He was going to kill her.
She ran as she’d never run before. Arms pumping. Sneakers pounding the earth. Breathing hard between clenched teeth. Terror. Darkness all around.
She tore through cornstalks as tall as a man. Dry leaves slashed at her face like blades, stalks hitting her like clubs. At some point she’d lost a shoe. Rocks and clumps of earth and the gnarled roots of the corn punished her bare foot. No time to stop.
She darted left, burst into the next row. Trying to lose him. She ran another fifty yards. Lungs burning. Heart slamming against her ribs. She stopped and listened. Struggled to hear over her own labored breaths.
Then she heard the crack of breaking stalks. Boots pounding against the ground. He ran like some mammoth beast, crashing through brush, flattening everything in his path. He breathed like a bull, the occasional grunt of rage bursting forth.
Dear God, if he caught her …
She burst from the cornfield, stumbled into a ditch, nearly fell. A gravel road a few feet ahead. Breaths burning, a cramp in her side, she clamored up the incline and stopped, looked both ways. Darkness pressed down on her. A sliver of moon peeking through thin clouds. No headlights. No cars. No one to help her. She couldn’t run much farther.
Then she saw the dim flicker of light in the distance. Through the trees, a farmhouse. Salvation. Her only hope. With a final look behind her, she started down the long gravel lane and prayed someone was there.
The buzz of my cell phone rattles me from deep sleep. Not bothering to open my eyes, I reach for it, press it to my ear. “Burkholder.”
“Sorry to bother you, Chief,” says Mona Kurtz, my third-shift dispatcher. “We’ve got a situation I thought you should know about.”
I push myself to a sitting position. A glance at the clock on the night table tells me it’s not yet 4:00 A.M. “What happened?”
“I just took a call from Noah Fisher out on Township Road 34. He says he’s got a woman there at his house.” She lowers her voice. “Says she’s battered and scared. She thinks someone’s trying to kill her.”
“Kill her?” I swing my legs over the side of the bed and get to my feet. “How badly is she injured?”
“Not sure, Chief. Mr. Fisher says she’s … confused.”
“Is T.J. on scene?” I ask, referring to my usual graveyard-shift patrol officer.
“He’s en route.”
“Get an ambulance out there,” I say as I go to the closet, pull my uniform shirt off a hanger. “Let Mr. Fisher know I’m on my way.”
“Got it.”
I hit End and glance over my shoulder to see my significant other, John Tomasetti, standing next to the bed, stepping into his trousers. He’s an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation and the love of my life.
“Caught the tail end of that,” he says.
“Sorry to wake you.”
“One of the hazards of living with the chief of police.” He tugs a shirt off the chair and shrugs into it. “What’s going on?”
I recap the call. “I’m hoping there’s not some pissed off boyfriend around. I need to get out there.”
“Want some company?”
It’s Sunday, a day he usually has off. He’d been planning to start painting our barn. I’d been planning to help him. “Don’t you have a date with a paintbrush this morning?”
“You’re not trying to tell me something, are you?”
Grinning, I snag my equipment belt off the night table, buckle it, slide my .38 into its holster. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, and we start toward the door.
Ohio’s Amish Country is incredibly dark at night. There are no porch lights or street lamps; most of the farmhouse windows are unlit. Contemplating the mystery woman’s assertion that someone is trying to kill her, I fasten my eyes on the shadows as Tomasetti and I pull into the gravel lane of the Fisher farm.
Noah and Bonnie Fisher are Amish and run a dairy operation on a forty-acre spread just south of Painters Mill. They belong to the same church district I once did, back when I was an Amish girl. I’ve known them for two decades; they’re one of the few who didn’t denounce me when I left the fold. They’re getting up in years now. I see them occasionally around town and I always make a point to say hello.
I take the driveway to the rear of the house. T.J.’s cruiser is parked adjacent a five-rail fence where a dozen or so cattle encircle a mound of hay. I pull up next to the cruiser and park.
“No other vehicles in sight,” Tomasetti comments as we make our way to the front of the house.
“She was either on foot or someone dropped her off.” In the back of my mind I wonder where the ambulance is.
We take the steps to the door. Before I can knock, it swings open. Noah Fisher squints at me, a lantern in his hand. “Katie, thank you for getting here so quickly.”
“Hi, Mr. Fisher.”
“Kumma inseid.” Come inside.
The man is about my height but outweighs me by a hundred pounds. He’s wearing typical Amish garb: blue work shirt, dark trousers with suspenders, and a flat-brimmed straw hat. His salt-and-pepper beard hangs nearly to his waist. I glance past him to see T.J. standing in the living room. A young woman I don’t recognize huddles on the sofa next to Bonnie Fisher. Late teens or early twenties. Blond hair. Blue eyes. She’s wearing an old-fashioned dress that’s not quite Amish. No head covering. Even in the dim light of the lantern, I discern her disheveled appearance. An abrasion glows red on her forehead. A smear of dirt stripes her left cheek. She’s holding a mug of something hot with hands that aren’t steady. Her knuckles are badly scraped. Dirt and grass stains mar a dress that’s torn at the skirt. She’s wearing a single non-descript sneaker; her other foot is encased in a sock that’s covered with mud.
I make eye contact with T.J.
He crosses to me, nodding at Tomasetti, and we move out of earshot. “Fisher and his wife were sleeping,” T.J. says in a low voice. “They heard pounding on the door and came downstairs to find this girl on the front porch. She claims someone’s trying to kill her.”
“You run her through LEADS?” I ask, referring to Ohio’s Law Enforcement Automated Data System. “Check for warrants?”
“Uh, that’s the thing, Chief.” T.J. scratches his head. “She doesn’t seem to know her name.”
I look from T.J. to Tomasetti and back again, wondering if he’s messing with me. “Is she impaired? Or refusing to say?”
“She seems … cooperative,” T.J. tells me. “I don’t smell alcohol on her. Eyes look normal. It’s just that when I asked for her name, she said she couldn’t remember.”
I look at Tomasetti and he shrugs. “If this is some sort of domestic dispute,” he says, “she could be trying to protect someone.”
“I’ll talk to her,” I tell them. “In the interim, get me an ETA on that ambulance.”
“Will do, Chief.”
I lower my voice. “T.J., it might be a good idea to take a look around, make sure there isn’t someone out there waiting for her.”
“You got it.”
Both men go through the door. I approach the young woman. She watches me with anxious eyes, clutching a knitted afghan that’s draped over her shoulders.
Bonnie Fisher sits next to her, hovering like a mother hen. Noah busies himself lighting a second lantern in the kitchen.
“Hi,” I say to the woman. “I’m Kate Burkholder, the chief of police. Are you hurt? Do you need an ambulance?”
She shakes her head. “I’m fine,” she says. “I’m just…” She lets the sentence trail as if she can’t find the words to finish it.
“Can you tell me what happened tonight?” I ask.
The woman blinks. Her brows knit as if I’ve posed some complex math equation she hasn’t a clue how to answer. She opens her mouth as if to respond, but doesn’t speak. Her gaze slants toward the Amish woman sitting next to her, as if she’s seeking help, then her eyes slide back to mine. “I don’t know,” she blurts.
“Let’s start with something easy.” I pull my notepad from my pocket, flip it open. “What’s your name?”
She stares at me as if I’ve stumped her. “I’m not sure.”
“I need your name,” I say gently. “You’re safe. I’m a police officer, and I’m going to get you some help. Okay?”
Blinking, she shakes her head, as if trying to loosen the information from a brain that’s locked down tight. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I mean … I should know my name. How can I not know who I am?”
I wait, looking for a lie, some sign of deception. The only things that come back at me are wide blue eyes filled with trepidation, stress, and fear.
“Did someone hurt you this evening?” I ask. “Or were you in an accident?”
Her eyes slant toward the door. “There was someone in the field with me. Chasing me. I was running and lost my shoe.” A shudder moves through her. She grips the afghan more tightly, drops her voice to a whisper. “He was so close.”
“What’s his name?” I ask. “Who is he to you?”
She gives a quick shake of her head, frustration flashing in her eyes. “I don’t know.”
“Why was he chasing you?”
“I must have done … something.” Her brows knit. “He was angry with me. I was … scared.” She raises her gaze to mine. “I think he was going to kill me.”
I feel Bonnie Fisher’s stare, but I don’t look at her. I don’t take my eyes off the woman. She’s looking down at her dress as if she’s never seen it before, taking in the dirt ground into the fabric, the torn skirt. Her eyes move to her stocking foot, the abrasions and scratches covering her hands, and the fear in her expression augments to something closer to panic.
“What happened to me?” she says, her voice rising. “Who did this? How did I get here? Why can’t I remember?”
I let the questions linger, allow her the time to think them through and calm down. When she doesn’t respond, I say, “Why don’t you take a deep breath, and then tell me what you do remember?”
Holding my gaze, the young woman obeys, drawing a breath, blowing it out slowly. She stares at me for the span of a full minute, then her shoulders slump. “There’s nothing there,” she whispers.
“You’re shaken up is all.” Speaking in Deitsh, Bonnie pats the younger woman’s arm. “It’ll come back to you.”
“It hurts … to think.” The young woman raises a shaking hand to the back of her head and winces. Her fingertips come away smeared with blood. She stares at it and chokes out a sound that’s part laugh, part sob. “I don’t remember how that happened. How is that possible? How can I not remember?”
When you’re a cop, you get lied to a lot. It’s a fact of life. Over the years, I’ve developed a pretty decent built-in lie detector. Yet as implausible as this woman’s claim appears, I see no sign of deception.
“I know how crazy all of this must sound,” she says. “But I don’t remember what happened to me. I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know who I am.”
“There’s an ambulance on the way,” I tell her. “We’ll have the doctor take a look at that cut on your head.”
The woman’s eyes go wide. “What if he’s still out there?”
“My officer is looking around outside now. If anyone’s there, he’ll find them.”
“He’s going to kill me.”
The woman whispers the words in Deitsh, but the dialect is unlike any I’ve heard. I’m fluent; in fact, I spoke Deitsh before I learned to speak English. And yet when she speaks, I understand only a few words, just enough to string together the gist of what she’s saying.
Bonnie and I exchange a look, and I realize she’s thinking the same thing.
“Where are you from?” I ask the woman.
The flash of uncertainty is followed by a too-long hesitation and then, “I’m not sure.”
“Do you have a family?” I ask. “Is there someone we can call for you?”
Tears fill her eyes and spill onto her cheeks. “What am I going to do?”
She’s getting herself worked up, so Bonnie pats her arm again and purrs in Deitsh, “God is there to give us strength—”
“… For every hill we have to climb,” the young woman finishes in Deitsh, and her eyes light up. “I’ve heard that saying before.”
“Of course you have,” Bonnie says. “You’re Freindschaft.”
I watch the exchange with interest. Freindschaft is a Deitsh word that means “friends and family,” but it is sometimes used to include all Anabaptists—Amish, Mennonite, and Hutterite—across the United States and around the world. The young woman’s reaction reflects her understanding of the word and the comfort it’s intended to impart.
I turn my attention to Bonnie. “Her Deitsh,” I say. “Have you heard it spoken that way before?”
The Amish woman shakes her head. “She’s not from around here.”
“Chief Burkholder?”
I glance toward the door to see two paramedics standing in the doorway with a gurney.
Rising, I cross to them. “We need a transport to Pomerene Hospital,” I tell him. “She’s got a laceration on the back of her head.”
“You got it, Chief.”
While the EMTs take her vitals and load her onto the gurney, I meet Tomasetti and T.J. on the porch. “Did you find anything?” I ask.
“Looks like she came through that cornfield on the east side of the property,” Tomasetti says. “On foot.”
“Quite a distance,” I say, wondering what would prompt a woman to run through a cornfield in the dead of night.
“There was a second set of footprints,” Tomasetti tells me. “Probably male. Long stride. Deep imprint. Moving fast. At some point a vehicle went off the road.” He looks past me where one of the paramedics is placing a cervical collar around the woman’s neck. “It looks like there was a struggle. Grass is trampled. There’s blood.” Grimacing, he lowers his voice. “Evidently, she ran into the field to get away from someone.”
“That jibes with what she told me,” I say. “Which isn’t much.”
“The good news is we got tire tread,” Tomasetti says.
“Imprints?” I ask.
“Maybe,” he says. “You want me to get the crime scene truck out here? Get some plaster impressions?”
“Might be helpful to have them.” I turn my attention to T.J. “Look, I don’t know what we’re dealing with here, but it might be a good idea for you to call the Maple Brook Mental Health Center in Millersburg and find out if they’re missing a patient.”
“You got it, Chief.” He hefts two small clear plastic bags. “Found these items in the field.”
I look down at the bags. The first contains a sneaker that matches the one the woman is wearing. Inside the second bag, I see what looks like a swatch of fabric. It’s black with tiny white dots. A head-scarf, I realize, and I find myself thinking about the woman’s fluency in Deitsh.
Taking the bag, I study the headscarf. “This might help identify her.”
T.J. cocks his head. “A scarf?”
“She’s fluent in Pennsylvania Dutch, but I don’t think she’s Amish or Mennonite.”
“Did she tell you that?” Tomasetti asks.
“Her dialect did; I’ve never heard anything like it. And the style of that dress she’s wearing isn’t Amish.” I turn the bag over. “That’s not to mention this scarf.”
“Was she able to tell you anything, Chief?” T.J. asks.
“No,” I reply. “I’m hoping once we get her to the hospital, she’ll calm down and things will start coming back to her.”
Neither man has anything to say about that.
It’s a little past 7:00 A.M. when I drop Tomasetti at the farm. From there, I head to Pomerene Hospital, which is just north of Millersburg.
The clerk at the information desk tells me “Jane Doe” was examined in the ER and admitted for “observation,” and has just been settled into a room. When I ask about the woman’s condition, even though I’m in full uniform and I’ve shown her my ID, because of confidentiality rules, all she can tell me is that her condition is listed as “good.”
“Any chance I could talk to the doctor who treated her?” I ask.
“You’re in luck. Doctor Brumbaugh is still on duty.” She taps a few keys on the computer in front of her. “Let me give him a call and see if he can spare a few minutes.”
Doctor Denny Brumbaugh has patched me up a couple of times over the years. He’s about fifty years old with a neatly trimmed silver goatee and a kind, competent demeanor. This morning, he’s wearing blue scrubs that are stretched taut over a middle-age paunch. His red-rimmed eyes tell me it was a busy night in the ER.
“You’re here about the Jane Doe?” he asks as he slides behind his desk.
“I’m trying to identify her.” I take the visitor chair adjacent him. “And find out what happened to her. Was she able to shed any light on either of those things?”
“After the paramedics brought her in, the nurse on duty asked her to fill out a couple of forms,” he tells me. “We’re talking basic questions like name and address. That young woman couldn’t fill out any of it.”
“You examined her?”
He nods. “The most notable injury was a laceration at the back of her head. It was a doozy and required four staples to close. There was a hematoma.”
“Blunt force?” I ask.
“That’s a likely scenario. Or she may have fallen and hit her head. Whatever the case, it was a forceful blow.”
“Sexual assault?”
“No indication of it.”
“She’s claiming memory loss,” I say.
“I’m aware.” But he looks skeptical. “The CAT scan came back normal. X-rays look good. She may have a minor concussion, which is why I admitted her, but there’s no indication of major swelling.”
“What about alcohol or medication?” I ask. “Drugs?”
“I did a simple immunoassay screen and it came back negative. Blood work looks good.” He glances down at the file in front of him. “She’s covered with abrasions, scratches, and bruises. As far as I can tell, she could have been assaulted; she could have fallen, or those injuries might have happened in a traffic accident.”
“I’m glad you’re helping to narrow things down.”
He laughs outright. “Anything to help, Kate.”
“What about the whole memory thing, Doctor Brumbaugh? Is it possible?”
“I’ve been a physician for twenty-six years and I’ve never seen a case of true amnesia. Not one.”
“Is she faking it?”
“I couldn’t profess to know what’s in her mind. All I’m saying is that true amnesia is extremely rare.” He slides his glasses onto his crown and rubs his eyes as if the long hours are catching up to him. “That said, in light of her head injury she could be experiencing some form of transient amnesia.”
“Transient amnesia?”
“All that means is that it’s a temporary condition.” His brows knit. “It’s sometimes called retrograde amnesia.”
“What’s the treatment?” I ask.
“Time. If she doesn’t start remembering basic things in the next twenty-four hours, I recommend she see a neurologist.”
Doctor Brumbaugh’s parting words ring in my head as I take the elevator to the third floor and head toward the nurse’s station. I have my badge at the ready. “I’m looking for the Jane Doe who was brought up from ER.”
The young nurse motions down the hall. “Room 308,” she tells me. “Last room on the right.”
I find the young woman lying supine in the bed, her head turned away, staring out the window. She’s not making a sound, but her cheeks are wet with tears. I give her a moment and then knock. “Hello.”
She startles, swipes quickly at the tears as if she doesn’t want anyone to see them, and pushes herself to a sitting position. “Oh, hi.” The smile that follows is more polite than genuine. “I was wondering if you were going to come back.”
“I’m a sucker for a good mystery.” I enter the room, pull out the chair next to her bed and sit. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
The word hangs uneasily for a second. The enthusiasm in her voice so obviously doesn’t ring true that she chokes out a laugh. “That’s a ridiculous answer,” she says. “I’m not fine. I’m scared because I’m lying here in this bed, wracking my brain, trying to remember something—anything—but it’s all just a big fat … blank. How can someone just … forget their life?”
“According to Doctor Brumbaugh, you sustained a blow to your head. He thinks you’ll start to remember within the next day or so.”
“What happened to me?”
“The doc thinks you may have fallen or been in a traffic accident.” I pause, watching her for a reaction. “Or someone could have assaulted you.”
A tremor passes through her body with such intensity that I can see her shaking beneath the blanket. “Someone did this to me,” she says.
“So you remember.”
“Enough to know I didn’t fall. Someone did this. The same person who was chasing me through that field.” She tightens her mouth. “I just don’t remember who.”
“Are you sure about that?” I ask. “The doc also told me that amnesia is extremely rare.”
Her gaze jerks to mine. “I don’t blame you for not believing me. If I wasn’t experiencing this myself, I wouldn’t be buying into it, either.”
“How do you know someone was chasing you?” I ask.
“I remember running from him.” She taps her chest with her hand. “I still feel the fear of it here.”
I take her through the same questions I asked earlier, posing them in different ways, trying to catch her in a lie or trip her up, but she’s unable to answer any of them.
“If you’re lying to me, I will find out,” I tell her. “Do you understand?”
“I have no reason to lie.” Looking defeated, she sinks more deeply into the pillows and pulls the covers up to her chin. “What am I going to do? What if I don’t remember? Chief Burkholder, what will happen to me? Where will I go?”
“Chances are you have family and they’re looking for you,” I tell her. “You speak Deitsh. That’s significant. It may help.”
We fall silent, the only sounds coming from the ringing of the phone at the nurse’s station in the hall and the squeak of rubber-soled shoes against the tile floor.
I look around the room, spot the small alcove closet in the bathroom. “Do you mind if I take a look at your clothes?”
“Sure.”
Rising, I go to the niche and retrieve two clear plastic bags containing the clothes she was wearing when she was admitted. Someone has folded the dress and headscarf, and tucked them inside. A second bag holds a single sneaker. A sticker on both bags reads “Jane Doe. Room 308.”
I didn’t get a thorough look at the dress this morning, but I saw enough to know that while it isn’t Amish, it’s modest and traditional, both of which are likely culturally significant. I take the bags to the bed and pull out the dress. “Speak up if any of this jogs your memory.”
She nods, looking a little too excited by the prospect of a breakthrough. “Okay.”
The garment is blue plaid—a print that would not be worn by an Amish woman here in Holmes County. It’s sleeveless—another feature that tells me she’s not Amish. A second garment I hadn’t noticed spills out. It’s a white blouse with elbow-length sleeves and a club collar. There’s also an apron that matches the fabric of the dress.
I look at the young woman. “Are these clothes familiar to you?”
She can’t seem to stop looking at the dress. “The blouse is worn under the dress,” she tells me.
“Like a jumper?” I ask.
“Right.”
I pluck the scarf from the bag. It’s large; about two feet square. The fabric is black with tiny white dots. I hand it to her and watch as she folds it into a triangle, slips it over her head, and ties it at her nape.
Her eyes meet mine. “I’ve done that a thousand times.”
“I can tell.”
I’m about to fold the bag when I notice the key. Upending the bag, I let it fall into my palm. It looks like a typical house key. “Do you recognize this?”
She stares hard at the key, as if by the sheer force of her will, the memories will emerge. “Why can’t I remember?” Putting her face in her hands, she begins to cry.
I give her a moment, and then say, “There are a couple of things I can do that might help.”
She raises her head. “Like what?”
“For starters, I can take your fingerprints and run them through AFIS, which is a law enforcement database system. If you’ve been fingerprinted—or arrested—your prints will be on file, along with the rest of your information.” I watch her carefully for a response to the word “arrested,” but she gives me nothing.
She brightens. “Let’s do it.”
“I can also use the media and circulate a photo of you,” I tell her, “along with your story in the hope that someone recognizes you and steps forward.”
She considers that a moment and then shakes her head. “What if whoever did this to me sees my photo? What if he comes after me?”
It doesn’t elude me that she has consistently referred to her attacker as a male. “I’ll talk to security here at the hospital.” I tilt my head, snag her gaze. “If they’re comfortable with all this, are you game?”
“I’ll do anything.” She offers a tremulous smile. “I just want to go home.”
“Good girl.” Tugging out my phone, I snap several photos of her, front and profile. When I’m finished, I hand her one of my cards. “I’ll be sending someone in to fingerprint you.”
“Okay.”
“If you remember anything else, even if it doesn’t seem important, call me. Day or night.” Reaching out, I give her shoulder a squeeze and start toward the door.
“Chief Burkholder?”
I stop in the doorway and turn to her.
“What’s going to happen next? I mean, I have no money. I obviously can’t stay here at the hospital.” She makes a sweeping gesture to encompass the room. “They’re probably wondering how I’m going to pay my bill.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I tell her.
He spent the day pacing, icy sweat slicking his skin, nerves crawling. With every creak of the house, every car that passed, he imagined the police coming for him. By the time dusk fell, he was ready to jump right out of his skin. What was going on? Why hadn’t they come for him?
It wasn’t until he turned on the computer that the answer materialized. He almost couldn’t believe his eyes.
Do you know who this woman is?
The Painters Mill Police Department is asking for the public’s help in identifying this woman. “Jane Doe,” as she has been dubbed, was discovered by a local Amish couple early this morning when she showed up at their farm with a minor head injury and no idea who she is or where she came from. Left without identification, she’s counting on you for help.…
If he hadn’t been so damn scared he might have laughed. What the hell? He read the article twice. In the back of his mind, he wondered if it was some kind of trap. But he didn’t think so. Not in small-town Ohio. The cops simply weren’t that sophisticated.
Everything wasn’t lost. There was still time to salvage what he’d worked so hard for. All he had to do was find her. Finish what he’d started. In a town the size of Painters Mill, he didn’t think that would be too difficult.
The police station is quiet most evenings and tonight is no exception. My second-shift dispatcher, Jodie Metzger, is at her station with the radio turned up a little too loud. I’ve spent most of the day working my Jane Doe case. I forwarded her photo to eight media outlets, including The Columbus Dispatch, The Plain Dealer out of Cleveland, and the radio station in Dover. I also contacted a social worker in the Holmes County Department of Job and Family Services. If worse comes to worst and Jane Doe’s memory doesn’t return, they’ll assist her with housing and a job.
It’s just past 7:00 P.M. I’ve spent the last hour hitting various websites in an attempt to identify Jane Doe’s headscarf and clothing. It’s a complex endeavor. There are numerous Anabaptist denominations and subgroups. They share many similarities, mainly the practice of adult baptism. But there are distinctive differences, too.
For example, most people know the vast majority of Amish eschew the use of electricity and motorized vehicles and dress traditionally. Most Mennonites, however, have no problem driving cars, using electricity and technology, and many forego traditional dress. The Amish do not proselyte; the Mennonites evangelize and are involved in missionary work around the world.
The tenet that differentiates the Hutterites is the practice of “communal” living. Most colonies consist of multifamily structures. The community prays, lives, and works together.
So far, my Jane Doe’s dress and scarf most closely resemble the traditional garb of the Hutterites. The problem is, the nearest settlement is in Wisconsin; the vast majority is in Canada.
I’m reading an article on Ohio’s German Baptist community when my cell phone erupts. Without looking away from the screen I pick it up, thinking it’s Tomasetti. Instead, I hear a woman’s frantic whisper.
“He’s here! Chief Burkholder!”
Jane Doe. I stand up. “Where are you?”
“In my room. He’s coming!”
“Where is he?”
“He walked by my door. He looked at me, but kept going. I’m scared. He’s going to come back.”
“Use your call button. Tell the nurses. Run out to the nurse’s station if—”
A yelp cuts me off. The call drops.
“Are you there?” I say.
No answer.
“Shit.” I call out to my dispatcher. “Jodie!” Then I hit the number for the hospital’s security office.
Jodie slides up to my door. “Chief?”
“Get county out to Pomerene Hospital. Now. Room 308. Domestic situation.”
“Got it.” She runs back to her desk.
Snatching up my keys, I start toward the door. One ring. Two. “Come on.” Three rings.
“Security.”
Quickly, I identify myself. “Get an officer up to room 308. Expedite. There’s an unidentified male. Possible domestic situation.”
In the background I can hear the bark and hiss of his radio. “On my way,” he says.
I jog to reception. “You get county?” I ask Jodie.
“Deputy’s a block away.”
“Keep me posted. I’m on my way.”
Then I’m through the door and into the night.
I arrive at Pomerene Hospital to find a Holmes County cruiser, lights blazing, parked outside the emergency entrance. I park just off the portico and run inside.
“Where’s the deputy?” I ask the person manning the desk.
“Third floor.”
The elevator is occupied, so I go to the stairwell and take the stairs two at a time to the third level. I’m breathless when I step into the hall.
The first thing I see is a Holmes County sheriff’s deputy, two nurses, and a uniformed security officer standing outside room 308. All eyes fall on me when the stair door slams.
“Is Jane Doe all right?” I ask as I start toward them.
“She’s okay.” The deputy grimaces. “He got into her room. They struggled, but she made it out and ran.”
“You get him?” I say.
He shakes his head. “Got away, Chief.”
I peer into the room. Jane is sitting on the bed, shaking and pale faced, talking to a deputy and a nurse. I go back into the hall. “How did he get in?”
“We think he came up those stairs.” He motions toward the illuminated exit sign at the end of the corridor. “Went out the same way.”
“Anyone get a look at him?”
The nurse speaks up. “I saw a man in the hall, but we were busy and I didn’t pay much attention to him.”
I make eye contact with the deputy. “Anyone check with the clerk downstairs? If our intruder came in that way, he would have had to walk past her to get to the stairs.”
“I talked to her,” he tells me. “She saw him. Said he came in as if he knew where he was going. Waved to her. By the time she finished her call, he was gone.”
“Was she able to give a better description?”
“Male. Six feet. Two hundred. She thought he might’ve been wearing a hat.”
I think about Jane Doe’s traditional clothes. “Beard?”
“She didn’t notice.”
I turn my attention to the nurse. “How’s Jane Doe?”
“Pretty shaken up, as you can imagine. She ran out to our work station like the room was on fire.”
“Did anyone else see him?”
She shakes her head. “Most of the patients were sleeping. Nurses were busy. Sorry, Chief Burkholder.”
I thank them and head toward room 308. I find Jane Doe fully dressed, standing next to the bed, tying the headscarf at her nape. Some kind soul has given her a pair of sneakers. She turns to me and her eyes meet mine. “I can’t stay here,” she tells me. “He’ll be back. Next time he’ll kill me.”
“Do you remember him?”
She shakes her head and I notice the red marks on her neck. “All I know is I’m terrified of him.”
Reaching out, I move the collar of her blouse aside with my finger. “He hurt you?”
She looks away, nods.
I pat the bed. “Sit down and tell me what happened.”
Sighing, she lowers herself to the mattress. “The first time I saw him, he walked by my room and kept going. I called you. I was on the phone with you when he came back.”
“What did he do?”
“He came in. Had this crazy light in his eyes. Like … rage. He closed the door behind him and he just came at me fast, pushed me onto the bed, put his hands around my throat.” She runs out of breath, takes a moment to gulp air. “I could hear his teeth grinding.” She closes her eyes, fingering her throat. “I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. I’d hit the call button. When it buzzed, he scrambled off of me and ran.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He was sort of snarling, but I think…” Her brows draw together. “He said something like, ‘Keep your mouth shut.’”
I pull my notebook from my pocket. “What did he look like?”
“Older. Like Mr. Fisher. Heavy, but not overweight. Dark hair. Gray on the sides.”
I write all of it down. “What was he wearing?”
“A dark jacket.” She shakes her head. “It happened so fast.”
“Hat?”
“Black felt, I think.”
“Beard?”
Her eyes find mine. “Yes. It was … trimmed. Gray. How did you know that?”
“Beards are traditional for some Anabaptist men.”
We fall silent. She sags, looks around the room. “Chief Burkholder, what am I going to do?” she says quietly. “I don’t think I can stay here. It’s not safe, but I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
I’d decided earlier to take her to the women’s shelter in Millersburg. But in light of the as-of-yet unidentified male who attacked her, I’m hesitant to leave her unprotected—and possibly endanger women and children, many of whom have already been traumatized.
“You got all your things?” I ask.
She frowns. “I’m wearing everything I own.”
“Let me check with the nurses,” I tell her. “I think I have a safe place for you to stay until we can get this figured out.”
It’s been two years since I moved into the farmhouse with Tomasetti. Before, I lived in a modest little house on the outskirts of Painters Mill. I put it on the market, but when it didn’t sell quickly, our Realtor recommended we update the kitchen and try again—an endeavor we’ve yet to tackle.
I take a roundabout route to my old digs, cutting through a couple of different neighborhoods, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror in case some determined individual tries to follow.
“You used to live here?” she asks as I pull into the garage.
“Yep.” I see her looking out the back window and add, “No one followed us.”
She nods, but doesn’t look too sure.
I park and close the overhead door. “I still keep some linens here, so we should be comfortable for a couple of days.”
Leaning forward, she puts her face in her hands, uses her fingertips to wipe away tears. “Chief Burkholder, you didn’t have to do this. You don’t even know me. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You can thank me by remembering your name.”
She chokes out an emotion-laden laugh and we head inside.
I always experience a rise of nostalgia when I return to my old home. It was the first house I ever purchased, and it represented a fresh start when I moved back to Painters Mill to become chief. I love living at the farm with Tomasetti, but this place will always be special.
I find linens in the closet off the hall and unfold the sofa bed in the living room. Jane helps me with the sheets. “I’m not sure what to call you,” I tell her as I slide a pillow into a case.
She shrugs. “The nurses called me Jane.”
“Jane it is, then.” I snap open a blanket while she tucks the base beneath the mattress. “You’re welcome to take a shower. I might be able to drum up some soup if you’re hungry.”
“I’m starving.” She smiles. “Thank you.”
While Jane showers, I make up the bed in my former bedroom and then I call Tomasetti.
“I heard about the incident at the hospital,” he says. “Any luck finding the suspect?”
“No. Rasmussen has a couple of extra guys on patrol. I told Skid to stay alert.”
“You decided against taking her to the shelter?”
“In light of what happened at the hospital, I don’t want to take a chance of him showing up there.”
He’s thoughtful for a moment and then he says, “I know you’ve got good instincts when it comes to judging people, but I’m obliged to ask, Kate. Are you sure she’s telling the truth about her memory?”
“I had my doubts at first. Tomasetti, if I still did, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Good enough. Just do me a favor and keep your .38 handy tonight, will you?”
“You bet.”
Jane and I bid each other good night at midnight. I lay awake in my old bedroom, the mystery of her identity and the unknown threat she faces weighing heavy on my mind. Storms and the first cold front of the season roll in a little after 1:00 A.M. with torrential rain and battering winds. Twice I get up to check out a noise; both times it’s nothing more than the sounds of an old house settling.
I’ve just fallen into a fitful slumber when something sends me bolt upright. I listen, but I can’t hear much over the pound of rain and rumble of distant thunder. Lightning flickers as I rise. I reach for my .38 on the night table. The hairs at my nape stand up when I hear the sound again. A thump coming from the general direction of the living room. Shit.
I sidle to the door. The hallway is silent and dark, so I take it to the doorway and peer into the living room. Dim light slants in through the window. The sound comes again. Banging coming from the kitchen. Someone trying to get in the back door?
“Jane?” I whisper.
No answer.
I enter the living room, my .38 leading the way. I glance at the sofa bed. No one there. Where the hell is she?
“Chief,” comes a whisper from across the room.
I glance over to see her kneeling next to the chair. Hiding, I realize. “Someone’s out there,” she whispers and points toward the rear of the house.
“Stay put.” I go to the kitchen doorway, peer around the jamb, expecting to see an open back door or a broken window. I see neither. Listening, I scan the room. There’s an eye-level pane set into the door. There’s no movement. Not even a shadow. I startle when something bumps the door.
Staying low, I steal across the kitchen, go to the door, set my left hand on the knob, and yank it open. Gun in my right hand. Wind and rain lash my face. I glance left, see the porch light hanging down, swinging in the wind, tapping against the door.
“What is it?”
I turn to see Jane standing in the doorway, her face a pale oval in the diluted light from outside. “Just the porch light,” I tell her. “It must have come loose. The wind was blowing it against the door.”
“Oh.”
I flip on the light. We look at each other for a moment and then we both laugh. Nervous sounds that speak of released tension and relief.
“Sorry to wake you,” she says.
“Couldn’t sleep anyway.”
“Me neither.”
I glance at the wall clock to see it’s going on 5:00 A.M. “I have an idea that might help us identify you.”
“I’m all ears,” she says.
“In that case, I’ll make coffee.”
At 7:00 A.M., Jane and I are in the Explorer heading east on US-62 toward Berlin. During the sleepless hours of last night, it occurred to me that there’s one person who might be able to help identify Jane—via her clothes—and perhaps link her to a community.
Twenty minutes later I pull onto the lot of the Amish and Mennonite Heritage Center. We pass by an old Amish-style schoolhouse and an iconic bank barn, and then I veer left and park in front of the main office. The establishment doesn’t open for business until nine, but I called the director earlier and explained the situation. Eager to help, he agreed to meet us.
I look over at Jane. She’s staring at the low-slung building, her hands knotted in her lap. “Do you think he’s going to be able to tell us where I’m from?” she asks.
“I think there’s a good possibility he’ll recognize your clothes. Hopefully, that will at least point us in the right direction.”
I reach for the door handle, but she stops me.
“Chief Burkholder, what if he tells me something I don’t want to hear? What if … I’m not a good person?”
I give her a smile, hoping to reassure her. “After spending the last day or so with you, I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”
Offering a grateful smile, she opens her door.
The director greets us in the lobby. “Welcome to Behalt.”
I met Mark Hochstetler a couple years ago when Tomasetti and I spent a Saturday afternoon here. He gave us an unforgettable tour of the cyclorama, which is a stunning floor-to-ceiling mural “in the round” that depicts the history of the Anabaptists. Their story begins with the first adult baptism in Zurich, Switzerland, in 1525 and follows the Anabaptist movement through centuries of persecution and martyrdom to modern day. The oil painting is a masterpiece that tells a powerful tale and an important history.
This morning, Mark wears his Sunday best—black trousers with suspenders, a white shirt, black jacket and hat. A studious and soft-spoken man, he possesses a palpable deep and abiding love for his brethren, and a perspicacious sense of humor.
“Good to see you again, Chief Burkholder,” he says as we shake hands.
“I appreciate your making time to talk.”
“It sounded important.”
“History always is.” I introduce him to Jane and explain the situation without going into too much detail. “We’re hoping you’ll be able to tell us something about her based on her clothing.”
He nods thoughtfully at Jane. “I noticed your dress when you walked in.” He looks around and then motions toward the door that will take us into the cyclorama. “This way.”
I observe Jane as we enter the circular room. Her eyes widen as she takes in the breadth and scope of the mural. She walks along the wall awash with colorful depictions of the early Anabaptists, her face reflecting wonder and awe. Mark surveys her, too, and we share a moment of unspoken camaraderie.
Jane turns to us, her face reflecting some of the same emotions I experienced when I saw the mural for the first time. “This is amazing.”
“Even more so,” Mark says with a smile, “Because they are your ancestors.”
Jane’s eyes flick to mine, then back to him. “How do you know that?”
He motions toward her clothes. “The dress you’re wearing is called a dirndl. It’s Hutterite and is worn by all three denominations: Dariusleut, Lehrerleut, and Schmiedenleut.”
Jane stares at him, her mouth partially open, eyes filled with a mix of astonishment and reverence. “I’m … Hutterer.”
He nods. “I knew it the instant I saw you. But it was the tiechl that sealed the deal.”
“My headscarf.” Jane whispers the words, tears filling her eyes. “How did I know that? What does all of this mean?”
“The Hutterites, like the Amish and all Anabaptists, believe in adult baptism. What sets the Hutterites apart is their practice of living a community life.” He addresses Jane. “Do you speak Hutterisch?”
“Yes.” Laughing, she slants a look at me. “I don’t know how I know that, but I do.”
Shifting his attention to me, Mark gives me a knowing smile. “And you, Kate Burkholder, can only understand about half of what she says. Bet that drove you crazy.”
I grin back at him and the three of us enjoy another moment. “Mark, we’re trying to find out where she’s from. Do you have any idea where we might start?”
“Most of our Hutterer brethren are in Canada. The nearest colony is in Minnesota, I think.” He rubs his beard, mulling. “That said, I recall reading about a new Hutterite colony in the northwestern part of Ohio, near Coldwater.”
“Do the Hutterites have anything similar to our Ohio Amish Directory?” I ask, referring to the eight-hundred-page tome that lists all the church districts and members for Holmes County and vicinity.
“They have a website.” He starts toward the door. “Come in to my office and we’ll take a look.”
I’m not exactly sure how Mark skates the use of the no-technology rules set forth by the church district, but his office is modern. He keeps a lantern on his desk, but there’s a relatively new-looking laptop right beside it. I know he’s taken some flak for it over the years, but as director of Behalt—and taking into consideration the enlightenment he bestows on both Amish and English alike—using the computer and Internet seem like minor transgressions.
He slides behind his desk, taps a key, and begins to type. “Here’s the website.” He swivels the laptop so that Jane and I can see the screen. “You can search by colony, which I did. They are, indeed, building a new settlement in Coldwater, Ohio. No members or contact info listed on the website yet.”
“There’s a mother colony,” Jane whispers.
Mark arches a brow. “Let’s take a look.” A few keystrokes and he arrives at the Regions page, then he clicks on Ohio. “You are correct.”
I’m aware of Jane standing beside me, craning her neck, staring at the screen with a combination of curiosity and trepidation. She’s gone silent, laser focus resonating in her stance.
“What is a mother colony?” I ask.
“When a colony gets too large, they move some of their members to start a new one.” He clicks again. “Here we go. Castine, Minnesota, about an hour east of Fargo.”
Another tap and he sets his index finger against the screen. “This one lists the colony manager, the Prediger or preacher, the farm boss—the colony is farm based—and the witness brothers. The Zullbrieder, which basically means—”
Jane cuts in. “The people who run the colony.”
Mark smiles at her. “Exactly.”
He reaches for a pad and scribbles a name and phone number on it. He slides it over to me and then looks at us over the tops of his glasses. “This might be a good place to start.”
Jane doesn’t speak as we make our way back to the Explorer. Once we’re seated, she turns to me and the words begin to pour out of her. “I came to Ohio to help with the daughter colony,” she says.
“You’re remembering,” I say.
“Not all of it.” Her brows go together. “Big pieces of my life are missing. I know I was in Coldwater. But, Chief Burkholder, I wasn’t alone. There was a man.”
“Does this man have a name?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “All I remember are the construction workers. Five or six men. They’re building the duplexes where all of us will live.” She pauses as if breathless, sets a trembling hand against her chest and chokes out a laugh. “It’s coming back to me. It’s coming back!”
“Keep going.”
“My name is Els.” She repeats the name as if liking the feel of it on her tongue. “It’s short for Elisabeth. I’m nineteen years old.” She turns her gaze to mine, presses her hand to her mouth, and laughs, emotion ringing in her voice. “I think I got into some trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Her eyes widen. “There was a man in my life.”
“Boyfriend?”
“I’m not sure. But I feel him.” She presses her hand to her chest. “Here. He’s kind and beautiful but … troubled.”
I glance over at her. “Troubled?”
“There was some kind of conflict between us.” Lowering her head, she pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “Something important and serious. Another man, maybe.” She goes still and turns to me. “What kind of woman loves two men?”
“Els, you know that could be relevant to what happened to you.”
She looks down at her hands. “I know.”
“Tell me about the second man.”
“He’s … established. Successful. But … more of a father figure.” Her cheeks flush. “I love him, but not in the same way.”
I nod. “He’s older?”
“Yes.”
I think of the final tumultuous years I spent as an Amish girl and I feel an odd sense of kinship with this young woman. “What were you doing in Painters Mill?”
“All I remember is that the colony manager asked me to help with the daughter community in Coldwater. I think the preacher wanted to separate me from my boyfriend.”
In the back of my mind, I wonder if what happened to her was the work of a jealous lover. Did her boyfriend become angry when she left him? Was he jealous of her relationship with the older man? Did he decide to do something about it?
“Do you remember your boyfriend’s name?” I ask.
She shakes her head, her brows pulling together. “All of those things I should know … it’s like a word that’s on the tip of my tongue. So close, but for the life of me I can’t pull them out of my brain.”
“The good news is, you’re remembering,” I tell her.
“Not fast enough.” Frustration furrows her forehead. “What do we do now?”
“We’re three hours from Coldwater.”
She sets her hand against her stomach, her expression a mosaic of hope and fear and dread. “Why does that scare me?”
“Only one way to find out.” Pulling out my cell phone, I glance down at the slip of paper Mark gave me, and I dial the number.
We hit rain east of Upper Sandusky. We’ve just turned south toward Lima when a blanket of fog settles over the flat farmland, hovering like smoke in the low-lying areas. We drive nearly blind through the Little Ottawa River basin. Though it’s still early afternoon, the light wanes until it feels more like dusk.
Before leaving Berlin, I called colony manager Peter Decker in Castine, Minnesota, and obtained the physical address of the Coldwater settlement, the name of the manager, Leanard Stahl, and his phone number. I also asked Decker about Els. He informed me that her last name is Tsechetter. She’s a delightful young woman, he exclaimed, in good standing with the community, and is the bookkeeper for the colony manager, handling payroll for the construction workers charged with building the planned duplexes. I got the impression he has no idea she’d run into trouble in Painters Mill.
Armed with new information, I asked my first-shift dispatcher, Lois Monroe, to run Stahl and Els through several law enforcement databases. There were no warrants, and neither Els nor Stahl has a criminal record. Sitting next to me, Els was stoic, but her relief was palpable.
I called Leanard Stahl twice. Both were met with voice mail—a result that solidified my decision to drive to Coldwater. Hopefully, someone there will be able to fill in the blanks.
As the miles fly by, Els talks, recounting every memory that comes to her. Some are mundane; she’s allergic to shrimp, loves gardening, and she’s never been married. Some of what she reveals is more pertinent. She lives in a mobile home and does most of the cooking and laundry for the construction crew.
“I was homesick for Minnesota,” she tells me as we blow past Wapakoneta and head south. “I missed my boyfriend.”
“What else?” I ask.
She makes a sound of frustration. “That’s all I’ve got.”
Whenever a cop pokes around in another jurisdiction, it’s wise to give local law enforcement a heads-up. During a stop for gas, I call the Mercer County Sheriff’s office and am connected to Chief Deputy Dale Light.
I identify myself and relay the basics of the situation.
“We’re actively looking for Els Tsechetter,” the chief deputy tells me. “Leanard Stahl filed a complaint two days ago alleging Ms. Tsechetter cleaned out the account of his foundation and then took off with her boyfriend.” Paper rustles on the other end of the line. “Tyler Fournier.”
I’m so taken aback by the news that for a moment I can’t find my voice. I wonder if in the aftermath of making off with the cash, Els and her boyfriend had some sort of falling-out that turned physical.
“Does Fournier have a sheet?” I ask, referring to a criminal record.
“No, ma’am.”
“How much money are we talking about?” I ask.
“Upwards of nine hundred thousand, according to Stahl.”
“That’s a lot of motivation.”
“Which is why we’re anxious to speak with them.”
“Is there a warrant for Els Tsechetter’s arrest?”
“For now we just want to talk to her.”
“Do you have any idea where I might find Mr. Stahl?”
A weighty silence and then, “We’re actually looking for him, too. He was supposed to come in this morning to meet with me, but Stahl was a no-show. I sent a deputy out to the colony, but there was no one there. We’re kind of scratching our heads at this point.”
“Where does that leave the investigation?”
“Until we can find him, we’re sort of in a holding pattern.”
Another pause ensues, then he asks, “How did a chief of police from Painters Mill get involved in all of this?”
I give him the scant details of Els’s appearance. “We’re on our way to Coldwater now.”
He doesn’t mince words. “Do you want me to send someone to pick her up? Or do you want to bring her in?”
“Let me get a few things settled on my end and I’ll bring her to you.”
“Any idea when that might be?”
“Later this afternoon.”
“All right, Chief Burkholder. I appreciate your cooperation.”
My mind is reeling when I get back into the Explorer. I give Els a hard look. “You need to tell me what you know about the books you’re keeping for Leanard Stahl’s foundation.”
Her eyes widen, dart left and right, as if she’s suddenly realized she’s in danger. “I don’t know.”
“What’s your relationship to him?”
She swallows. “The name … Leanard. It’s so familiar. I know him and yet … I don’t see his face. I don’t know who he is.”
I deflect a rise of irritation. “Els, if I find out you’re lying to me, I will come down on you so hard you’ll wish you’d never set foot in Painters Mill. Are we clear?”
“I’m not a liar, Chief Burkholder. I wouldn’t do that to you or anyone else, especially after everything you’ve done for me.”
“Does the name Tyler Fournier mean anything to you?”
A quiver moves through her body. She whispers the name twice. She opens her mouth as if to speak, but she doesn’t utter a word.
Finally, she says, “He’s the one.”
“The one who hurt you?”
“The one I love.”
The words elicit a twist of dread in my gut. Did this young woman and her boyfriend steal money from some foundation? Is what happened to her back in Painters Mill the result of a struggle over the spoils?
“The Mercer County Sheriff’s Department is looking for both of you,” I say.
“But … why?”
“They suspect you of stealing funds from Leanard Stahl.”
“I may not remember my life, Chief Burkholder, but I know one thing about myself: I am not a thief.” She says the words with such conviction that I find myself wanting to believe her despite what I heard from Chief Deputy Light.
“One way or another—with or without your help—I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” I tell her. “Do you understand?”
“When that happens, you’ll know I’m telling the truth.”
I pull back onto the highway without responding.
The village of Coldwater is a small farming community with a population of about 4,500. Els stares out the window, studying the countryside as if certain all the things she so desperately needs to remember is about to come pouring back to her.
I entered the address of the colony into my GPS during a stop for gas. A few miles west of Coldwater proper, the female voice instructs me to make a right. The map indicates the colony is located on a barely there gravel track off of Siegrist-Jutte Road. Several miles down, I spot the construction entrance and a dirt lane that wends into a wooded area. A sign dangles from a steel cable stretched across the narrow drive: DANGER CONSTRUCTION PERSONNEL ONLY.
“I know this place,” Els whispers. “I’ve been here.” She looks at me. “Can we go in?”
“It’s not locked.” I glance over at her. “The sheriff’s office knows we’re here, so we’re not trespassing … exactly.” I open the door. “Hang tight.”
Light rain falls from a sky the color of wet granite. The temperature has dropped twenty degrees since we left Berlin three hours ago. Fog drifts among the trees. Trying to avoid the deepest areas, I wade through mud and gravel to the cable and unclip one end. Back in the Explorer, I pull through and start down the lane.
A hundred yards in, the trees open to a large construction site. Four concrete slabs are laid out in a semicircle. Two are framed. The others are a tangle of plumbing pipes and rebar. To my left, a newish mobile home stares at us with blank eyes. A sign in the yard identifies it as the Coldwater Colony Construction Office.
“No vehicles,” I say. “No lights inside.”
“Looks deserted,” Els murmurs. “Where is everyone?”
“Weather, maybe.”
I continue down the road, negotiate a curve that takes us through a stand of tall, winter-dead trees. We pass a graveyard of construction equipment. An orange skid steer. A wheelbarrow. Piles of boards and cinder blocks lying in the mud. There’s a steel building in the back, some pens, and a chicken coop.
“I remember the chickens,” Els says quietly. “I used to feed them.” Wiping her hands on her dress, she gives a nervous laugh. “My palms are sweaty.”
Ahead, I see another mobile home. It’s surrounded by a picket fence with a freshly planted sapling off a newish deck. There’s a Ford F-150 pickup parked in the concrete driveway.
“This is the trailer where I lived,” Els says.
“Looks like you’ve got a visitor.” I pull up behind the truck, work my cell phone from my pocket, and call Dispatch.
Lois answers on the first ring. “Hey, Chief.”
I give her my location. “I need a ten-twenty-eight.” I recite the license plate number. “Ten-twenty-nine.”
Els gives me a wide-eyed look. “What do those codes mean?”
“She’s going to give me the name of the person who owns that truck.” I don’t tell her the 10-29 was a check for warrants.
Lois comes back on the line. “Vehicle is registered to Tyler Fournier out of Minnesota.”
“Thanks, Lois.”
I shut down the engine. Beside me, Els stares at the mobile home as if expecting some flesh-eating monster to emerge and attack us.
“Do you still have that key?” I hold out my hand and she presses the key into my palm.
“It’s going to fit,” she says.
“Stay put.” Then I’m out the door. Rain patters my face as I take the steps to the deck, open the storm door, and knock. I listen for footsteps or a radio or TV, but the interior is quiet and dark.
“Hello?” Calling out, I tap the door with my fob and identify myself. “Is anyone home?”
No answer.
I wait a full minute and then slide the key into the lock. The knob turns easily. I look back at Els, give her a sign to stay where she is, and then I go through the door. I’m standing in a tastefully furnished living room with wood grain laminate floors and modern furniture. The smells of heated air and candle wax mingles with the stink of garbage that should have been taken out days ago. There’s a decent size kitchen ahead and a dining area to my left. A darkened hall to my right.
“Hello?” I say. “Is anyone there?”
No response.
I cross the living room to the kitchen and look around. The door creaks behind me. I spin, startled, my hand falling to the .38 in my coat pocket, and I see Els enter. “I told you to stay in the car,” I snap.
She doesn’t respond; she can’t seem to stop looking at the interior, touching things. “This is my home,” she murmurs. “I’m sure of it.”
“Does anyone live here with you? Boyfriend?”
“We’re Hutterite, Chief Burkholder. The elders would never allow such a thing.”
In the back of my mind I think: Where there’s a will, there’s a way.…
“I’m going to take a look around,” I say. “Stay behind me. Don’t touch anything.”
I traverse the dining and kitchen areas and push open a door, find myself looking into a bedroom that’s surprisingly large. I flip on the light. A full-size bed is draped with a hand-sewn quilt, colorful six-inch squares of corduroy, flannel, satin, and cotton. Not an Amish-style quilt, but the workmanship is superb. Another door opens to a bathroom with a window that looks out at the woods beyond.
I leave the bedroom, cross back through the kitchen and living room and head toward the hall that will take me to the other end of the mobile home. I hear Els behind me as I pass by a small bedroom. Like the rest of the trailer, it’s orderly and neat with a twin-size bed swathed with a quilt, and a night table. The bedroom at the end has been transformed into an office. There’s a faux-wood desk strewn with papers and files. I see an old-fashioned calculator and a landline phone. A four-drawer file cabinet squats in the corner, two of the drawers standing open.
I approach the desk, noticing the lamp’s shade is cockeyed. A closer look reveals a broken bulb. On the other side of the desk I find a desktop computer and monitor on the floor. The monitor’s screen has been shattered. A task chair has been toppled.
“What is this room?” I ask.
Els stands in the doorway, frozen in place. “This is where I work. I do the payroll. Pay the bills. Take care of the books for the foundation.”
I turn and look at her. “What do you know about the foundation?”
“The Anabaptist Brotherhood Foundation,” she murmurs. “Leanard started it years ago. It’s a non-profit dedicated to preserving the Hutterite traditions. He’s planning to open a historical library. A place where we can store documents, bibles, and books. Some of the bibles are old and so some of the facility needs to be climate controlled, which is expensive. It was such a good cause—”
She gasps upon spotting the computer. “But … what happened? My computer…”
I take in the crinkled blinds at the window, and I realize the place was either broken into and ransacked—or there was a struggle.
“Something happened here,” she says quietly.
Lifting the blind, I spy the broken pane; there’s no glass on the floor, which means it was probably smashed from the inside. “Any idea what?”
“Something bad,” she whispers.
Without saying anything else, she goes to the desk, runs her hand over the lamp, picks it up. She notices the broken bulb and her brows knit in confusion. Then she turns the lamp over so that the base is visible. That’s when I glimpse several long strands of hair and the reddish-black stain.
Sliding my mini-Maglite from my pocket, I set the beam on the stain and I almost can’t believe my eyes. “Looks like blood.”
I hear her quick intake of breath. Looking sick, she sets down the lamp, takes a step back. Her eyes meet mine. “He came in here,” she says quietly. “That last night. I was working. He was … angry.”
“Who?” I ask. “Tyler Fournier?”
Pain flashes in her eyes. “Not Tyler.”
“Then who?”
Without responding, she turns away and walks back out to the living room. I follow. I can tell by the look in her eyes that she’s remembering something that’s frightened her.
“Did Stahl do this?” I ask.
“I can’t imagine. Leanard is gentle and kind.” She presses her fingertips to her temples. “He wouldn’t.”
Someone did, I think, and I can’t help but wonder how many times I’ve heard those words.
“Els, you said you’d had problems with a man in your life. If Stahl did this to you—”
“No, Chief Burkholder. This is … something else.” Lowering herself to the sofa, she leans forward and puts her face in her hands. “I just … it’s so confusing. My head … I just can’t remember. It was—” Her hands fall away from her face and she straightens. “Tyler isn’t Hutterite. We were going to get married, but the elders wouldn’t allow it. That’s one of the reasons they sent me here.”
“What does that have to do with what happened in your office?”
“I don’t know.”
I watch her, wondering if she’s convinced herself of something simply because she wants it to be true. Or if there’s something else going on that she simply hasn’t remembered.
The door swings open. I start, turn toward it, set my hand over my .38. Els jumps to her feet, takes a step back. A young man of about twenty steps inside, eyes the color of a deep lake flicking from me to Els, back to me.
“I’m a police officer,” I tell him. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
He can’t seem to keep his eyes off of the young woman standing beside me. His expression softens as he takes in the sight of her. “Els, what happened? Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you.” He starts toward her. “I’ve been worried sick.”
“Keep your distance.” I raise my left hand, set my right over my .38. “I need to see some ID. Right now. Slowly.”
He halts. “What’s going on?” Confusion clouds his expression. He looks at Els. “Why are the police here? Where have you been?”
I see Els in the periphery of my vision. She doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, but I can hear her quickened breaths.
“ID,” I tell him. “Now.”
Keeping his eyes on mine, he pulls out a wallet, slides out a driver’s license, and holds it out for me. “I’m Tyler Fournier.”
I cross to him, take it, and give it a hard look. Tyler Fournier. Saint Paul, Minnesota. I hand it back to him. “What are you doing here?”
A laugh breaks from his throat. “I’m here to see her.” He’s staring at Els again; he knows something is askew. “Els, why are you looking at me that way? As if you don’t know who I am?” His gaze drifts to mine. “What’s wrong with her?”
I fill in the blanks. “Els showed up at a farm in Painters Mill, Ohio. She was injured. Took a pretty severe blow to the head.”
“My God,” he says. “How did it happen? Did someone hurt her? Was she in an accident? What?”
Els finally speaks, “I couldn’t remember anything. Not even my name. I didn’t know where I was from or how any of it happened.”
He looks at her with a mix of astonishment and skepticism. “Are you okay now?”
“Thanks to Chief Burkholder.” She looks from me to Tyler. “Things are starting to come back to me.”
“What about me?” Uncertainty plays in his expression. “Do you know who I am?”
Letting out a cry of pure emotion, Els rushes past me and throws herself into his arms.
I call out her name. “Wait!”
Neither of them obeys my command; they don’t even seem to hear me. I step back, watch as she falls against him. The young man wraps his arms around her. She buries her face in his shoulder and starts to cry.
“I’ve missed you,” she chokes.
“Jesus, you’re shaking.” He looks at me, helplessly, as he strokes the back of her head. His hand freezes when he runs his palm over the laceration. “What the—” He extracts himself from her, eases her to arm’s length. “Your head. It’s cut … what the hell?” He looks at me, angry now. Protective. “Who did that to her?”
Els looks from Tyler to me. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
I watch the exchange, uneasy because I don’t know this young man; I don’t know if he’s got an agenda or what he’s capable of. I don’t exactly know Els, either, though after spending so much time with her I don’t think she’s some hardened criminal. Even so, Chief Deputy Light’s words scroll through my brain.
Leanard Stahl filed a complaint two days ago alleging Ms. Tsechetter cleaned out the account of his foundation and then took off with her boyfriend.
“You.” I point at Fournier. “Sit down and do not move.” I motion toward the sofa. “Do you understand?”
Looking bewildered and annoyed, he takes a seat. Els moves with him, lowers herself onto the cushion, and curls against him.
I fix Fournier with a hard stare. “Where were you night before last?”
“Home.” He says the word without hesitation. “I live in Castine. I left last night at midnight. Drove all night. Got here around noon today.”
“How did you know where to find her?” I ask.
He shrugs. “She told me. Last time we talked.”
I look at Els and she nods.
“Why did you make the trip?” I ask Tyler.
“I don’t know if you’ve realized it or not, Chief Burkholder, but Els and I are in love. The problem is, not everyone is happy about it.”
I take the chair across from them. “Like who?”
“The elders,” Els says quietly. “Tyler isn’t Hutterite, you know.”
“That’s why they sent her here,” he says. “To keep her away from me.” He sets his hand over hers. “She loves them. Especially the old man.”
“Old man?” I ask.
“Leanard Stahl.” Pressing his mouth together as if he’s tasted something unpleasant, he looks from Els to me and back to Els. “He’s a controlling old goat. He knows Els loves him and he uses that to control her.”
“I’ve known Leanard since I was a child,” she says. “He’s like a father to me.”
Tyler looks at her as if she’s betrayed him. “Tell her the rest, Els.”
I watch her; wait for a response. The only thing reflected back at me is the guileless and troubled confusion of a young woman torn between loyalty and love. For a full minute the only sound comes from the patter of rain against the roof. The low rumble of thunder.
The last thing I want to do is add another complication to an already confusing situation. But if I’m going to get to the bottom of this, I have to ask all the questions, especially the hard ones. “What kind of relationship do you have with Stahl?”
“He’s been a mentor,” she says. “And a friend.” The words come too quickly, with a little too much certainty that doesn’t ring true.
Tyler mutters a curse. “That son of a bitch has been after her for weeks,” he says. “She doesn’t want to see it. But that’s why I’m here. To get her away from all this.”
Els lowers her gaze, but not before I discern the sick expression on her face.
I divide my attention between them. “Stahl went to the Mercer County Sheriff and told him the two of you stole money from him.”
“What?” Tyler jumps to his feet. “That’s a lie!”
“Sit down,” I snap.
He sinks back onto the sofa cushion.
Els presses a hand to her mouth. “Why would Leanard do such a thing?”
“We didn’t steal anything,” Fournier growls. “Els has never stolen anything in her life.”
“What about you?” I ask.
“I don’t need his money,” he shoots back. “I’ve got a good job in Saint Paul.”
“Are we in trouble?” Els asks.
“We’re going to ride over to the sheriff’s department and get this straightened out.” I look at Els. “Do you remember what happened back there in your office?”
Her expression pinches, the wheels in her mind churning. “I was working that evening. Like always. But there was something going on. I was upset because I’d found…” She presses her lips together. “Chief Burkholder, I think there was something going on with the books.”
“That’s the night she called me.” Tyler’s gaze slides from Els to me. “She was crying. I told her I was going to drive down. She asked me not to and we argued.” As if realizing the words could be misconstrued by me, he raises both hands. “Not that kind of argument.” He makes a sound of frustration. “I wasn’t angry with her. I was frustrated because I wanted to be with her.”
“What did you find?” I ask Els.
“The letters.” She gets to her feet. “From clients who’d given Leanard money. To invest.”
Tyler and I rise, too.
“How many people are you talking about?” I ask.
“Hundreds,” she murmurs. “Freindschaft. Amish. Mennonite. And Hutterite.”
Energized now, she starts toward the office; Tyler and I exchange glances and follow. I stop in the doorway and watch as she goes to the desk, rights the chair, and sits. She pulls open a drawer, then raises her eyes to mine. “They’re gone.”
Els closes her eyes, puts her face in her hands. “Chief Burkholder, what are we going to do? How could he do this to me? To us?”
“What did the letters say?” I ask.
“I don’t—” She raises her head. “Wait.” Jumping to her feet, she rushes to a small closet where a printer and office supplies are stored. Tugging out a stool, she steps onto it, and stretches to reach the top shelf. She pulls out a stack of crinkled papers bound with a rubber band, and then looks at it as if it’s something grotesque.
“These are the originals,” she murmurs. “The first one came about six months ago.”
Peeling off the rubber band, she goes back to the desk and sets the stack on the blotter. Moving closer, I look down at the top sheet. It’s a letter written in pencil on a wrinkled sheet of lined notebook paper. I pick it up and read.
Dear Leanard,
I hope this finds you well. Mary and I are buying that new buggy. I need the $489.00 I invested with the foundation to pay for it. Please send a check to our address in Shipshewana.
God bless,
Raymond Miller
I go to the next letter.
Dear Mr. Stahl,
Mamm passed last night. We are heartbroken, but we know she is with God now and for that we are happy. I need to withdraw my cash to buy a new generator for our milking business. Last I heard from you it was $898.00, but you can just send me $600.00 or so.
God be with you and your family …
I flip through dozens of letters just like it. Some are second and third requests for money they’d invested in the foundation. I look at Els.
“None of them got their money,” she whispers. “At first, I thought Leanard was taking care of it. He’s good with money. Always making wise investments and letting his clients know they’ve made a good return. But when the letters started coming…” She looks down at the stack and shakes her head. “They broke my heart. I kept hoping I was wrong. That Leanard would make it right. Those people believed in him. They trusted him, and he stole from them.”
“Did you confront him?” I ask.
Nodding, she looks down at her hands. “At first, he told me he’d paid them, and I should mind my own business. For the first time in my life, I didn’t believe him.” She shakes her head. “Chief Burkholder, in all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him angry. I’ve never heard him raise his voice. That night, he was a stranger to me, and I was afraid of him.”
“Tell me what happened,” I say.
“I called him around five o’clock or so and told him about the letters. He came right over. I was in my office, working. I figured he and I would work together and make it right, you know? Pay those poor people back. But he was furious. He demanded the letters. And then he fired me. Told me to get out. Go back to Minnesota. Keep my mouth shut.”
Her voice breaks on the last word. “I was sitting at my desk, crying. He was pacing and ranting, saying the most ungodly things. I remember seeing him pick up the lamp.” She shakes her head. “The next thing I know, we’re in the car, out in the middle of nowhere. I had no idea where we were. He had a gun, and he was panicked. There’s no doubt in my mind he was going to kill me. So I jumped from the car and I ran.”
“Holy shit,” mutters Tyler.
“All right.” I look at them and nod. “I think it’s time we talked to Chief Deputy Light.” I’m reaching into my pocket for the Explorer keys when the lights blink and go out, plunging us into the waning light of dusk.
“Stay quiet.” Tugging the mini-Maglite from my pocket, I flick it on, averting the beam so it’s not visible from the windows. “Don’t move.”
I take the hall to the living room, go to the front window, part the curtain, and look out. A cold, steady rain falls from a darkened sky. Tendrils of fog rise from the ground. My Explorer is still parked behind Tyler’s truck. There are no other vehicles, no sign of anyone else.
“What’s going on?” comes Tyler’s whispered voice.
I glance over to see them coming down the hall. “Let’s go.”
The front door bursts open. I see a dark figure. Male. Six one. Two hundred pounds. A hot burst of adrenaline zings when I see the stainless steel .380 mini-revolver in his hand.
“If anyone moves, I will shoot you dead,” he says in a deep voice.
The trailer rocks slightly as he enters. Stepping back, I ease my hand toward the .38 in my pocket. “I’m a police officer,” I say. “Drop your weapon. Right now.”
He shifts the gun to me. “You reach for whatever is in that pocket and I will kill you. Then I will kill them. Do you understand?”
“Leanard!” comes Els’s voice from behind me. “What are you doing?”
“Stay put,” I tell her. I’m thinking about the cell phone in my left pocket. The .38 in my right. I wonder if I can reach either before this crazy son of a bitch starts shooting.
“Leanard Stahl?” I say.
Using the revolver, he motions toward the living room. “Sit down. All of you. Keep your hands up.”
Keeping my hands at shoulder level, I back toward the sofa. I’m vaguely aware of Els and Tyler moving with me.
“Not you,” he says to Els. “Come here.”
Sending an anxious glance my way, she walks stiffly to Stahl. “What are you doing with that gun?” she says. “This is crazy.”
“Shut your mouth.” He reaches into his pocket and produces a tangle of rope. “Tie them up.”
Leanard Stahl is a far cry from what I expected. He’s kindly looking with salt-and-pepper hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a black felt fedora. He’s using a walking stick, holding the curved handle in his left hand, but I don’t detect a limp. I guess him to be in his mid-fifties. Outwardly, he seems as harmless as a grandfather, but I don’t miss the glint of malevolence in his eyes. Something dark creeping around just beneath the surface.
“A deputy with the Mercer County Sheriff is on the way,” I tell him.
“Shut up.” He looks at Els, his mouth constricting into a snarl. “I would have given you everything. All you had to do was love me.”
“I do love you, Leanard,” she cries. “Please don’t do this. It isn’t our way.”
“What do you know about our ways? Soiling yourself with a non-believer. Acting like some farm animal in heat.” He tosses the rope at her. “Tie them up!”
I use the moment to get my first decent look at the revolver. It’s a Taurus .380, double action, with five rounds. I’m looking for vulnerabilities, wondering if Tyler will be any help, wondering if I can get to my cell.…
Without warning, Tyler charges Stahl. He goes in low and head butts the older man’s abdomen. Stahl reels backward. A roar of fury tears from his mouth. The two gunshots that follow deafen me.
Tyler drops to the floor. Els screams, but I tune it out. Focus on yanking the .38 from my pocket. I bring it up fast. Finger inside the guard. Seek center mass.
Stahl swings the cane. I squeeze off a shot as the wood cracks against my right temple, Hank Aaron slamming in a home run. Pain sings across the right side of my head from crown to jaw. Darkness closes in. My knees hit the floor. Vaguely, I’m aware of someone shouting my name. Then I’m laid out on the rug, some rude son of a bitch running a chain saw in my right ear …
“What have you done? What have you done?”
Screaming brings me back to full consciousness. I raise my head, glance over to see Els kneeling next to Tyler. Eyes wild with terror. Horror etched into her every feature. “Tyler!”
I have no idea how long I was out. At some point Stahl bound her hands behind her back. Fournier lies supine, stone still. I see blood on his jacket. More soaked into the rug. Dear God, he looks dead.… I glance around for my .38, but it’s nowhere in sight. I shift, realize my hands are bound, too.
Son of a bitch.
Rolling onto my side, I blink to clear my vision, look up at Stahl. “Sheriff’s deputy is on the way,” I lie.
The Hutterite man ignores me, stares at Els. “I would have loved you for all of eternity,” he whispers.
She doesn’t acknowledge him, instead focusing every ounce of her attention, her energy, on her fallen lover. “We were going to get married,” she sobs.
I focus on the rope at my wrists, work it back and forth, trying not to attract attention.
Els leans forward, tears streaming, and sets her cheek against Tyler’s. “We have to get him to a hospital,” she sobs.
Stahl walks to the kitchen. Dread sweeps through me when he twists the four stovetop burners and the oven to the On position. Then he plucks off each knob and drops them into his pocket.
For the span of several heartbeats the only sound comes from Els crying and the hiss of gas. Then he turns to Els. “Get up. You’re coming with me.”
“I’ll go to hell before I go anywhere with you!” she screams.
“As you wish.” Eyes blazing, Stahl picks up the letters lying on the table. Removing a lighter from his coat pocket, he lights the corner, carries them to the window, and sets the curtains on fire.
“Don’t do it, Stahl,” I tell him. “Shut off the gas. Let her go.”
“Too late,” he says as he walks back to the living room.
I smell the rotten-egg stink of the gas as it creeps from the kitchen to the living room.
Els looks at Stahl. “You’re a monster.”
“And you, my dear, are a whore.” Taking a final, lingering look at her, he crosses to the door, yanks it open, and then he’s gone.
“Els! Get up!” I scramble to my feet, lurch over to where she’s kneeling next to Tyler. “Is he alive?”
“He’s breathing.”
“We have to get him out of here. Gas is going to blow. Get me a knife. Cut this rope. Hurry!”
She darts to the kitchen, turns, and yanks out a drawer. I follow her, go to the stove, try to twist the knob assembly prong. It won’t move without the knob.
I glance at Els, see the steak knife in her hand. “Cut my rope. Hurry!”
She crosses to me, spins so that we’re back to back. Her entire body shakes against mine. As she saws, I’m keenly aware of the curtains burning, flames licking the ceiling, and smoke filling the room. I hear the hiss of gas pouring from the stove. And then my hands are free.
Snatching the knife from her, I spin her around, set the blade against the rope. I slice hard, and it falls away. “Open the door!” I shout.
Vaguely, I’m aware of her running to the door. I go to Tyler. His face is the color of paste. Eyes partially open, unseeing. There’s too much blood. Bending, I grab him beneath his arms. He’s heavy, but my adrenaline is pumping, and I drag him to the door.
“Open it!” I shout.
“It won’t open!” she screams.
I lurch to the door, twist the knob. Panic stabs me when it doesn’t budge. Only then do I realize it’s been jammed from the outside.
“Back door!” I say. “Help me.”
Black smoke billows. To my left, flames devour the wall, a beast consuming everything in its path. Els and I grab Tyler’s wrists and drag him toward the back door. He’s dead weight, feet dragging, head lolling.
When we’re a few feet away, Els rushes forward and yanks it open. Cold, clean air pours in. She goes through, onto the deck outside. Gripping Tyler’s wrists, I haul him through the door. I’ve just stepped onto the deck when a tremendous roar shakes the trailer. The concussion slams against my back like a hot, cast-iron skillet. I pitch forward, lose my grip on Tyler, and tumble into space.
The fall knocks the breath from my lungs. I get to my hands and knees, see Tyler lying a few feet away. “Els!”
“I’m here!” She crawls toward Tyler.
Ten feet away, a window shatters. Flames shoot twenty feet into the air as the trailer burns unchecked. Taking Tyler’s hands, we drag him to a safe distance. Only then do I reach for my cell and call the Mercer County Sheriff.
“Send an ambulance,” I tell them. “I’ve got a gunshot victim. The shooter is Leanard Stahl. He’s armed and dangerous.”
Ending the call, I drop the cell into my pocket. Ten feet away, Els is sitting on the ground, holding Tyler’s hand, her head bowed in prayer. I go to them, sit down beside her, and I take her other hand.
“Ambulance is on the way,” I tell her.
“Tyler’s going to be okay,” she tells me.
“I know.” I put my arm around her shoulders. “I know.”
Sometimes it’s the mundane cases that turn out to be unexpectedly perilous. The kind in which some unsuspecting cop misjudges the potential for danger and walks into it with her eyes closed. That was certainly the case with Els Tsechetter and our fateful trip to Coldwater. In retrospect, all I can do is chalk it up to experience with the hope that it will make me a better cop.
Ten days have passed since Els and I dragged Tyler Fournier from that burning mobile home. He survived the ordeal, despite a serious gunshot wound, and was released from the hospital four days ago.
According to Chief Deputy Light, Leanard Stahl was pulled over and arrested without incident by an Ohio State Police trooper a few hours after the shooting. He was booked into the Mercer County jail on a multitude of charges, including the attempted murder of a public official.
Chief Deputy Light transported us to the ER at the community hospital. Tomasetti showed up a short time later. He did his best not to look too worried. But he held me for a beat too long, and he stayed with me while my head was stitched and a CAT scan ruled out the possibility of a concussion. He wasn’t happy that I’d ended up in the ER once again, though he couldn’t tell me what I should have done differently. In the end we decided that hindsight is 20-20, and we left it at that.
This afternoon, I’m sitting at my desk at the police station, listening to the radio Lois has turned up a little too loudly.
“Chief?” Lois appears in the doorway of my office. “You’ve got visitors.”
I’m about to ask who it is when Els Tsechetter and Tyler Fournier come up beside her. Both are grinning like fools and I find myself smiling back. “Thanks, Lois.”
Rising, I motion to the visitor chairs adjacent my desk. “Come in and have a seat.”
Tyler Fournier moves with the slowness of a man twice his age. He’s lost a few pounds since I last saw him. But his color is good and the smile on his face tells me he’s on the mend.
“Good to see you getting around so well,” I tell him.
“I have a good nurse.” He grins at Els.
Letting go of his hand, she crosses the short space between us, and encases me in a hug. “I just want to thank you, Chief Burkholder.” She pushes me to arm’s length and blinks back tears. “For saving Tyler’s life. For giving me back mine. Thank you.”
I bank an un-chief-of-police-like rise of emotion. “You know I was just doing my job.”
She laughs. “That’s a likely story.”
Indeed.
“What brings you to Painters Mill?” I ask.
Els and Tyler exchange a look. “I wanted Tyler to see Behalt,” she tells me. “I want to thank the director.”
“He’ll appreciate that.” I turn my attention to Tyler. “You’ll enjoy it.”
“I’m leaving the colony,” Els blurts.
“I asked her to marry me,” Tyler puts in.
“Congratulations,” I say.
A moment of silence ensues, and Els becomes thoughtful. “Chief Burkholder, I want you to know. What happened in Coldwater does not speak for my Hutterite brethren. It’s not the reason I’m leaving the colony. I’m leaving because I love Tyler. I want to spend the rest of my life with him, and I can’t do that and remain Hutterite.”
Once again I’m reminded of my own heritage, my Amish past, and everything I left behind to follow my own path.
“You’ll always be Hutterite.” I tap a finger against my heart. “Where it counts.”
“Thank you.” Not bothering to wipe away the tears on her cheeks, she extends her hand to mine. “Freindschaft,” she whispers.
“Freindschaft,” I echo.
Hand in hand, they go through the door.