Darkness pressed down on him with an almost physical force. The wind had kicked up, hissing through the treetops, dry autumn leaves whispering as he passed. Lightning flickered on the horizon, telling him the storm would be here soon. Noah Kline wasn’t worried about any of it. He’d walked this road hundreds of times. He knew every tree, culvert, and field along the way. Tonight, a tornado could swoop down from the heavens and he wouldn’t care.
The only thing that mattered tonight was that he’d kissed the girl he loved. It was their first, a moment he’d anticipated for weeks, and he’d been grinning like a fool since leaving the high school. That had been twenty minutes ago and already he couldn’t wait to see her again. Ashley Hodges was the sweetest, prettiest girl God had ever put on this earth, and Noah loved her more than his own life.
As perfect as all of that was, Noah wasn’t so blind that he didn’t see the troubled waters ahead. His parents disapproved of him dating a non-Amish girl. They hadn’t come right out and said it, but he figured they were quietly hoping he’d break up with her once his rumspringa was over. As much as he hated the thought of disappointing them, that wasn’t going to happen.
Ashley’s parents were even less thrilled; he’d known it the first time he met her father and he’d started with the questions. Did you graduate from high school? Do you have any plans for college? How are you going to get a good job and support yourself when you don’t even drive a car? Noah had answered as best he could, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that the man wasn’t impressed.
It didn’t matter. Ashley was his world, and nothing could change that. They were in love. Somehow, they’d make it work.
Noah was thinking about the kiss again when he noticed the headlights behind him. It was unusual to see a vehicle on this stretch of road so late. There were only a handful of farms out this way, most of which were Amish. It was probably Mr. and Mrs. Boedecker coming home from a movie—it was Saturday night, after all. Or else someone was lost.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, Noah moved onto the shoulder and kept walking. The farm where he lived with his parents and six siblings was a mile or so down the road. Hopefully, he’d make it home before the sky opened up. He picked up the pace. Headlights washed over him. Behind him, the vehicle’s engine revved. Someone was in a hurry, he thought. Scooting right another couple of feet, he glanced over his shoulder. Bright headlights blinded him. The vehicle was moving fast. Too fast for this narrow, pitted back road. He sidestepped onto the grassy shoulder and kept moving.
Tires skittered on gravel, pebbles pinging in the wheel wells. Right behind him. Startled, Noah spun, blinded, threw up a hand to shield his eyes against the glare. “What the—”
The impact knocked him off his feet. Pain shot from his hip to his knee. His body cartwheeled. The world went silent for an instant. Then he sprawled face down in the ditch.
Noah lay still a moment, gasping and dazed, trying to get air into his lungs. Pain coursed through his leg, an electric pulse that zinged with every beat of his heart. Vaguely, he was aware that the vehicle had stopped, the engine rumbling. A groan squeezed from his throat when he rolled. A drumroll of pain in his arm. Nothing broken, so he struggled to his hands and knees and looked around. The vehicle idled thirty feet away. It must have done a U-turn because it was facing him, the headlights blinding.
Noah thought the driver would have gotten out by now to see if he was all right. In the back of his mind, he wondered if maybe the driver had been texting or drinking, and accidentally veered onto the shoulder.
“Hey.” Noah raised his hand. “I’m okay!” he called out.
Dust swirled in the yellow shafts of the beams. No one got out. Noah got to his feet, a cymbal of pain clanging in his leg. He stood there, breathing hard, shaking. Squinting, he tried to make out the type of vehicle, but the lights were too bright. What was this guy doing?
The driver’s side door swung open. He saw a silhouette as someone stepped out. “Hey, Loverboy!”
In that instant, Noah knew this was no random accident. He was keenly aware of how close the vehicle was. That he was vulnerable. Alone. He got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Never taking his eyes off the vehicle, Noah limped across the road to a safer distance, out of the glare of the lights. “I don’t want any trouble,” he called out.
Nothing but ominous silence came back at him.
There was a plowed field to his left, a fenced pasture to his right. Home was straight ahead. If he could get around the car on either side, he could make it. All he had to do was climb the fence or cut through the field.
Noah started toward the fence. He was midway there when the driver gunned the engine. Noah broke into a run, but he was hindered by his injured leg. The tires squealed against the asphalt. The vehicle jumped forward. Ignoring the pain, Noah poured on the speed, sprinting toward the fence a few yards away.
The vehicle roared toward him, closing in fast. It slid to a stop between him and the fence, missing him by inches, cutting him off. Noah pivoted, changed direction, and ran toward the open field, arms outstretched.
Behind him, the engine screamed. He glanced over his shoulder, saw the vehicle back up and skid sideways, mudslinging from the rear tires. Then it leapt forward.
Breathing hard, he sprinted toward the field, feet pounding the ground, boots sinking into mud up to his ankles. Loose cornstalks threatened to trip him. Headlights played crazily all around. The roar of the engine in his ears. No place to take cover. No fence or trees.
He tore through the field, feet barely touching the ground, pain zinging, arms pumping. Ten yards and he risked a look behind him. Headlights a scant few feet away, a giant beast about to devour him.
“Stop!” he shouted.
Noah cut hard to the left, tried to outmaneuver the vehicle. It tracked him, tires eating up the ground at an astounding speed, headlights bouncing over the rough terrain.
Noah swung right toward the trees a quarter mile away. The vehicle stayed with him, mud flying, closing the distance in seconds. Noah zigzagged right and left, slid and nearly fell, then turned back toward the road. Not too far. If he could reach the fence he’d be home free . . .
The bumper struck him from behind, a wrecking ball slamming into his backside. Noah’s feet left the ground. He somersaulted across the hood, elbows and knees knocking against steel, the windshield. For an instant he was airborne, tumbling end over end. He hit the ground hard. Pain screaming through his body. Wet earth against his face. The taste of blood in his mouth.
Choking back a groan of pain, he rolled, got to his hands and knees, and crawled toward the fence. Just fifty feet to go. Behind him, the engine bellowed. He glanced back, saw the oncoming headlights, dirt and debris flying. The silver glint of the bumper loomed.
He raised his hands. “No!”
Thoughts of Ashely flitted through his brain.
The world exploded, and the waiting darkness sucked him into the abyss.
* * *
At seventy-eight years of age, Orin Schlabach figured he was old enough to know not to venture too far from the house, especially when his wife had just pulled a double batch of cinnamon rolls from the oven. He’d reached for one—just a little something to tide him over while the coffee perked—but she’d smacked his hand with the wooden spoon she kept next to the stove and told him to feed the cows first. Not a man to argue with a woman in charge of breakfast, Orin grabbed his coat and headed out to the barn. He was on his way back inside when he heard his birddog, Jojo, barking somewhere out in the front field.
Drizzle drifted down from an overcast sky; the temperature hovered somewhere around forty degrees. It was Orin’s least favorite kind of weather. Unfortunately for him, Jojo loved it, the colder and wetter, the better.
Standing in the driveway between the house and barn, Orin looked out at the field. Sure enough, a quarter mile away, Jojo was barking at something on the ground. Some debris or trash that had blown in with the storm last night. Orin put his hand to his lips and whistled.
“Jojo! Kumma inseid!” Come inside.
The dog was usually obedient, especially during breakfast when more than likely he was in store for table scraps. This morning, he didn’t even look back. In fact, if Orin wasn’t mistaken, the dog’s barking seemed frantic. What was he barking at? And what on earth was that on the ground?
Muttering beneath his breath, Orin crossed the driveway, opened the gate, and started across the field. He was thinking about cinnamon rolls and the possibility of scrambled eggs when he realized the dog wasn’t barking at some flapping piece of trash. At first, he thought maybe a deer had come into the field and died. At forty yards, he realized that wasn’t the case at all.
Concern twinged in his gut, and he broke into a wobbly old-man run. “Hello?” he called out. “Who’s there? Are you all right?”
The person on the ground didn’t move. A young man. Just a boy, in fact. The hat and suspenders told him he was Plain. He was sprawled on his side, one arm thrown over his head, legs splayed.
Jojo looked up at Orin, tongue lolling, tail wagging.
“Good boy, Jojo.”
Ignoring the arthritis protesting in his knees, Orin knelt beside the boy. Recognition kicked him hard enough to shake his innards when he got a look at his face. “Noah,” he whispered. A quiver of fear went through him when he noticed the blood. It was on his shirt. More matted in his hair. On the side of his face. Dear Lord, what had happened?
“Noah?” He set his hand on the boy’s shoulder, found it cold and wet to the touch. “What happened, son? Can you hear me? Can you move?”
No answer. No movement. Not even a shiver or twitch. No sign of life. For a terrible moment, Orin thought the young man was dead. Relief skittered through him when he saw the boy’s chest rise. At least he was breathing. Working off his coat, he draped it over the boy.
“You just stay there and get warmed up.” He patted the boy’s shoulder and looked around. “I’ll get help.”
The old man struggled to his feet and took off at a lumbering run for the neighbor’s house.
* * *
My name is Kate Burkholder, and I’m the chief of police of Painters Mill, a pretty little township in the heart of Ohio’s Amish Country. I’ve just pulled into my parking spot outside the police station when my cell phone vibrates against my hip. The screen tells me it’s my graveyard shift dispatcher, Mona Kurtz, who also happens to be a part-time patrol officer, and she hasn’t yet left for the day. “Hey, Mona.”
“Chief, I just took a call from the Amish pay phone out on Township Road 4. Orin Schlabach says the neighbor’s son, Noah Kline, is injured and unconscious in his field.”
It’s not the kind of call I’d expect at 7:00 A.M. on a Sunday morning. “How seriously is he hurt?”
“Orin says it’s bad. He went back out to the field stay with him.”
“Do Noah’s parents know?”
“Not yet. No one has a phone out there, except the Boedeckers.” The couple are the only non-Amish who live on the township road.
“Get an ambulance out there,” I tell her.
“They’re en route.”
“Tell Skid to meet me there,” I add, referring to Chuck “Skid” Skidmore, my officer on duty this morning. “I’m on my way.”
* * *
The Schlabach farm is on a township road that’s more dirt than asphalt and dead-ends at Painters Creek. There’s an ambulance parked on the shoulder when I arrive, red and blue lights flashing. An Amish man and two paramedics are standing in the field fifty yards away. Skid’s not arrived yet. A dog sniffs around in the distance. I park behind the ambulance and head toward the men.
I reach them as the paramedics are loading the patient into the ambulance. The young man is draped with a Mylar blanket; there’s a cervical collar wrapped around his neck and an IV drip in his arm.
“What’s his condition?” I ask.
“We’ve not been able to rouse him, Chief,” the EMT tells me as he slams the rear doors. “He’s got visible injuries about his head. Compound fracture of his arm. He suffered some kind of trauma. Pulse and heart rate are extremely slow. If he’s been out here long, chances are he’s hypothermic.”
They’re in a hurry to get their patient to the hospital, so I don’t hold them up.
I’ve met Orin Schlabach a few of times over the years. I bought pumpkins from his wife last fall. The couple are well into their seventies, but they still run their farm and are active in the community.
“Can you tell me what happened, Mr. Schlabach?” I ask as we shake hands.
He’s about six feet tall with a salt and pepper beard that reaches nearly to his waist. He wears traditional Amish garb—flat brimmed hat, trousers with suspenders, blue work shirt, and a black barn coat—along with about fifty pounds of extra weight.
“I went out to feed the cows. Jojo started barking.” He motions toward the dog. “That’s when I spotted the boy on the ground.”
“Noah Kline?”
He nods. “My neighbor’s boy. The oldest, I think. Nice young man.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He’s been out cold the whole time.”
“Any idea what happened?”
“I can’t imagine.” The Amish man shakes his head. “I see that boy walking along the road couple times a week. He don’t drive, you know. And we don’t get any traffic out this way.”
“Have you talked to his parents?”
“I called you first thing, Chief Burkholder, and then I came back to stay with him.”
We’re standing in a cornfield, about fifty feet from the road. The corn has already been cut and harvested. Leftover dried yellow stalks litter the ground. A small circle of blood has soaked into the dirt where Noah Kline had lain. On the other side of the road is a tumbledown fence. Beyond, a wooded area that runs along the floodplain of Painters Creek.
I take a moment to walk the scene, trying to figure out what might’ve happened, when Skid’s cruiser pulls up behind my Explorer, lights flashing. He meets me in the field, and I brief him on what little I know.
“How’s the kid?” he asks.
“Not sure,” I tell him. “Hasn’t regained consciousness.”
“That’s not good.” He looks around. “Any idea what happened to him?”
“I thought we might walk the scene, see if we can figure it out.”
We fall silent, thoughtful, eyes on the ground. That’s when I notice the tire ruts.
“Those look fresh,” Skid says.
We follow the tracks. Sure enough, twin furrows cut deeply into the wet soil. Farther out, there’s a place where the driver may have done “donuts,” turning the steering wheel sharply while accelerating so that the rear wheels spin and the vehicle turns in a tight circle.
“Looks like a vehicle left the pavement at a high rate of speed,” I say, motioning toward the deep ruts and mud that’s been slung onto the asphalt.
“Braked hard there.” Skid gestures.
“Did a donut there,” I say.
“Goofy damn teenagers.” He looks at me and shakes his head. “Could this be a case of car surfing?” he asks, referring to the practice of someone riding on the roof or hood of a vehicle, often while said vehicle is traveling at a high rate of speed.
“Maybe. But why would they leave him like this?”
“If they were drinking they may have panicked.”
I move closer and kneel. “I’ve got footprints here.”
“Someone was on foot.” He kneels next to me, leans over the nearest imprint. “Judging from the depth of that print and the length of the stride, I’d say he was running.”
Mindful of the possibility that this may not have been a case of teenage antics gone wrong, I look at the ruts in relation to the footprints and try to get a sense of what might’ve occurred. Was this a case of “car surfing” as Skid surmised? Or was this something more sinister? Road rage that led to an altercation? A hit and run?
Rising, I walk back to Orin Schlabach. “Did you or your wife hear or see anything unusual last night?”
The old man shakes his head. “Not a thing.”
It’s too soon to know how severe the young man’s injuries are. In the course of my career, I’ve seen more than my share of traffic accidents—and worse. A head injury can go from minor to fatal in a heartbeat. Keeping that in mind, and knowing Noah Kline didn’t get hurt without help, I call my significant other.
“I hear you’ve got a possible hit-skip on your hands,” he says without preamble.
John Tomasetti is an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation. He’s also the love of my life. We live on a small farm a few miles out of Wooster, north of Painters Mill.
“Word travels fast,” I say.
“Especially when you have a police scanner.”
I recap what little I know. “It might be overkill, but I’m wondering if you know someone in the area who can come out and take a look at this scene. Depending on what happens with the victim, this could get serious, and I may want some plasters of the tire tread.”
“You thinking drunk driver? Foul play?”
“Not sure.” I tell him about the tire ruts and footprints. “Some teenagers may have been horsing around and had an accident.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
I think about Orin Schlabach saying that Noah Kline walked this road on a regular basis. “Tomasetti, I don’t know if I’m right, but it looks like someone ran this kid down with a vehicle.”
“I know a guy,” he says. “Give me half an hour.”
* * *
Mervin and Rhoda Kline are Swartzentruber Amish, a conservative sect that adheres to the old traditions with an iron fist. No windows or slow-moving vehicle signs for their buggies. Some don’t use gravel in their driveways or even have indoor plumbing in their homes. The Klines live with their seven children on a dairy farm just down the road from the Schlabach place.
I drive up the long lane to find Mr. Kline hitching the buggy horse in the muddy area between the house and barn. His expression tells me he’s already realized his son isn’t at home. That he’s worried about him and likely hitching the buggy to either use the Amish pay phone down the road or to look for him.
“Mr. Kline?” I cross to him.
He meets me halfway, glad to see me, which usually isn’t the case, but he’s apprehensive, too, afraid I may be the bearer of bad news. “You bring word of my son?”
We shake hands. “Your neighbor, Mr. Schlabach, found Noah unconscious in his field this morning.”
“Unconscious?” The Amish man gapes at me, steps back, putting a hand to his chest. “He is injured?”
“He was taken to the hospital about twenty minutes ago. I don’t have word just yet on his condition.”
“I saw the police lights.” His brows furrow. “What happened to him?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. If you could answer a few questions, it would be a big help.”
“Of course. Come, while I finish here.” Without speaking, he turns back to the buggy and resumes hitching the horse, working quickly now, anxious to get on the road.
“I can drive you and your wife to the hospital if you’d like,” I tell him.
“We will take the buggy.”
I can tell by the stiff set of his shoulders that the news has shaken him. I give him a moment and then ask, “When’s the last time you saw Noah?”
“Last night. When he left. Around seven o’clock.”
“Where did he go?”
“The high school,” he mutters.
Surprise ripples through me. “Homecoming?”
He nods, his mouth tightening, telling me he isn’t happy about it.
Having grown up in Painters Mill—having grown up Amish—I know firsthand how unusual it would be for a Swartzentruber boy to attend a typically “English” social rite of passage like homecoming.
“Who was he with?” I ask.
He doesn’t look at me. “Es maydel.” That girl. He says the words with a generous dose of distaste. “The one he’s been seeing. The English girl. Ashley Hodges.”
Another layer of surprise settles over the first. Ashley Hodges is the daughter of a high-powered local attorney, Craig Hodges. The family was in the news recently when the Columbus Dispatch profiled his law firm, Hodges and Hodges. According to the piece, they’re Painters Mill’s wealthiest family.
“They’ve been seeing each other?” I ask. “Dating?”
He gives me a withering look. “Noah is on rumspringa.”
He says the word as if it explains everything. In a way, it does. Rumspringa is the Deitsh word for “running around.” It’s the time in a young Amish person’s life, usually their late teens, before they commit to the church. A time when they’re allowed to break all those Amish rules while their parents do their best to look the other way.
“I knew nothing good would come of it,” Mr. Kline says.
“Why is that?” I know the answer, but I’m obliged to ask anyway.
He looks at me as if I’m dense. “She is English.”
“Does Noah own a vehicle?” I ask, knowing many times young Amish men will purchase a vehicle during rumspringa. “Does he drive?”
The Amish man glares at me over the horse’s back as he smooths the leather. “No.”
“How did he get to the school?”
“He walked, like always.”
“Do any of his friends have access to a vehicle?” I ask. “Amish or English?”
“Ben Weaver bought a car a couple of months ago.” Clucking his tongue, he shakes his head. “Lives over in Killbuck now with a bunch of boys.”
I write down the name. “Are Noah and Ben close?”
“They were up until a few months ago.”
“What happened?”
The man sighs. “They had some kind of falling out. Don’t see each other much anymore.”
“What was the falling out about?”
“You’ll have to ask them.” He makes a sound of disapproval. “You know how young men are during rumspringa. Drinking beer and staying out all hours. Dumb as a herd of cows.”
“Do you know how Ashley got to homecoming?”
He shrugs. “I wouldn’t know.”
I think about that a moment. “Mr. Kline, has your son had any arguments or disagreements with anyone recently?”
His hands go still on the harness. He looks at me over the top of the horse’s back, his eyes narrowing on mine. “What are you asking me, Chief Burkholder? Did someone do something to my son? Hurt him? On purpose?”
“I’m just asking questions that need to be asked so I can get this figured out.”
“Noah is Amisch. He has no enemies.” He resumes harnessing, yanks a strap tight. “No telling about that girl, though.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You figure it out, Kate Burkholder. You should know, with your being English and all.”
I wince inwardly, curb a pang of an emotion I don’t want to identify. “Is there anything else you can tell me that might help me figure out what happened?” I ask.
Kline finishes with the harness and glances back toward the house. “We have to leave for the hospital now. Our business is done.”
* * *
The Hodges family lives in the Maple Crest Subdivision, an upscale housing development that’s Painters Mill’s rendering of location, location, location. Set on lushly landscaped lots, the homes are spacious, tasteful, and expensive.
Two turns and I pull into the driveway of a spectacular Tudor-style mansion and park behind a white Escalade. A flagstone path takes me past a sculpted boxwood hedge to massive double wood doors more befitting a Scottish castle. I ring the bell and wait.
A pretty blond woman of about forty answers. She’s wearing yoga pants and a snug T-shirt, distracted, her cell phone tucked into the crook of her neck. She does a double take upon noticing my uniform. “Oh.” Ending her call, she motions me into the foyer. “I thought you were the pool guy,” she says a little breathlessly. “Is everything all right?”
I give her a quick summary of what happened to Noah Kline.
“Noah? Oh my God.” She presses a hand to her throat. “Is he all right?”
“I’m not sure what his condition is at the moment. I’m trying to find out what happened.” I pause, giving her a chance to respond. When she says nothing, I add, “Ashely Hodges is your daughter?”
“Yes, of course.” She sticks out her hand and we shake. “I’m Belinda Hodges.”
“I understand Ashley was with Noah last night.”
“They went to homecoming together.”
I give her a thoughtful smile. “Must have made quite a stir.”
She smiles back. “I’ll say.”
“Did either of them have any problems with anyone?”
“I talked to Ashley briefly when she got home and she had a wonderful time.”
“Your daughter is fifteen?”
“Fifteen going on twenty.” She blows a breath through her bangs. “A sophomore this year. She’s an honor student. Captain of the volleyball team. She volunteers at the retirement home one night a week.”
“How well do you know Noah?”
“I’ve only met him a couple of times, but he seems quite nice.” Her eyes meet mine as the meaning of my questions sinks in. “You think what happened to him wasn’t an accident?”
“At this juncture, I’m just trying to figure out what happened,” I say, keeping the point of my visit as innocuous as possible. “Does Ashley drive?”
“She just got her temporary permit. So far, so good. Knock on wood.” She taps her knuckles against the door. “Jason, my son, got his last year, and boy do I worry. They’re responsible, but you know how kids are.”
I let the silence ride. She fiddles with the Fitbit on her wrist, glances toward the kitchen. Ready to be rid of me so she can get on with her day. More concerned about her schedule than Noah.
“Would it be all right if I talked to Ashley, Mrs. Hodges? I’d like to ask her a few questions.”
She blinks, hesitates. “She’s still sleeping.”
It’s after 8:00 A.M., early for a teenager who was up late the night before, but not an unreasonable time, especially in light of the circumstances. “I’m sorry to wake her, but I’d really like to speak to her to see if there’s anything she can add.”
“Sure, let me get—”
“I’m right here, Mom,” comes a sing-song voice.
I turn to see a pretty, blond-haired girl trot down the curved staircase.
“I got dibs on pancakes!” Behind her, a slightly older boy wearing a Painters Mill High football hoodie pounds down the steps. Both of them are giggling. At the landing, he elbows past his sister, descends the remaining steps in two big strides. He doesn’t notice me until he reaches the base. He freezes, giving us a deer-in-the-headlights stare. Not expecting to find the police standing in the foyer first thing in the morning.
The girl’s stride falters when she notices my uniform. “Oh. Hi.”
Ashley Hodges is slender and athletically built, with blue eyes and sooty black lashes. Wearing ratty sweats, her hair pulled into an untidy ponytail, and not a stitch of makeup, she’s model pretty, in a girl-next-door sort of way. She reaches the base of the stairs, eyes darting from me to her mother and back to me. “What’s wrong?”
Belinda Hodges smiles at her children. “Chief Burkholder, this is my daughter, Ashley. And my son, Jason.”
The two teenagers exchange looks, then move cautiously toward us. Belinda leans to kiss both of them on their cheeks.
Ashley’s eyes flick from her mother to me and back. “Is everything okay?”
“It’s Noah, honey.” Belinda Hodges puts her arm around her daughter. “He’s in the hospital.”
“What?” The girl presses both hands to her cheeks, her eyes meeting mine over her French-manicured fingertips.
“Whoa,” mutters Jason. “What happened to him?”
“How bad is he hurt?” the girl asks, the pitch of her voice rising. “Is he okay?”
I recap the basics, keeping it vague.
“Oh my God. Mom.” She looks at her mother, her expression ravaged. “I have to go see him. Please.”
“Sure, honey.”
Jason touches her arm. “I can take you if you need a ride, squirt.”
I address the girl before she can turn away. “I understand you and Noah went to homecoming last night.”
Though she’s visibly shaken by the news of Noah’s hospitalization, happiness flashes on her face at the mention of his name. “It was our first real date. We just danced and talked all evening. He’s incredibly sweet. We had a great time.”
“How did you get to the school?” I ask. “Did someone drive you?”
“Dad drove me. Noah walked, like always.”
“What did Dad do?”
The four of us turn at the sound of the male voice. I see Craig Hodges emerge from the kitchen. Wearing sleek running gear—tights and a windbreaker, with headphones looped around his neck—he’s sweating and flushed as if he just arrived home from a morning run. He does a double take when he sees me and his expression sobers. “Is everything all right?”
I tell him about Noah Kline.
“An accident?” he asks.
“We’re not sure what happened just yet.” I turn my attention back to the girl. “Ashley, were there any problems last night? Any disagreements with anyone? An argument? Anything like that?”
“Everyone was so sweet to Noah. I mean, he didn’t know a soul and he wasn’t exactly comfortable. I introduced him around, you know, and everyone went out of their way to make him feel welcome.”
“What time did you leave?” I ask.
“I picked her up around midnight,” Craig inserts.
“What about Noah?” I ask.
“I offered to drive him home,” he says. “It had been raining on and off.” The man shrugs. “He said he’d walk, so I let him.”
“You should have asked a little more nicely,” Ashley says, pouting.
Her father shrugs. “He’s a big boy.”
“Here we go,” Jason mutters, rolling his eyes.
Ashley’s eyes fill with tears. She looks up at her mother. “Mom, please, Noah doesn’t have a phone. I just want to see him. Please. Can we just go?”
Craig sets his hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Of course, sweetheart. Let me walk Chief Burkholder to her car. You grab a quick breakfast, get dressed, and then we’ll go.”
He makes eye contact with his wife, then me, his expression letting me know he’s got more to say that he doesn’t want his daughter to hear. Jason catches his father’s silent message. The three of us head outside.
When the front door closes behind us, Craig says, “Ashley’s too naïve to understand, but I thought you should know, Chief Burkholder. She had a boyfriend before Noah came along.”
Jason nods, his expression sober. “Doug Mason. He’s on the football team. I always liked him, but he’s kind of a jerk.”
“Doug wasn’t happy when she broke up with him.” The lawyer grimaces. “Even less so when he found out she was seeing this Amish kid.”
“Some people at school think it’s weird that Ashley’s going out with an Amish guy,” Jason tells us. “They think the relationship is cringey. But Doug’s a bully.”
“He got into trouble for hazing one of his freshman teammates last year,” Craig says.
I divide my attention between the two of them. “Has Doug Mason had problems with Noah Kline or Ashley?”
The two exchange a look, then the attorney scowls. “I saw some changes in Ashley right about the time they broke up. She wouldn’t talk about it. Said everything was fine.” He sighs unhappily, his expression contrite. “I went through her phone. I just about hit the roof when I saw the texts Mason had sent her. That little shit called her a few choice names.”
“Like what?”
“Uppity bitch. Cock tease.” He growls at the back of his throat. “Once I got myself calmed down, I talked to Doug’s father and it stopped.”
“How long ago?”
“A couple months.” He heaves another sigh. “Look, I’m not a big fan of her relationship with this Amish kid. He seems decent enough and I don’t have anything against the Amish, but those people are backward. They only go to the eighth grade. The boy doesn’t even drive. None of that bodes well for a successful career.”
“Some of the Amish make a good living,” I point out. “Farmers. Cabinet makers. Furniture makers. Builders.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not the future I have in mind for my daughter. Honestly, I don’t know what she sees in him.”
* * *
I call Pomerene Hospital on my way back to the scene. After being put on hold twice, I finally get the emergency department. Due to HIPAA laws and privacy concerns, the nursing supervisor can’t tell me much. But because I’m law enforcement working an open case—and she knows me personally—she’s able to give me enough information so that I can proceed with the investigation.
The news isn’t good.
“Doctor Romer ran a CT scan and some x-rays upon arrival,” she tells me. “The boy’s got a skull fracture, Chief. Likely a traumatic brain injury. He’s in a coma.”
“What’s his condition?”
“Critical.”
My heart stutters in my chest. “Is he going to make it?”
“It’s going to be touch and go for the next twenty-four hours. They don’t want the brain to swell. That’s the main concern. That’s all the doc can say at this point.”
I wonder if Noah’s parents have arrived at the hospital. If they’ve heard the news. I think about Ashley Hodges. In the back of my mind I’m reminded that if the boy dies from his injuries, the investigation will take a much more aggressive path.
I thank her as I make the turn onto the township road. Tomasetti’s Tahoe and a Ford Focus I don’t recognize is parked on the shoulder. The men are standing in the field, a measuring tape stretched between them. I meet them at the spot where Noah Kline was found.
“This is Kyle Holloway,” Tomasetti says, motioning toward the man on the other end of the measuring tape. “He’s a patrol sergeant with the Wooster PD and specializes in accident reconstruction.”
“Thanks for coming.” I extend my hand and we shake.
Holloway is casually dressed in khaki slacks, rubber boots for the mud, and a plaid shirt covered by a Wooster Police Department windbreaker. He grins. “I owed John a favor.”
I give Tomasetti a look. “Lots of people owe you a favor.”
He shoots me a half smile. “How’s the kid?”
I tell him. “Things are going to heat up if he doesn’t pull through.”
“Especially in light of what we think happened here,” Holloway adds.
I look from man to man. “That sounds like maybe this isn’t a likely case of car surfing gone awry.”
Putting his hands on his hips, Holloway makes a sound of bemusement, and strides toward the road. “I’ve reconstructed hundreds of accidents in the thirty years I’ve been a cop, Chief Burkholder. In this case, I don’t have much in the way of skid marks or even a vehicle to look at. That said, we’re not operating completely blind, either. Judging from the tire ruts, the footprints, the other indentations and marks where I believe someone was on the ground, and the location of the blood, I think we’re dealing with extremely dangerous and irresponsible behavior.”
From his place on the shoulder of the road, Tomasetti indicates the skid marks in the gravel. “Vehicle went off the road here. Went through the ditch and entered the field.”
“There’s no indication he tried to stop, at least initially.” Holloway takes it from there, motions toward the ground where he’s standing. “I pick up the victim’s footprints here. He’s running. Moving fast. It looks like the vehicle came at him from behind.” He walks about twenty feet and points out a place where the mud is smooth and slightly compressed. “There’s no way to tell exactly what happened, but I believe the victim was struck at least twice by the vehicle. There are marks in the mud where he went down. There’s blood.”
For the span of a full minute the only sound comes from the caw of crows from the greenbelt and the bawling of a cow at the back of the Schlabach farm.
“Are you saying the driver of the car purposefully ran him down?” I hear myself ask.
Holloway nods. “I think that’s a likely scenario.”
“Is it possible this was a bunch of teenagers clowning around?” Tomasetti asks. “An inexperienced driver? Maybe they’d been drinking? Something like that?”
“Absolutely,” Holloway says. “This isn’t an exact science. We don’t have a lot to work with, so this is basically theory.”
“It would be helpful to see the vehicle,” Tomasetti says.
Holloway sighs. “Whatever the case, we’re dealing with a hit and run. Someone struck that kid and left him lying in the field. If he dies, even if this was an accident, the driver could be facing a vehicular homicide charge.”
* * *
Half an hour later, Tomasetti and I are in the Explorer heading toward Painters Mill. We left Skid at the scene. Over the next few hours, the BCI crime scene investigator will photograph and videotape the area, and plaster the tire ruts in an effort to pick up tread and any marks that are unique to the tires. If at some point we’re able to identify the driver or the vehicle, we’ll have the plasters on hand to run a comparison.
I call Mona and ask her to set up a tip line. “There’s a five-hundred-dollar reward for any information that leads to an arrest and conviction.”
“Got it, Chief.”
“Thanks.” I end the call to find Tomasetti contemplating me.
“Tell me about Doug Mason,” he says.
“He’s the ex-boyfriend of the girl Noah Kline was with last night.”
“He the jealous type?”
“And a bully, evidently.” I tell him about the text messages Craig Hodges found on his daughter’s phone.
“Nasty stuff,” he says.
“Especially after two months have passed.”
“Long time to stew.”
“Or boil over.”
Doug Mason and his parents live in Painters Mill in a nicely renovated older home set on a large lot with a dozen or so mature trees. I park curbside and find two teenaged boys and an adult male throwing a football in the front yard.
“Someone’s got some nice wheels.” Tomasetti points to the silver muscle car sitting in the driveway. “Looks just washed.”
“Not the kind of vehicle a dad would drive,” I say as we get out.
The three men stop what they’re doing and watch us approach.
“Christopher Mason?” I say when we’re a couple yards away.
The man tosses the football to one of the boys, his eyes flicking from me to Tomasetti and back to me. “I’m Chris Mason.”
I show him my badge. “I’d like to talk to you and your son, Doug, if you have a few minutes.”
“What’s this about?”
“There was an incident on Township Road 4 last night involving Noah Kline,” I tell him, keeping it purposefully vague. You never know when someone you’re talking to is going to volunteer information they couldn’t know—unless they were at the scene.
“Heard about that,” the man says. “How’s the kid?”
“Critical. It’s serious.”
He jerks his head knowingly, suspicious of us now, unsympathetic about the injured boy. “I figured you’d show up sooner or later.”
Tomasetti speaks for the first time. “Why’s that?”
“Evidently, you talked to Craig Hodges.”
Neither Tomasetti nor I say anything.
As if on cue, Chris Mason keeps talking. “Look, just because Doug dated Ashley doesn’t mean he had anything to do with what happened to that Amish kid. Doug’s a good boy. He learned an important lesson with Ashley, and he’s moved on.”
“Do you mind if we ask him a couple of quick questions?” I ask.
I see him working that over, trying to come up with an excuse to refuse. Before he can say anything, the two boys saunter over to us, expressions curious. They’re close in age, physically fit, their dark hair damp with sweat and sticking to their foreheads.
Still holding the football, the oldest of the two boys eyes us suspiciously. “What’s going on?”
Chris Mason introduces him. “This is my oldest son, Doug.” He’s a nice-looking kid with baby blue eyes, ham-sized shoulders, and a face that exudes boy-next-door charm.
“And this is Duke, my youngest.”
Duke is wearing a Painters Mill High School Football jersey. He’s the taller of the two, with angular arms and legs, and feet he hasn’t quite grown into.
Both boys mutter an unenthusiastic hello.
Tomasetti jumps into good cop mode. “That’s a nice-looking GTO,” he says motioning toward the muscle car. “1969?”
Doug Mason perks up. “Seventy.” Though he’s apprehensive about our presence, he grins, his pride in his car shining through the veil of nerves. “Me and Dad restored it.”
“Four fifty-five?” Tomasetti asks, referring to the size of the engine.
The boy’s chest puffs out. “Four hundred.”
Tomasetti whistles and smiles back, his new best friend, rapport successfully built.
“Looks like you just washed it,” I say.
“Been raining, so . . .”
The father sighs, letting us know he’s not pleased with my comment.
“Doug, can you tell us where you were last night?” I ask.
“What?” The boy looks from me to his dad.
“Noah Kline was in some kind of accident,” his father tells him.
“Oh. Wow.” The boy’s forehead wrinkles. “How bad?”
“He’s in the hospital,” I tell him.
“Shit.” As if realizing the response is inappropriate, he ducks his head, slants a look at his dad. “Sorry.”
I repeat the question.
Doug shrugs. “I went to homecoming like everyone else.”
“Alone?”
“He’s got a girlfriend,” his younger brother interjects. “Laura Simms. You can check.”
Doug shoots his brother an annoyed look. “Jeez, shut up, dude.”
I watch both boys for any telltale signs of deceit, but see nothing overt. “After homecoming, what time did you and Laura leave?”
“Eleven or so. She had to be home by eleven thirty.”
“Where did you go after you dropped her off?” I ask.
Duke makes a sound of irritation. “Are you saying my brother did something to Noah Kline?”
Tomasetti skewers him with a dark look.
“Doug is so over Ashley.” The young man rolls his eyes, teenager style. “Look, everyone’s wondering why she’s going out with some Amish dude. I mean, she’s straight fire and he doesn’t even drive a car.”
“That’s enough, son,” Chris Mason says mildly.
“Maybe they ought to look at Ashley’s old man,” the boy says. “I don’t want to throw shade on the guy, but Jason says his dad hates it that Little Miss Perfect is going out with someone who only went to the eighth grade.”
“Jason?” I ask.
“Ashley’s brother,” the boy tells me.
“Duke, go inside and help your mother with lunch.” Chris Mason points at the house. “Now.”
Giving us a final, withering look, the boy starts toward the house.
The elder Mason watches his son depart and then turns his attention back to us, his expression penitent. “Sorry, he’s a little protective of his brother.”
That’s not the way I would describe the boy’s behavior, but I hold my silence. Tomasetti and I turn our attention to the other boy.
Doug Mason swallows. “Am I in trouble?”
“Where did you go after homecoming?” I ask.
“Me and Laura sat in the driveway for about fifteen minutes. Uh . . . you know . . .” He blushes. “Then I drove back into town and met a couple of guys at the sub place. We ate and goofed off.” He rattles off the names of his friends.
I jot them down. “You went home after that?”
“Well, the engine was ticking, so I drove around a while. You know, listening, trying to figure out what it was.” He shrugs. “Then I went home and hit the sack.”
“What time was that?” I ask.
“Twelve thirty or so.”
About the time Noah Kline was walking home.
“Have you ever had any problems with Noah Kline?” I ask. “Any arguments or disagreements?”
“No, ma’am.”
“What about Ashley? Did the two of you ever argue?” I ask, aware that Tomasetti has made his way over to the car. He runs his hand over the gleaming hood as if in admiration, but I know he’s checking for damage, dents or chips in the paint—or blood.
The boy glances from Tomasetti to his father, and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Look, I didn’t like it when we broke up. I was pissed when I found out she was seeing Noah Kline. I mean, he’s frickin’ Amish. So I sent her a couple of texts. I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“Did you break up because of Noah?” I ask.
He grimaces, looks down at his sneakers. “She broke up with me, so you’ll have to ask her.”
“Were you jealous when you realized she and Noah were going out?” I ask.
“No, ma’am.” He says the words with gusto, but he’s not a very good liar.
“Were you on Township Road 4 at any time in the last twenty-four hours?” I ask.
“I don’t go out that way.” The boy’s eyes go wide. “You think I ran him over?”
“I think I want you to answer the question.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.” He steps back, looks up at his father. “Dad? What the hell?”
“You got your answer, Chief Burkholder.” Chris Mason sets his hand on his son’s shoulder and squeezes. “Doug had nothing to do with the Kline boy getting hurt. If you have any more questions, we’ll do this with an attorney present.”
I close my notebook. “Thank you for your time.”
A few minutes later, Tomasetti and I are back in the Explorer. “What do you think?” I ask.
“I think he just reminded me why I don’t trust any male under the age of thirty,” he grumbles.
“Jealousy can be a powerful motive.”
“Teenagers don’t have the strongest impulse control to begin with.”
“In light of the texts he sent Ashley Hodges, I’d say he just moved to the top of my suspect list.”
* * *
According to Mervin Kline, Benjamin Weaver had once been best friends with Noah, but the two boys had some sort of falling out. Located ten miles west of Painters Mill, Killbuck is a small village with a population of about eight hundred souls. Benjamin lives a few miles out of town in a small house nestled in the hills along scenic State Route 520. The driveway is a gauntlet of potholes and the occasional piece of junk. An older sedan sits next to a beat-up looking Jeep Grand Cherokee. A chain-link fence encloses the front yard that’s been stomped to dirt. A sorrel gelding watches us from a loafing shed surrounded by livestock panels at the back of the house.
“Jeep is covered with mud,” Tomasetti says as he opens the door.
He gets out and starts toward the vehicle. I’m on my way to the house when a twentysomething man wearing insulated coveralls and a ski cap comes through the door. He does a double take upon spotting me.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
I have my badge at the ready. “Benjamin Weaver?”
His eyes flick from me to Tomasetti, who’s a few yards away looking at the Jeep, and back to me. “I’m Ben.”
“Do you know Noah Kline?”
“Yeah, I know him.” He grimaces. “I heard what happened. You guys find out who did it?”
I’m thinking about the grapevine, how quickly news travels, and I wonder if it’s common knowledge that the incident wasn’t an accident—or if this young man knows more than he should. “We’re talking to everyone who knows him.” I pause, watching him. He seems more interested in Tomasetti and his proximity to the Jeep.
“How do you know Noah?” I ask.
His gaze shifts back to me. “I’ve known Noah since we were kids. We grew up together. We’ve been friends for years.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“A couple of months ago.”
“That’s a long time not to see your best friend,” I say.
A cognizance flits across his expression. “I reckon you talked to his datt.”
“I understand you had an argument with Noah.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.” He heaves a sigh of resignation. “Yeah, I’m pissed at Noah. But I had nothing to do with what happened to him.”
“Where were you last night?”
“I drove down to the Brass Rail, had a few drinks, and played some pool.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah, I was alone.”
Tomasetti climbs the steps to the porch and joins us. Ben looks at him, curious, a little intimidated. Tomasetti doesn’t identify himself, never takes his eyes off the young man, saying nothing about the Jeep.
“What was the argument about?” I ask.
“He courted my little sister, Loretta, for a while.” The corners of his mouth turn down, as if he’s swallowed something foul. “She was only sixteen at the time. Shy. Sweet. He was her first boyfriend and she was crazy about him. I was cool with the whole thing. I mean, Noah’s a good guy, right?” Shaking his head, he looks down at his work boots. “Or so I thought.”
“What happened?”
“He slept with her.” Emotions akin to anger and shame flash in his eyes, and I think about how deep some Amish mores go. “She thought they were going to get married. Then all of a sudden he’s with that English girl and it’s like my sister doesn’t exist. It just about killed her, and it sure didn’t do shit for her reputation. You know how the Amish are.”
“Did you confront him?” I ask.
“I called him out on what he did. If you want to call that a confrontation, go for it.”
“Did the argument get physical?”
“No, but if he’d pushed it, I’d have happily beat his ass.”
Tomasetti rolls his eyes. “How did your Jeep get so muddy?”
“I went coyote hunting down to the wildlife area two nights ago. Got stuck out by the creek.”
“Anyone go with you?”
“Nope.” He looks from Tomasetti to me and back to Tomasetti. “Like I said, I didn’t have nothing to do with what happened to Noah.”
“So you say.”
“So I say.” He looks away, zips up his coveralls. “Look, I gotta get to work. Are we done here?”
* * *
Ashley Hodges was running late. Usually, she left her volunteer job at the Buckeye Ridge Home for the Retired at 6:00 P.M. Tonight, Mrs. Henderson, who was legally blind and her favorite resident, had wanted her to read the final chapter of the mystery novel they’d been reading for the last week and Ashley hadn’t been able to say no. Though it was nearly dark now, Ashley didn’t mind. She’d been enjoying the book, too. Besides, staying busy kept her mind off Noah.
She worried about him every minute of every day—and she missed him so much she could barely stand it. She’d called the hospital four times today. Each time the news was the same: He’s in critical condition. Since she wasn’t family, it was all they could tell her. Tomorrow, she was going to ask her mom to drive her out to the Kline farm so she could talk to Noah’s parents. If only he would wake up so she could talk to him, see his smile . . .
She was a few blocks from home, walking fast, embroiled in her thoughts, backpack straps digging into her shoulders, when the shadow came at her out of nowhere. Strong arms wrapped around her, trapping her arms at her sides, and swung her around with such force that she lost her balance.
Ashley yelped. A thousand thoughts raced through her mind. She hit the ground on her back, the backpack jabbing her spine. Then the man was on top of her, straddling her. Panic sparked and then a steady stream of terror had her struggling mindlessly against a heavy body and muscles that were incredibly strong. A tidal wave of horror washed over her at the sight of the mask. It was a skull mask with black eyes and hit or miss teeth.
She screamed, but it was cut short when he slapped a leather-clad hand over her mouth hard enough to cut her lip. “Shut the hell up and listen!” he hissed.
Heart slamming against her ribs, adrenaline pumping pure fear through her blood, Ashley tried to dislodge him. She lashed out, grabbing the material of his coat, and shoving at him with both hands—to no avail.
“Cut it out!” Drawing back, he slapped her.
Ashley went still, breathing hard.
He shoved a finger in her face. “You keep your fucking mouth shut or we will shut it for you permanently,” he snarled. “You got that?”
Ashley stared up at him, comprehension and dread snaking through her. She could barely see him through the tears, the veil of shock. Still, she knew what he wanted, and she nodded.
“Say it.” Giving her face a final, vicious squeeze, he removed his hand. “Do it!”
“I won’t tell,” she choked.
He got to his feet, looking at her, the mask macabre in the semidarkness. He pointed at her, a silent and effective threat, and then he turned and ran.
* * *
I’m in my office at the police station, running the names of the players involved in the Kline case through OHLEG and LEADS, law enforcement databases that will tell me if any of them have criminal records. Noah Kline. Ashley Hodges. Doug Mason. Duke Mason. Benjamin Weaver. Not a single one of them has ever been in trouble with the police.
I’ve filled several pages of my legal pad with names and motives and possibilities. The name that keeps bubbling to the top of the list is Doug Mason. The jealous ex-boyfriend. Is he vindictive enough to have run down Noah Kline? The two boys he claimed to be with at the sub shop after homecoming corroborated his story. Still, there’s an hour or so that’s unaccounted for. Did Doug drive around, listening to some mysterious “tick” in his car? Or did he go looking for Noah Kline and act on some dark impulse he couldn’t control?
“Chief?”
I look up to see my second-shift dispatcher, Jodie Metzger, standing in the doorway. “I just took a call from Ashley Hodges. She’s in the park. Hysterical. Says someone attacked her.”
I get to my feet. “Is she hurt?”
“Says she’s just shaken up.”
“How long ago?”
“A minute.”
Grabbing my keys, I head toward the door. “Who’s on duty?”
“Skid.”
“Tell him to meet me there.”
* * *
Creekside Park is a pretty little green space that’s been around as long as I can remember. There’s a playground complete with a swing set, a slide, and old-fashioned monkey bars. A fountain featuring a giant catfish spurting water draws kids to splash around in the summer months. A small, trickling stream spanned by a wood footbridge cuts through the park’s center. All six acres of it is jam-packed with stately hundred-year-old trees.
I’m not sure what to expect when I arrive. Generally speaking, Painters Mill is a safe town; parents don’t hesitate to let their kids play outside or walk to and from school. My first thought is that whatever happened to Ashley Hodges is related to what happened to Noah Kline. But how?
The final vestiges of dusk hover above the treetops to the west when I pull into the park. The shadows swallow me as I idle along the narrow asphalt roadway. There’s no sign of Skid. I hit my high beams and keep an eye out for Ashley.
I find her walking alongside the road, huddled in a hoodie, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle. She startles upon spotting my headlights, then recognizing my vehicle, raises both hands and runs toward me.
I stop and pick up my radio mike. “Ten twenty-three,” I say, letting Dispatch know I’ve arrived on scene. “I’ve got her. Stand by.” I’m about to hail Skid when his flashing lights appear in my rearview mirror.
Grabbing my Maglite, I get out and start toward Ashley. “What happened?” I ask. “Are you all right?”
She stumbles toward me, sobbing. “Chief Burkholder!”
I set the beam of my flashlight on her, catch a glimpse of a ravaged face streaked with tears. A thin line of blood on the right side of her mouth. She reaches me, throws her arms around my waist and clings.
“Someone attacked me,” she chokes.
Her entire body trembles. Wanting to get a better look at her, I ease her to arm’s length. “Are you injured?”
“No,” she says in a tremulous voice.
Vaguely, I’m aware of Skid coming up behind me, listening, the beam of his flashlight illuminating the surrounding trees and brush.
“Do you know who it was?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “He wore a mask.”
“Did he have a weapon?”
“I don’t think so.”
“How long ago?” I ask.
“Just a few minutes.”
“Where did he go?”
“He ran into the park.” She motions toward the playground.
“What was he wearing?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she cries. “Just . . . a skull mask. And a hoodie, I think. Dark. Blue or black.”
I glance at Skid. “Go.”
Nodding, he takes off in the direction she indicated.
I speak into my radio and hail the sheriff’s department. “Ten forty-eight A,” I say, using the code for suspicious person. “Male. Dark hoodie. Skull mask. Creekside Park.”
I turn my attention back to Ashley. “Did you call your parents?”
“My mom’s on the way.” She swipes tears from her face. “I can’t believe this happened.”
The sound of tires alerts us to an approaching vehicle. I turn, see the white Escalade pull up beside my Explorer. The door swings open and Belinda Hodges gets out.
“Mom!”
“Sweetheart!” The woman runs toward us, heels clicking against the asphalt. “What on earth happened?”
She reaches us, gets a look at her daughter’s face, and gasps. “Oh my God! Your lip is bleeding.” Pulling her daughter into her arms, she looks at me. “Who did this?”
As the girl tells her mother about the attack, a Holmes County sheriff’s deputy rolls up behind my Explorer. I go to him, give him the basics, and ask him to stay with the women while I assist Skid.
I take off at a jog and enter the trees, speaking into my shoulder mike. “Skid, what’s your twenty?”
“At the fountain, heading west.”
“I’m ten seven-six,” I say, letting him know I’m on my way.
I catch up with him at the footbridge that spans the creek. “Anything?” I ask.
“Nada,” he says.
Our boots echo hollowly against the wood planks as we cross the bridge, the twin beams of our flashlights bobbing, not quite penetrating the shadows. I hear the gurgle of water below. Around us, the trees whisper and sway.
On the other side of the bridge, we pause, listening, shining our flashlights into the thick darkness ahead. We’ve just started down the trail when a flicker of light through the trees snags my attention.
“Kill your light,” I whisper, dousing my own.
Skid reacts quickly, and we’re plunged into darkness. He comes up beside me. “I saw it,” he says quietly. “Fifty yards, straight east, on the path.”
We watch for a moment and sure enough the light flickers again. “He’s running,” I whisper. “Let’s go get him.”
We charge into the darkness. Skid pulls ahead quickly. I let him, speak in a low voice into my lapel mike. “Ten seven eight,” I say, using the ten code for need assistance. “Ten eighty-eight.” Suspicious activity. “Subject is on the west side of Creekside Park. Past the footbridge. Westbound. Unit intercept at Weisenbarger Street.”
Skid reaches the end of the asphalt and keeps going. It’s too dark to see, so I flick on my Maglite. Trying to anticipate where the subject will go next, I cut slightly right, plunge headlong into the ditch, and enter the woods. Branches tear at my jacket as I run. The beam of my flashlight bounces with every stride, light playing crazily over the ground and brush and branches. I can’t see Skid, but I catch the occasional flicker of his light; I hear him breaking through brush a few yards ahead and to my left.
I’m running full out when I reach a secondary trail, and I pour on the speed.
“Stop!” I hear Skid shout. “Police Department! Stop!”
He’s fifteen yards away from me now, outrunning me. I follow the sound of his footsteps. Thrusting my Maglite forward, I squint into the darkness, trying to spot the subject through the thick foliage.
“Halt!” Skid shouts. “Painters Mill PD! Stop!”
The curse that follows tells me our subject doesn’t heed the order.
Weisenbarger Street lies a hundred yards ahead. It’s a through street with easy access to the highway. Chances are, the son of a bitch is trying to reach a vehicle, either his own or someone is waiting for him.
I run another hundred yards, fight my way through a tangle of low-slung branches. I’m out of breath, a stitch forming in my side. The sound of an engine roars in the distance. I look up to see the flicker of headlights through the trees.
I reach Skid, who has stopped. Huffing and puffing, he bends, sets his hands on his knees, speaks into his shoulder mike. “Subject is on Weisenbarger,” he pants. “In a vehicle. Southbound.”
A Holmes County deputy’s voice cracks a response over the radio, letting us know he’s still a mile or so away.
“Damn.” Skid shakes his head, his eyes meeting mine. “Son of a bitch runs like a damn cheetah.”
“Or else we’re old and out of shape.”
He laughs. “Not a chance.”
Using our Maglites, we head back toward our vehicles. Midway there, I spot something shiny and out of place on the ground, half buried in fallen leaves.
I shift my beam to the object. “What’s that?”
Skid toes away the leaves. “Pocketknife. Blade is out.” His gaze meets mine, unspoken words floating between us.
“He was armed.” I kneel for a closer look. It’s an expensive-looking knife, about eight inches long, including the handle. “Nice of him to leave it for us.”
“I was just thinking the same thing.” He shifts the beam of his flashlight. “What’s that on the blade?”
“Some kind of inscription.” I move closer and read. “Savage.”
We exchange a look.
“What the hell does that mean?” he asks. “A name?”
“Maybe.” Pulling out my cell, I snap several photos. Then I remove a small paper bag from my duty belt and use my gloved hand to work the knife into it.
I look at Skid. “Check to see if there are any residents in Painters Mill with that last name.”
“You got it.”
“I’ll check with the knife shop in the morning. See if it was purchased there.”
As we walk back to our vehicles, I find myself thinking about Ashley Hodges. I don’t believe this was a random attack, but why would someone accost her? What was their motive? Is the incident related to what happened to Noah Kline? If so, why is someone targeting this couple? I think about the people who may have had reason to harm Noah Kline—or at least want him out of the picture. Doug Mason. Ben Weaver. Maybe even Craig Hodges. All of them are likely physically fit enough to outrun the likes of Skid and me. But how does the name Savage fit into the equation? Or does it?
* * *
The Cutting Edge knife shop is located in downtown Painters Mill, a block from the police station. I’m waiting for the owner when he opens the doors at 10:00 A.M. It doesn’t take long to ascertain he sold the knife.
“It’s a Smith & Wesson first-response drop-point plain-blade pocketknife.” He takes the bag containing the knife and turns it over in his hands. “Very popular, especially around Christmas.”
“Do you recall who bought this one?” I ask.
“No, but I can look.” He disappears into a back room behind the counter and returns with a sleek iPad tablet. He slides his index finger over the screen. “Here we go. Christine McDowell. Lives right here in Painters Mill. She bought five of them.”
“That’s a lot of knives.” I think about that a moment. “Were all of them inscribed?”
He taps the screen. “I engraved all five knives for her.”
“How were the other four engraved?”
“That’s why I remember the sale. I thought it was odd that all five knives had the same engraving: Savage.”
* * *
Christine McDowell is eighteen years old and lives in a small apartment on Ivester Court two blocks off the traffic circle. She graduated from Painters Mill High in the spring and works as a cashier at Fox’s Pharmacy.
It’s nearly 11:00 A.M. when I park in the driveway behind an older Camry, take the steps up to Apartment 2, and knock.
A muffled “shit” sounds from the other side of the door. The deadbolt snicks and I find myself looking at a petite redhead with large blue eyes, fifteen pounds of extra weight stuffed into faded bell bottom jeans, and an expression that has bad attitude written all over it.
She sighs. “Look, if this is about the parking tickets—”
“This isn’t about tickets,” I cut in. “Can I come in?”
“Um.” Her eyes flick sideways as if she’s trying to remember if she left anything unseemly in plain view. “Sure.”
I enter a slightly messy apartment that smells of fast food and the barely there redolence of cigarettes. I cut to the chase. “I understand you bought some knives from The Cutting Edge a few months ago.”
“Knives?” She blinks, tries to assume an innocent countenance, but she doesn’t quite manage. “Hmmm.”
I pull out my cell and show her an enlarged photo of the knife. “You purchased five of them. Including this one.”
“Oh, that.” Her laugh is as phony as the innocent expression. “They were on sale for twenty-five bucks each. I sold them online for forty. Made a nice little profit.”
“Who did you sell them to?” I pull out my notebook and pen. “I need names.”
“I don’t remember.” A wiliness flickers in her eyes followed by a flash of amusement. She’s playing with me, enjoying this. “It was months ago. I sell a lot of stuff.”
“Did you keep any paperwork?”
“I’m not a paperwork kind of girl.” One side of her mouth curves. “Sorry.”
“If you bought them to sell, why did you have them engraved?”
“I dunno.” She lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “Makes them more valuable.”
“All five knives were engraved with the name Savage. I don’t see how that could make them more valuable.”
“People like stuff like that. You know, badass.”
I stare hard at her. “You realize I don’t believe a word that’s come out of your mouth.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.” Her lips twitch.
“You know it’s illegal to lie to the police, don’t you?” I slide the notebook back into my pocket.
She shrugs. “I’m not worried.”
“Do you know Noah Kline?”
“Never heard of him.”
I nod, take a moment to look around the apartment on the outside chance I’ll spot something illegal—a joint or some drug paraphernalia—but there’s nothing there.
I turn my attention back to the girl. “If I were you, I’d take care of those parking tickets.”
* * *
I arrive at the police station to news that Noah Kline is still in critical condition and shows no sign of emerging from his coma. I hope this case doesn’t turn into a homicide investigation.
In the last hour, I’ve run Christine McDowell through LEADS to check for warrants and any criminal history, but her record is clean. I even braved her social media accounts in the hope she posted something that might be helpful to the case, but there was nothing there.
Who the hell runs down an eighteen-year-old Amish kid, leaves him for dead, and attacks his girlfriend?
I pick up my cell and look at the photo of the knife. Savage. What does it mean?
“Chief?”
I look up to find my first-shift dispatcher, Lois Monroe, standing in the doorway of my office. “You’ve got a visitor.”
Ashley Hodges appears beside her. The first time I met her, she looked like the all-American high school girl: bright eyed and engaged, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Now, there are dark circles beneath troubled eyes. A bruise next to her mouth. She looks as if she hasn’t slept in days.
“Come in and have a seat.” I nod at Lois and then turn my attention to Ashley, motioning toward the visitor chair adjacent to my desk. “Did your parents bring you?” I ask.
The girl settles into the chair and shakes her head. “I rode my bike.”
I nod and wait.
Folding her hands in her lap, she looks down at them. “I think I screwed up.”
“How so?”
A pause follows, as if her list of mistakes is so long she doesn’t know where to begin. After a moment, she glances toward the door, as if she’s frightened someone might overhear what she’s about to say, and then she whispers, “Someone is sending me notes.”
“What kind of notes?” I ask.
Reaching into the pocket of her hoodie, she removes two folded scraps of paper and passes them to me. “I only have two. I threw away the first one.”
The paper is plain and unlined, torn from a notebook, and folded once. Using the tip of my pen, I open the one on top and read.
WE DON’T APPROVE.
The words are printed in what looks like black marker. All caps. “Any idea who it came from?” I ask.
Without looking at me, she shakes her head. “No.”
“Where did you find it?”
“One was in my locker at school. The other one was tucked into my American History book. I don’t know when or how it got there. The first one—the one I threw away—was in a regular envelope in the mailbox at home.”
I go to the second note. YOU’RE A DIME. DITCH THE CRINGEY AMISH.
I look at Ashley. “Dime?”
She frowns, rolls her eyes. “It’s kind of a slang word for ‘A perfect ten.’”
I stare at the words, something tickling the back of my brain. CRINGEY. I’ve heard the word before.
“Do you recognize the handwriting?” I ask.
“No.”
“How did your parents react?”
“I didn’t tell them.”
“Why not?”
A brief hesitation and then she raises her gaze to mine. “It would just give them one more reason to forbid me to see Noah. They already don’t approve. My dad hates him because he’s Amish. He has all these plans for me. College. Law school.”
I sigh. “Is that why you didn’t come to me until now?”
She jerks her head. “This is all my fault. If I’d come to you right away, maybe none of this would have happened.”
I give her a moment, then ask, “What did the first note say?”
“Something like: We got eyes on him. I’m paraphrasing, but . . .” Leaning forward, she puts her face in her hands and begins to cry. “I never dreamed someone would actually do something so awful.”
“Ashley, can you think of anyone who might’ve written those notes?”
She gives a vigorous shake of her head. “Who does something like that, Chief Burkholder? I mean, Noah is incredibly sweet.” Fierceness and defiance flash in her eyes. “He may have only gone to the eighth grade, but he’s smart. And as far as his career? How many seventeen-year-old kids have built a room full of beautiful furniture with their own hands?”
Something akin to admiration flutters in my chest. I think of my own teen years and try to recall if any of my early relationships were ever so crystal clear.
I touch the note with the tip of my pen. “Ashley, do you know anyone with the last name Savage?”
The girl goes perfectly still. She looks at me, her expression startled, her mouth open slightly. “No,” she says after a moment.
For a full minute, neither of us speaks. I let the silence ride, watching her grow increasingly uncomfortable.
“You’re not a very good liar,” I say.
She drops her gaze to her hands, her fingers tangling nervously in her lap.
I dig my cell from my pocket, swipe to the photo of the knife, and hold it out for her to see. “I found this on the trail the night you were attacked. The knife was open. He had a weapon, Ashley. If you have any idea who this might belong to, you need to tell me right now.”
“It’s not a name.” She whispers the words without looking at me.
“What then?”
“It’s a . . . clique. At school. The Savages. I mean, it’s an urban legend kind of thing. A ghost group or something. Everyone knows about them, but nobody knows who they are or if they really even exist.”
“I need names,” I tell her.
“No one knows who they are.”
“What kind of group are we talking about?”
“They’re haters. Bullies. A lot of what they do is online. Anonymous, you know.”
“Who do they bully?”
“Anyone they don’t like. Take your pick.” She gives a sour laugh. “They’re equal-opportunity haters, Chief Burkholder. It doesn’t matter who they are. Anyone who rubs them the wrong way or crosses them or pisses them off. They’re vicious and secretive.”
“Have you ever been threatened?”
“Not until now.” She can’t quite hide the shiver that runs through her. She raises knowing eyes to mine. “Do you think they’re involved in what happened to Noah?”
“Maybe. Or what happened to you.”
She looks at her hands again, saying nothing.
Something there, I think. Something she doesn’t want to talk about.
“Do you know Christine McDowell?” I ask.
“I know of her.” She makes a face. “She graduated last year. She’s kind of sketchy.”
“Does she have anything to do with the Savages?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is there anyone else I might talk to?”
“I just don’t know.” She sighs. “I’m sorry.”
“All right.” I motion toward the phone on my desk. “Call your parents. I’ll load up your bike and drive you home.”
* * *
I try to get Ashley to open up and talk to me during the drive to her house, but she doesn’t bite. I suspect she knows more than she’s telling me—about the Savages or maybe even the attack in the park—but every time I broach the subject, she shuts down. Why would a young woman who claims to be in love with the victim of a crime refuse to tell the police what she knows?
I’m in my office at the police station, thinking about the case. I’m missing something, but it’s on the edge of my brain. My conversation with Ashley Hodges keeps running through my mind.
. . . it’s an urban legend kind of thing. A ghost group or something. Everyone knows about them, but nobody knows who they are or if they really even exist.
I pull the two notes that were sent to her from my desk drawer and set them on my desk.
WE DON’T APPROVE.
YOU’RE A DIME. DITCH THE CRINGEY AMISH.
Ashley told me she threw away the first note, but it said something like:
WE GOT EYES ON HIM.
Were they threatening Noah Kline because he’s Amish? Because he’s Amish and dating a popular non-Amish girl? Something else?
Opening my desk drawer, I pull out a photo of the knife and set it beside the notes. I look at the engraving.
SAVAGE.
Not a name, Ashley had told me, but a group of people. A gang. A clique. The Savages. When I asked her for more, she’d clammed up.
“What don’t you want me to know?” I say aloud.
I open the folder containing my notes. Starting at the beginning, I read. I’m midway through my initial interview with Ashley when I remember where I heard the word “cringey.” It was when I spoke to her father, Craig Hodges, and her brother Jason, after they walked me to the front porch. Jason said something to the effect that people at school thought his sister’s relationship with an Amish boy was “cringey.”
“Her older brother,” I whisper as I flip to the next page.
Jason had all but pointed the finger at Doug Mason. I think about Ashley’s clamming-up and I realize if her older brother is involved in something iniquitous, she would likely try to protect him.
Is it possible Jason Hodges, the son of a prominent and well-respected attorney, is a member of some shadowy high school clique?
Only one way to find out. Grabbing my keys, I head for the door.
* * *
A few minutes later, I’m standing outside the ornate doors of the Hodges’ home. I’ve knocked twice, but no one has answered. A glance at my cell tells me it’s not yet 5:00 P.M. More than likely, both parents are still at work. I consider calling them, but realize this is a conversation I need to have in person. The same holds true for Jason. All the better if he doesn’t know I’m coming. I resolve to try them again in a couple of hours.
I’m nearly to the station when a call comes in from my dispatcher. “Chief, I’ve got a ten fifty PI,” she says, which is the code for traffic accident with a personal injury. “County Road 13, just past the railroad trestle.”
“Get an ambulance out there. I’m ten seven-six,” I say, letting her know I’m on my way. “Tell Skid to meet me there.”
“Ten four.”
Flipping on my emergency lights, I pull into the parking lot of the Lutheran Church on Main, hang a U-turn, and head out of town. I crank the speedometer up to sixty, blow the stop sign at Hogpath Road, and make the turn onto CR 13. The railroad trestle is a mile ahead, an ancient structure that stretches over the road like the skeleton of some long-dead dinosaur.
As I draw closer, I realize there’s no vehicle in sight. No sign that anyone is here at all. In the back of my mind, I wonder if Dispatch or the reporting party got the location wrong. I slow as I pass beneath the trestle. I’m reaching for my radio mike when my windshield explodes. Glass pelts my face, my jacket, shards clattering onto the dash. Something thumps onto the passenger seat. I stomp the brake. The Explorer skids into a spin. The ditch and trees loom. Too close. Too fast. I turn into the skid, but I’m not fast enough. The vehicle whips across the ditch, ends up in the field, facing the wrong direction.
Shaken, I unsnap my seatbelt, take a quick physical inventory. My face stings, probably due to small nicks from the glass. Otherwise, I’m uninjured. A section of railroad tie lies on the passenger seat, looking ominous and out of place. Someone threw it from the trestle . . .
I’ve ended up in a field in a foot of mud. The engine has died. I set my hands on the wheel, turn the key, but nothing happens. “Shit,” I mutter and get out.
This road dead-ends a couple of miles ahead. There’s not much through traffic. A chill scrapes up my spine when I realize it’s the perfect place for an ambush.
I hit my shoulder mike. “Skid. Expedite. Ten eighty-eight,” I say, reciting the code for suspicious activity. “Ten thirty-nine,” I add, letting him know it’s an emergency.
“ETA three minutes,” comes his reply.
I cross the ditch and step onto the road. There’s no one around. No accident. No sign of the ambulance yet. It’s so quiet I can hear the whisper of wind as it ebbs and flows through the trees. I glance up at the trestle. It’s about twenty feet high and has been abandoned for years. Northbound, the tracks head back to Painters Mill. South, they end up in Coshocton. In both directions, the tracks intersect roads. If someone tossed that piece of railroad tie, and wanted a quick getaway without being seen, all they would have to do is park to the north at Hogpath Road.
I hit my radio as I start up the steep embankment. “Skid, check for a ten forty-eight,” I say quietly, using the ten code for suspicious vehicle. “Railroad tracks at Hogpath Road.”
“Roger that,” he says.
The embankment that will take me up to the tracks is steep and tangled with high grass, bramble, and saplings. I’m midway up when I hear the pound of footsteps. Using my hands, I scramble to the top, glance left to see a figure running away. Adult male. Moving fast.
“Stop! Police Department! Halt!”
I break into a sprint, shout into my lapel mike. “Suspect northbound on the tracks! Moving toward Hogpath Road! Male! Dark hoodie!”
Vaguely, I’m aware of my radio lighting up with traffic. The sheriff’s deputy is en route. Skid is nearly to Hogpath Road. For now, I’m on my own.
“Stop!” I shout to the running man. “Painters Mill Police! Halt!”
He doesn’t even break stride.
I’m no slug when it comes to running, but he’s young and fast and pulls away from me at an astounding rate. He flies over the tracks, long strides, arms pumping, tossing the occasional glance over his shoulder. I’m thirty feet behind him and losing ground. In the back of my mind, I’m hoping Skid can get to him before this guy reaches a vehicle.
The man throws a look at me over his shoulder. His foot strikes a broken railroad tie that’s sticking up. He goes down hard enough to send gravel flying. He recovers quickly, scrambles to his feet. But the fall cost him precious seconds. I close the distance between us.
“Police!” I pant the word, not enough breath to shout. “Stop! Stop!”
The intersection is two hundred yards ahead. No sign of Skid. I’m just feet behind my suspect now, running full out. I pour on a burst of speed, dive for him, reach out, wrap my arms around his waist. He drags me a few feet, so I jam my shoulder into the small of his back and take him down in a flying tackle.
He hits the ground with so much force he skids through gravel. My chin slams against his spine. I try to lock my arms around him, but his sweatshirt rides up. My hands slide on skin slick with sweat. He twists, raises his leg, shoves me with his foot, and I lose my grip.
“Stop resisting!” I make another grab for him, miss, my hands fisting his shirt.
Fabric tears. He writhes, cursing, and tries to dislodge me. His knee comes up, slams into the side of my face. Pain zings along my jaw.
He flops onto his backside, raises both feet to kick me. I get my first good look at his face. Jason Hodges. I see panic and rage. Lips peeled back in a snarl, teeth clenched, spittle flying.
“Jason!” I shout. “Stop!”
The next thing I know Skid comes down on top of him, flattening him, using his momentum and weight to overpower him. “Turn over, dude,” he says. “Face down. Relax. Do it now.”
The boy tries to twist away, but we scramble, get him flipped onto his stomach. Once he’s prone, Skid sets his knee against the boy’s back. I grasp one of his arms, Skid gets the other and cuffs him.
“I didn’t do anything!” the boy shouts.
“Get up.” Skid rises.
Taking the boy’s arm, I help him to his feet. The three of us stand there for a moment, the only sound coming from our labored breathing. A few yards away, a Holmes County deputy approaches us from the trestle.
“Your parents aren’t going to be happy with you,” I say to the boy. “Neither is Ashley.”
The boy hangs his head. In shame or defeat, I can’t tell. Or maybe he’s downcast simply because he got caught.
“I think I need a lawyer,” he mutters.
“Yeah, I think you do, too,” I tell him.
Skid glances at me, touches the side of his face to indicate mine. “You’re bleeding, Chief. You need an ambulance?”
“Just a few nicks.” I tell him about the railroad tie being thrown from the trestle and shattering my windshield. “I could use a ride into town, though.”
“You got it,” he says and we start toward his cruiser.
* * *
A few hours later I’m sitting at my desk at the police station finishing my arrest report, trying to ignore the headache that’s taken up residence behind my left temple. Tomasetti sits in the visitor chair adjacent to my desk, trying not to rush me, not quite succeeding. I’m not sure who called him and told him what happened on County Road 13—that a railroad tie was thrown through my windshield—but he got there in a matter of minutes. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he laid eyes on me. He’s playing it cool now, but he hasn’t let me out of his sight.
A subdued Jason Hodges was transported to the juvenile detention center in Wooster. He admitted to throwing the railroad tie off the trestle. More importantly, he admitted to running down Noah Kline. All for the simple fact that he didn’t want his sister “wasting her time on some stupid Amish boy.” He claims he didn’t mean to hurt anyone; he’d only wanted to scare him. With the exception of his parents, no one believes him, including me.
The one subject he wouldn’t discuss was the Savages. As the reality of his situation sinks in, I believe he will eventually come clean and name names. Even if he doesn’t, I’ve no doubt I’ll get to the bottom of it and bring their shady little operation to an abrupt and final end.
In the coming days, Jason will likely be charged with a multitude of serious crimes, including aggravated assault of a peace officer and failure to stop after a motor vehicle accident with serious physical harm. That he’s a minor will be taken into consideration. Still, he’s facing serious charges that will affect him for a long time to come, possibly the rest of his life.
In the good news department, Noah Kline emerged from his coma a few hours ago. According to the nurse on duty, he’s conscious and asking for food. I figure that’s a good sign.
I would have finished my reports and corresponding paperwork by now, but I’ve had a slew of visitors in the last hour, including every member of my small department. I played down what happened. All of us know it could have been a hell of a lot worse.
I’ve just shut down my computer when Tomasetti leans forward and closes my laptop for me. “What do you say we head home, pull out a couple of steaks, and open that nice bottle of Carménère I’ve been saving?” he asks.
Rising, I loop the strap of my laptop case over my shoulder and round the desk. “I think that sounds like a good way to end what has been a very long day.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re easy?”
“Just you.”
“In that case.” Taking my hand, he pulls me close for a kiss and we go through the door.
* * *
One week later:
I’m in my cruiser, idling down Township Road 4 when I spot the buggy a quarter mile ahead. The sight of it makes me smile, so I head that way and pull up beside it.
The buggy stops. Noah Kline sits on the passenger side of the bench, grinning from ear to ear. His arm is in a cast. A bandage peeks out from beneath his hat at his left temple. Next to him, Ashley Hodges grips the leather reins, looking a little too excited to be in the driver’s seat. Her grin is as brilliant and wide as Noah’s.
“I heard they sprung you,” I say to Noah.
“Nurses got tired of feeding me, I reckon,” he replies.
I turn my attention to Ashley. I’ve only talked to her once since her brother was taken into custody a week ago. She gave me the names of some students who may be involved with the Savages. It wasn’t a pleasant exchange, but she stepped up to the plate and told me what I needed to know. The Savages no longer exist. Those who were part of the group know they’re on my radar—and had better keep their noses clean.
The arrest of Jason Hodges has been tough on his family. I’m hoping all of them have learned something. I hope Jason will take all of it to heart and get off the path he’s taken.
“Noah’s teaching me to drive the buggy,” Ashley announces.
“I see that.” I look at Noah and smile. “How’s she doing?”
Putting his arm around her, he hugs her against him. “She’s a natural.” His grin widens. “The horse likes her almost as much as I do.”
Ashley elbows him and I realize she isn’t wearing her usual hoodie, but a longish skirt with sneakers and a plain coat. It’s not exactly Amish, but it tells me she’d dressed to please Noah’s parents. The thought makes me smile. Young and with a lot to learn—but in love.
“Chief Burkholder.” Ashley sobers. “I owe you an apology. And an explanation.”
I nod, waiting, saying nothing.
“I didn’t know my brother was involved with that group. I mean, early on.” She seems to struggle through the words, figuring them out as she goes, trying to get them right, as if knowing they’re important. “Mom says I was probably in denial. I just couldn’t believe he’d get involved with a group like the Savages. By the time I faced the truth, it was too late to warn you.”
She pauses as if she wants to stop there, leave it at that. Noah touches her arm, his expression urging her to continue. “If you’d been hurt when my brother threw that railroad tie off the trestle . . . I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself.”
I nod. “When did you figure out he was involved?”
She draws a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “The night I was attacked. I recognized Duke Mason, even though he was wearing that mask. He’s on the football team with Jason. Duke’s younger, but they’re friends. That’s when I knew, when I should have told you. I’m really sorry I didn’t.”
I’ve already talked to Duke’s father. I didn’t pull any punches, and Chris Mason was concerned and furious. If he holds to our agreement, and I have no reason to believe otherwise, Duke Mason has already relinquished football for the school year in exchange for volunteer “community service” work in and around Painters Mill.
“Sometimes it’s difficult to believe when someone we love makes a mistake,” I tell her. “Especially if it’s ugly.”
“I don’t blame you for hating me. I don’t—”
I cut in before she can finish. “Hate never entered into it,” I say, meaning it.
She looks down at her hands. “What’s going to happen to my brother?”
I’ve been in contact with the juvenile court personnel in Wooster. Jason hasn’t yet been released to his parents, but he will be soon. “Once he’s released, he’ll have to return for some court appearances. The rest is up to the judge and juvenile court system. He may be incarcerated for a time, or he may get off with community service. The one thing I can tell you is that the judge and the court will be fair.”
She doesn’t make a sound, but tears begin to roll down her cheeks. “Okay.”
I give her a moment, use the time to get my words in order, hoping she’ll listen. “I learned a valuable lesson when I was about your age,” I tell her.
The girl raises her gaze to mine.
“You can’t control what other people do. The one thing you can control is how you react.” I let my expression soften. “It’s a good rule of thumb.”
She offers a tremulous smile, swipes the tears from her cheeks. “Thank you, Chief Burkholder.”
I can’t help but think about the challenges that lie ahead for this young couple. Even more if the relationship lasts and she becomes more involved with the Amish.
“Where are you two headed?” I ask.
Noah motions toward his parents’ farm ahead. “Ashley’s going to help me unload hay.”
“Since his arm’s in a sling,” she says, “I figure it’s the least I can do.”
“In that case, I’ll let you get to work.” I nod at Noah. “Tell your parents hello.”
He tips his hat at me. “I’ll do it.”
The two young people exchange a grin and the buggy pulls away. I’m smiling when I put the Explorer in gear and head toward Painters Mill.