Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4) (14 page)

“Hello?” I call out as I scan the shadows. I notice the stairs to my right, which lead up to some type of loft. I’m about to call out a second time, when the unmistakable sound of a gunshot explodes.

Next to me, Tomasetti drops down slightly and draws his sidearm. “Where did it come from?”

I pull my .38. “I don’t know. The hall, maybe.”

A guffaw of laughter draws our attention. I glance toward the hall, where I see a short Amish man with bowed legs emerge from the shadows. He wears a light blue work shirt with dark suspenders and a straw hat. A black rubber bib is tied at his waist, and he’s laughing his ass off—at us.

“Can I help you?” He barely gets the words out before breaking into laughter again, bending at the waist and slapping his knees. When he straightens, I see tears on his cheeks.

I holster my .38 and try not to feel like an idiot. “Mr. Mast?”

Tomasetti isn’t amused, and he doesn’t relinquish his pistol.

“I’m Benjamin Yoder.” Chuckling, wiping at the tears with his sleeve, the man hobbles over to us. “My wife and I live next door. I’m helping Perry butcher the hogs.” He looks at Tomasetti, his eyes twinkling. “You thought the hogs were shooting back, eh?”

Tomasetti holsters his weapon. “For Chrissake.”

I can’t help it; I laugh—a big belly laugh that feels good coming out. Yoder joins me, and I swear I hear Tomasetti chuckle.

After a moment, I extend my hand to Yoder. “I’m Kate Burkholder.”

Wiping his eyes with his left hand, he pumps my hand with the other. “Hello, Kate Burkholder. That’s a good strong name.” He turns his attention to Tomasetti and the men shake.

“We’re with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation,” Tomasetti tells him. “Are the Masts home?”

Yoder’s expression falls somber. “You have news of Noah?”

“Just a few routine questions,” Tomasetti tells him.

We both know none of this is routine for the families of the missing.

“Come this way.” Yoder limps toward the hall. “I’ll take over so he can talk to you.”

I don’t miss the revulsion on Tomasetti’s face as we pass by a stainless-steel bin filled with severed hog hooves, and I know the slaughter room is the last place he wants to be. Of course he won’t admit it, and he falls in next to me. But I suspect it might be a while before he indulges in those baby back ribs.

Yoder leads us down a short hall. Ahead, lantern light spills through a wide door. The stink of fresh manure and blood is stronger here. I can hear the pigs grunting and moving around in the chutes to my right, and I wonder if the animals know their fate. I’m aware of our footsteps on the concrete floor, my heartbeat thudding in my ears. I’ve never been squeamish, but my stomach seesaws when we reach the room.

Yoder enters first. Tomasetti and I stop at the doorway. The room is about twenty feet square. The air is overly warm and unpleasantly humid. But it’s the smell that unsettles me. Corrugated steel panels comprise the walls. In the center of the room, a dead hog hangs suspended by a single rear leg, a chain wrapped around the area between the hoof and hock. The chain is attached to a pulley affixed to a massive steel beam overhead. A second Amish man, presumably Perry Mast, stands next to the dead animal with a large knife—the sticking knife—in hand. There’s a drain cut into the concrete floor and blood still drips from the hog’s snout.

“Fuck me,” Tomasetti mutters.

“Maybe we can do this outside,” I hear myself say.

Yoder looks at the hog approvingly. “That’s a good bleed, Perry,” he says.

The other man doesn’t even look up. With gloved hands, he shoves the giant carcass toward a massive steaming vat. I don’t want to watch what comes next, but I can’t look away. I remember my
datt
and brother doing the same thing. They called it “the scalding tank.” Not bothering with gloves, Yoder jumps in to help guide the carcass toward the vat. He quickly checks an industrial-size thermometer and nods. Using the pulley and chain, they lower the carcass into the hot water.

“Mir hen Englischer bsuch ghadde,
” Yoder says when the carcass is lowered.
We have non Amish visitors.

Mast finally glances at us.
“Es waarken maulvoll gat.” There’s nothing good about that.

Yoder lowers his voice and, speaking in Pennsylvania Dutch, tells him about us drawing our sidearms. Yoder breaks into laughter again, unabashedly amused. Mast’s reaction is more subtle. If I hadn’t been watching him, I would have missed the whisper of a smile on his lips.

He motions toward the hog. “When the hair slips easily, pull it out. I won’t be long.”

Without looking at us, he peels off his gloves and removes his blood-spattered apron. He tosses both on the scraping table and starts toward us. Perry Mast is a tall, thin man with sagging jowls and hound-dog eyes. He wears black work trousers with a dark blue shirt, black suspenders, a black vest, and a flat-brimmed straw hat.

“I am Perry Mast,” he says by way of greeting.

Tomasetti and I introduce ourselves, letting him know we’re with BCI. Neither of us offers our hand.

“Is this about my son?” he asks.

The question is clearly devoid of hope. And I wonder how many times during the last nine years he asked other law-enforcement officials the same question. I wonder how many times their answers tore the last remnants of hope from his heart.

“I’m sorry, no. There’s a girl who’s missing,” I tell him. “An Amish girl. Annie King.”

“
Ja.
” He closes his eyes briefly. “I heard.”

Tomasetti motions toward the door. “Is your wife home, Mr. Mast? We’d like to speak with her, as well.”

Mast looks as if he’s going to refuse; then his shoulders slump and he seems to resign himself to unavoidable unpleasantness. “This way,” he says, and leads us through the door.

A few minutes later, Perry Mast, Tomasetti, and I are sitting at the table in their small, cluttered kitchen. The interior of the house isn’t much neater than the exterior. Dozens of jars of canned fruits and vegetables cover every available surface on the avocado green countertops. A hand-painted bread box—perhaps from the Branch Creek Joinery—encloses a crusty loaf of bread. A well-seasoned cast-iron skillet sits atop the big potbellied stove. The open cabinets expose stacks of mismatched dishes—blue Melmac and chipped pieces of stoneware—and sealed jars of honey with chunks of honeycomb inside. Homemade window treatments dash the final vestiges of daylight, giving the kitchen a cavelike countenance. A kerosene-powered refrigerator wheezes and groans. The lingering sulfur stink of manure has me thinking twice about coffee.

Irene Mast stands at the counter, running water into an old-fashioned percolator. She’s a substantial woman, barely over five feet tall, with thinning silver hair and a bald spot at her crown. She wears a light blue dress with a white apron and low-heeled, practical shoes. The ties of her
kapp
dangle down her back. She hasn’t said a word since we were introduced a few minutes ago, but she immediately set about making coffee and bringing out a tin of peanut-butter cookies.

“I understand you’re a deacon, Mr. Mast,” I say.

The man looks down at the plate in front of him, gives a single, solemn nod.

“It is a heavy burden,” Irene tells me.

“We’d like to talk to you about your son, Noah,” Tomasetti begins.

The woman’s back stiffens at the mention of her son, but when she turns to us, her expression is serene. “It’s been nine years now.” She doesn’t look at us as she pours coffee into cups.

That’s when I notice the fourth place setting: a plate and silverware, a cup for coffee, a plastic tumbler for milk.

“Nine years is a long time,” I say.

Irene sets a plate with two cookies on it in front of me. “At first, we hoped, you know. We prayed a lot. But after so much time . . . we’ve come to believe he is with God.”

“Do you believe he left of his own accord?” I ask. “Or do you think something bad happened to him?”

The Amish man looks down at the plate in front of him. He’s got blood spatter on his shirt, a red smear on the back of his neck. He didn’t wash his hands when he came in.

“Noah got into some trouble,” Perry says. “The way young men do sometimes.”

“What kind of trouble?” I ask.

“The drinking, you know. The listening to music. And he liked . . . the girls.”

“He confessed his sins before the bishop,” Irene adds.

In the eyes of the Amish, confessing your sins is the equivalent of a “Get out of jail free” card. No matter how heinous the offense, if you confess, you are forgiven.

“The English police say Noah wanted to leave the plain life,” Perry says after a moment. “I don’t know who told them that. We don’t believe it. We never did.”

“Noah loved being Amish.” Emotion flashes in Irene’s eyes. “He was a humble boy with a kind and generous heart.”

“What do you think happened to him?” Tomasetti asks.

Perry shakes his head. “We don’t know. The things the
Englischers
say . . .” His voice trails off, as if he’s long since tired of saying the words.

I skimmed the file that had been amassed on Noah before leaving the sheriff’s office. A missing-person report was filed. People were interviewed, searches conducted. The cops—and most of the Amish, too—believed the boy ran away.

“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.