don’t think anyone around here would hire him to tell you the truth. He’s got a rep. Most people steer clear.”
We reach the front door. A few feet away, a window-unit air conditioner belches water onto the concrete. Goddard knocks and then steps aside, as if expecting someone to shoot through the door.
The door creaks open. I find myself looking at a huge round woman with brown eyes and a tangle of black hair that reaches midway down her back. She’s got the kind of face that makes it difficult to guess her age, but I’d put her around forty. It’s obvious we wakened her, but she must have been sleeping on the sofa, because it didn’t take long for her to answer the door, and she doesn’t look like the type to move with any kind of speed.
She’s wearing a flowered muumuu that doesn’t cover as much of her as I’d like. Her calves are the size of hams and bulge with varicose veins. Swollen toes with thick yellow nails stick out of the ends of pink slippers.
She takes in the sight of us with a mix of hostility and amusement. “Sheriff.” Her voice is deep and slow, with a hint of the Kentucky hills. “I heard you died.”
“Well, no one’s told me about it yet.” Goddard shows her his identification. “Hope that’s not too much of a disappointment.”
“Things would get pretty boring round here without you cops fuckin’ with us all the damn time.”
“Is Justin here?”
Her gaze slides from the sheriff to me and Tomasetti and then back to the sheriff. I see a cunning in its depths that reminds me of big lumbering bear that can transform to a predator capable of tearing a man to shreds with no provocation or warning. She’s got cold, empty eyes and an “I don’t give a shit” air, both of which tell me she has no respect for anything or anyone—including herself—and has a particularly high level of loathing for law enforcement.
“Who wants to know?” she asks.
“Me and these state agents.”
“State agents, huh?” She gives me the once-over and makes a sound of disdain. “What’d he do now?”
“We just want to ask him some questions.”
“This about that girl gone missing?”
The collective surge of interest is palpable. The sheriff leans forward. I see Tomasetti, who is beside me, crane his head slightly, looking beyond her. “Trina, we just want to talk to Justin,” Goddard tells her.
She makes no move to open the door. “I know my rights, Bud. I’m the parent and I want to know why you want to talk to my son.”
Tomasetti shoves his identification at her. “Because we asked nicely, and if we have to come back with a warrant, we won’t be so nice.”
She’s not impressed and doesn’t even glance at his credentials. “Who the fuck ’re you?”
“I’m the guy who’s going to fuck you over if you don’t open the goddamn door.”
Goddard’s mouth sags open wide enough for me to see the fillings in his molars. Trina Treece doesn’t even blink. The flash of amusement in her eyes shocks me. Tomasetti is about as amusing as an autopsy. Most people do their utmost to concede to his wishes, especially if he’s in a nasty mood. He might be a cop, but he possesses an air of unpredictability that keeps even the densest individuals from crossing him. This woman doesn’t even seem to notice—and I don’t believe it’s because she’s dense.
She smirks at the sheriff. “Where’d you find this charmer?”
“If I were you, I’d just open the door,” the sheriff says tiredly. “We really need to speak with your son.”
“Well, hell, all right.” Her triceps flap when she swings open the door. “C’mon in. Wipe your damn feet.”
Tomasetti goes through the door first. He brushes by her without a word, his right hand never far from his holster, and he doesn’t bother wiping his feet. I go in next, swipe each shoe against the throw rug at the threshold. Goddard brings up the rear, and actually looks down while he diligently wipes his shoes on the rug.
The interior of the house is hot and stuffy and smells vaguely of fish. A swaybacked sofa draped with a dingy afghan separates the small living room from an even smaller dining area. A floor fan blows stale air toward a narrow, dark hall. A sleek high-def television is mounted on the wall. It’s tuned to an old Bugs Bunny cartoon, the volume turned low. From where I stand, I can see into a dimly lit kitchen with cluttered counters and a sinkful of dirty dishes. Beyond is a back door, its window adorned with frilly yellow curtains. A folded pizza box sticks out of the top of a stainless-steel trash can.
For a full minute, the only sounds are the rattle of the air conditioner
and Trina Treece’s labored breathing.
“Where is he?” Goddard asks.
“I reckon he’s out back with that worthless old man of his.” But she’s looking at Tomasetti as if trying to decide which buttons to push and how hard to push them. Tomasetti stares back at her with a blank expression that gives away absolutely nothing. Oh boy.
A sound from the hall draws my attention. Two girls, about ten years old, peek around the corner at us. I see shy, curious faces and young eyes that have already seen too much.
Trina hauls her frame around. “I told you two idiots to stay in your room!”
Both girls have the same wild black hair as their mother. But all likeness ends there. The girls are thin and pretty and seemingly undamaged by the environment in which they live. Watching them, I can’t help but to compare these kids to the girls at the King farm. Innocent girls whose lives are filled with promise but whose future will be determined by the guidance they receive from their parents and the vastly different worlds in which they reside.
I think of all the life lessons that lie ahead for these two girls, and I wonder if they’ll be able to count on either parent to guide them through it. I wonder if they’ll survive.
“Who are these people, Mama?” the taller of the two girls asks.
“This ain’t your concern, you nosy little shit.” Trina crosses to the sofa, picks up an empty soda can, and throws it at the girl. The can bounces off the wall and clangs against the floor. “Now go get your damn brother. Tell him the fuckin’ cops are here.”
Next to me, Tomasetti makes a sound of reprehension, and I know he’s on the verge of saying something he shouldn’t. His face is devoid of emotion, but I know him well enough to recognize the anger burgeoning beneath the surface of all that calm, and I’m reminded that his own daughters were about the same age as these two girls when they were murdered.
“Let it go,” I whisper.
He doesn’t acknowledge the words, doesn’t even look at me. But he doesn’t make a move. I figure that’s the best I can hope for.
Unfazed by their mother’s mistreatment, eyeing us with far too much curiosity, the girls start across the living room. No one speaks, as if in deference to their presence. The things we’ll be discussing are not suited for young ears, despite the probability they’ve already heard far worse. They’re wearing shorts with T-shirts that are too tight and too revealing for such a tender age. That’s when I notice the Ace bandage on the taller girl’s left wrist. My eyes sweep lower and I notice a bruise the size of a fist on her left thigh, a second bruise on the back of her arm, and I wonder who put them there. I wonder how integral violence is to this family.