We’re on our third game of checkers when I hear the mudroom door slam. The scuffle of boots sounds on the floor as Adam and Sammy come in from outside. As usual, the boy is talking excitedly, unfazed by the cold or that they spent the last hour using a heavy pickax to pound through several inches of pond ice so the cattle in the pasture can drink.
The boy rushes into the kitchen. His cheeks glow red. Black felt hat cocked back. Blond hair stuck to a sweaty forehead. Knitted scarf wrapped crookedly around his neck. “Katie, we have to get wood now. Datt says we’re going to take a load over to Amos Yoder. He said we can go ice skating after we get the wood chopped!”
Lizzie and Annie exchange looks and get to their feet, telling me the announcement is being taken very seriously. “Can we come, too, Datt?” asks Lizzie.
Adam steps through the doorway and takes in the scene. Beneath the stoic expression, I see his eyes soften at the sight of Gina and me sitting with the girls.
He addresses his daughter. “Do you think those skinny little arms of yours can swing the ax?” he asks.
Lizzie squeals. “Mine can!”
Annie breaks into laughter. “My muscles are big, too, Datt.”
“In that case, let’s go chop some wood,” he tells them. “I think Mr. Yoder is going to appreciate it.”
“I’ll get the snow shovel!” Sammy exclaims.
“Samuel, I think you should put a couple pieces of wood in the stove and get yourself warmed up first.”
Looking deflated because he’s been relegated to warming up, Sammy lowers his head and trudges toward the mudroom.
Annie goes to him, sets her hand on his arm. “Don’t worry, Sammy, I’ll get the wood chip and your skates.”
Gina gives them a puzzled look. “Wood chip?”
“The hockey puck,” I clarify.
“I thought the Amish were nonviolent,” Gina says.
The children toss her puzzled looks.
“Last time I went to a hockey game, there was more punching than playing,” she explains.
Sammy looks at his father. “They fight?”
Adam ruffles the boy’s hair. “Just for show,” he tells his son.
I look at Gina. “You’d better bring some extra padding just in case.”
Half an hour later, the five of us are bundled up and walking a narrow trail through the woods east of the house, boots crunching through deep snow. The greenbelt runs parallel with Painters Creek. In summer, the area is lush with old-growth trees and thick with brush, blackberry and raspberry. Today, it’s a monochrome world of gray-black trunks and tangled skeletal brush, all of it laden with snow.
The girls walk slightly ahead. They’re clad in black capes, knitted scarves and mittens, and winter bonnets. Their plain white leather skates are tied together and hanging at their sides. Sammy wears a black winter coat, a scarf, and a ski cap to keep his ears warm. He’s forged ahead, his skates draped over his shoulder. He’s dragging an old-fashioned sled behind him. A bundle of kindling and split logs rides the sleigh, telling me Adam’s planning to build a fire so the children—and the rest of us—can warm our hands and feet.
At the rear, Gina, Adam, and I tromp through knee-deep snow. It’s bitterly cold, the wind bearing a bite that nips at the bare skin of our faces. Adam carries a snow shovel for clearing the ice and a large ax for cutting wood. I lug the pickax he’ll use to test the thickness of the ice.
Around us, the woods are stunningly beautiful and hushed, as if the world we’ve entered is holding its breath in anticipation of our arrival. Several inches of snow have collected on the tree branches, weighing down the boughs of the firs. With every gust of wind, flurries shower down. In the distance, the woeful call of a bald eagle adds another layer of enchantment to an already magical moment.
The girls stop and look up, listening. Sammy slows, raising his eyes to the treetops. The eagle calls out again, a long, shrill call that’s part mournful, part alarm.
“You hear that?” Adam says quietly.
“Awdlah,” Sammy whispers. Eagle.
“Looking for a mouse,” Lizzie whispers.
We start walking again, cognizant of our surroundings. “Weatherman is calling for more snow tonight,” I say to no one in particular. “A couple of inches.”
“Just what we need.” Adam slants a look toward Gina. “You’re getting your problems worked out?”
“We’re getting to the bottom of it,” she says.
The two of them hold gazes for a beat too long. Interest flashes in Adam’s eyes, its intensity matching the I-dare-you glint in Gina’s. Annoyed, I shake my head. “Another day or two and we’ll be out of your hair,” I tell him.
Neither of them has anything to say about that.
I spoke with Tomasetti earlier. He left before dawn to make his meeting with Denny McNinch in Columbus. He encountered some problems on the rural roads, but once he reached the interstate, it was clear sailing, though only one lane was open. If the lull in the weather holds, I suspect by tomorrow Gina and I will be driving to Columbus, where she’ll be interviewed by detectives with the Franklin County Sheriff’s Department, someone from the district attorney’s office, and, likely, BCI. At some point, she’ll be arrested and booked into the county jail. Tomasetti and I will have some explaining to do. It’s not going to be pleasant for any of us.
The creek is a wide body of water, about forty feet across here in the lowest part of the floodplain. The surface is frozen solid, covered with snow, and scoured by the wind in places. To my left, where the creek narrows, I hear the rush of water beneath the ice as it runs fast over rock. On the opposite side of the creek, the trunk of a long-dead tree juts from the bank, reaching several feet into the air. In the summertime, it’s likely the perfect place for somersaults and diving. A fifty-gallon drum that’s been cut in half lies on its side several feet from the bank. Someone has shot holes in the base, and the rim is covered with soot, telling me it’s been used to burn kindling and wood for warming cold hands and feet.
“There’s too much snow on the ice for good skating.” Adam steps onto the surface of the creek, assessing the strength of the ice. He hands the snow shovel to his son. “Clear an area there in the middle so I can test it,” he says. “It’s been plenty cold, but always good to check.”
Gina and I stand on the bank and watch as he and Sammy walk carefully to the center of the ice. The snow gives them enough traction that they can walk without slipping. Putting his weight into the effort—all seventy pounds of him—Sammy clears an area with the shovel.
“It’s kind of bumpy,” the boy says, “but we can still skate, I think.”
Using the shovel, he uncovers a small area, exposing the surface. Adam kneels and begins to pound through the ice with the pickax. The sounds of the shovel and chopping echo off the treetops, sending a flock of crows flying. The girls have brushed snow from a log on the bank and remove their shoes, slip their feet into their skates, and begin to lace up.
The sight of the creek, the anticipation of the skate—or an impromptu hockey game—is a scene from my own childhood. We had a pond on our farm and I grew up skating in winter. Instead of a fifty-gallon drum, we usually built a fire on the bank. I vividly recall rushing through chores so my siblings, Jacob and Sarah, and I could steal away for a couple of hours of skating. Usually, it was just us; Mamm and Datt rarely accompanied us or watched us play. Jacob, who was the oldest and most responsible, always checked the thickness of the ice before any of us were allowed to skate. The one time Datt went with us, I got into trouble for playing too aggressively. I suspect he knew his daughter was competitive. He didn’t understand my drive to be the fastest or to win the game, sometimes at the expense of the other kids. Looking back, I wonder if he knew my competitive streak would cause problems later.
“I think it’s thick enough,” Adam proclaims.
From their place on the log, Lizzie and Annie bring their hands together. “Hurry up and clear the ice, Sammy!” Lizzie says.
The boy pushes the shovel through the snow, huffing and puffing against the weight of it, his face red from the cold and the strain of his chore. He works in a straight line, piling the snow on the bank. Within minutes, he’s cleared a three-foot-wide swath that’s about twenty feet long. It’s not exactly a skating rink, but large enough that the kids will have fun.
Adam dumps the kindling from the sled next to the fire drum, and pulls the sled to a good-size fallen tree a dozen or so yards into the forest. He begins to chop branches from the trunk, the sound of the ax echoing off the treetops.
I look at Gina. “Want to help me build a fire?”
She slants me a look. “You know how to do that?”
I roll my eyes. “Stand back and learn, city slicker.”
With her arm in the sling, she’s unable to offer much in the way of help, but she manages to toss some kindling into a pile next to the drum. Since she won’t be moving around much, she’ll likely be the first to get cold. I empty snow from the drum, drag it closer to the lacing log, and set to work building a fire. The kindling and logs are nice and dry. Adam remembered to bring a section of The Budget newspaper and a pad of matches. Within minutes, the fire is hissing and popping, the pungent tang of smoke filling the air.
Despite the wind and cold, it’s a pleasant scene. While the children skate and Adam chops wood, Gina brushes snow from the lacing log and sits, her legs propped out in front of her.
“I used to think the Amish were backward,” she says. “Religious fanatics.” She shrugs. “They’re not. They just…”
“Live at a different pace.” I sit down next to her.
She nods, thoughtful. “Looking at the mess I’ve made of my life, it doesn’t seem so bad. You know, simple living. Having a family.”
I toss another log into the drum. “It’s a tough life sometimes,” I say. “A lot of work. A lot of rules. But it’s a good life, too.”
She leans forward, puts the elbow of her uninjured arm on her knee. “Maybe they’re the ones who got it right, and the rest of us are … fucked up.”
“Even Amish life can get complicated,” I tell her.
“I never understood or appreciated what you left behind. How different your life had been before you came to Columbus.” She laughs. “I was on a mission to rescue you from some weird religious cult. I get it now.”
I look at her, surprised by her pensiveness, and pleased that she’s able to appreciate the Amish lifestyle, because I know there are many people who don’t.
“For an Amish girl, I was pretty good at guzzling Jack Daniel’s,” I tell her.
She tosses her head back and laughs. “That did throw me off.”
She’s watching the children, her mind working. Snow has begun to fall. Lush, wet flakes floating down from a sky the color of ash. Aside from the sound of the ax and the chatter of the children, the forest is tranquil.
“We did all right,” I say after a moment.
“You did,” she whispers. “Me?” She shrugs. “Maybe I never was that idealistic young cop I always fancied myself.”
“It’s not too late to turn things around.”
“It feels like it’s too late.”
“We do the best we can, Gina. That’s all we can do. That’s all anyone can do.”
“That’s the thing, Kate. I haven’t done my best for a long time. I lost my way. I lost … myself. Participated in something I detest. Became part of a problem I swore I’d fix. I didn’t care about right or wrong, and now I’ve screwed up my life.”
“This is your chance to make it right,” I tell her. “Undo some of the things you did. The things you let happen. Start over.”
“My career is done. I’ll never work in law enforcement again. For God’s sake, I’ll be lucky not to end up in prison.”
I sidestep the “end up in prison” comment, and focus on the future. “With your experience, there are other things you can do. Corporate security. Private detective. Lecturing.”
“Wait tables at the local greasy spoon,” she mutters. “Make license plates.” After a moment, she turns her gaze on me. “Prison is a tough place for a cop. I’m scared.”
The urge to bolster her is powerful. But this isn’t the time for false reassurances. I know her too well to say something we both would know isn’t true.
When I say nothing, the brash façade ever present on her face flickers, and I catch a glimpse of the tangle of emotions beneath the surface: regret, the fear of the unknown, the knowledge that whatever fate doles out in the coming days and weeks won’t be easy and she will likely deserve it.
Gina Colorosa is not a reflective person. She’s always lived her life by the seat of her pants, never anticipating consequences, the past—and the future—be damned. Now, it seems that that not-a-care-in-the-world attitude has finally caught up with her.
After a moment, she smiles. “So are you going to marry that nice-looking BCI guy?”
I think about it a moment. “Probably.”
“Sweating him a little?”
“Sweating myself a little.”
She arches a brow. “You’ve always been skittish when it comes to men.”
“Taking my time is all. It’s a big step.”
“So says a woman who left her entire life behind at the age of eighteen and hooked up with me.” Contemplative, she shakes her head. “I hate to state the obvious, but what you’ve got … it seems like a good thing.”
“It is.”
“You’re not getting any younger.”
“Thank you for pointing that out.”
“Maybe you ought to stop overthinking it and just do what makes you happy.”
I’m mulling the advice when the tempo of the children’s voices changes. A yelp draws my attention. I see Lizzie and Annie holding hands, facing each other, skating in a circle. Then I spot Sammy. Head and shoulders sticking out of the ice next to the tree trunk. At first, I think he’s down on his knees, playing. Then I notice his arms outstretched, the distress on his face, hands clawing at the ice.
“Sammy!” I jump to my feet. “Adam!”
Next to me, Gina stands. “Girls, get off the ice! Come here!”
A dozen things register at once. The girls standing too close to their fallen brother. A shout from Adam. Heavy footfalls from the direction of where he was chopping wood. Then I’m on my feet, running to the creek, skidding down the bank, sliding on trampled snow.
“Get a branch!” I hit the ice, slide, nearly go down, but my foot lands on snow, grips, and I manage to stay on my feet.
I reach the girls, grab their arms, pull them back. “Go to the lacing log! I’ll get him.”
I hear Gina behind me. “I got them.”
To my left, I hear Adam say something. I glance that way, see him step onto the ice, start across it, eyes fastened to his son. “Grab the edge of the ice!” he shouts to his son. “Hold on!”
I don’t know how deep the water is. I can tell Sammy isn’t standing. His head is bobbing, his arms are splashing; there’s shock and panic on his face. This is likely a deep hole, over his head. If there’s a current, he could be sucked beneath the ice and the situation will become deadly serious.
“Datt!” the boy shouts.
I stop four feet away from him. The ice is gray where water has washed over the surface. “Stay calm,” I tell him. “Grab the edge of the ice like your datt said. We’ll get you.”
His face is anything but calm. His mouth trembles. Water on his face. Skin pale and blue, cheeks blushed red.
I hear movement behind me, see Gina running across the ice, a big branch in her hand. “Take it!” She tosses the branch to me.
I catch it, drop to my belly, spread my legs. The branch is too small. Not substantial enough to pull seventy pounds of panicked boy from the water. But it’s all I’ve got, so I shove the branch at him. “Grab the stick,” I say. “I’ll pull you out.”
The boy looks at me. Panic in his eyes. Teeth chattering. Face wet, water dripping over cheeks that have lost their color.
I hear movement next to me, glance over to see Adam slide to his belly, wriggle next to me. “Grab the branch.” His voice is calm, laser focus in his eyes. “Grab on, son. I’ll pull you out.”
“It’s … c-cold,” the boy says, teeth chattering.
Adam inches closer. “Both hands now. Grab it. Quickly, son.”
The boy raises his arm, but it’s shaking violently. He reaches for the branch, but his sleeve is soaked and heavy and he misses. His gloves are wet, hindering him, and his coat is waterlogged.
“Datt,” he squeaks.
“Grab it.” Adam says the words equably, but I see strain and alarm on his face. “God is with you. Stay calm.”
Bracing one arm on the ice to keep himself from being pulled down by the weight of his coat and skates, the boy tries again. His hand breaks through some of the small branches, fingers clutching and ineffectual.
“Both hands,” I tell him.
Sammy lets go of the ice and lunges, tries to grab the branch with both hands. But the branch crumples, his glove catching and sliding off. His hand smacks the water. His shoulders sink. Water washes over his face. His head goes under.
“Mein Gott.” Adam slithers closer. Too close. The ice gives beneath his elbows. Water rushes over the surface, soaking his coat. He doesn’t seem to notice the shock of cold or the danger of his position.
“Here!”
Gina’s voice. Behind me. I look over my shoulder, see the sturdy branch in her hand. Quickly, she drops to her knees, then dives onto her belly and slides toward the boy. She’s closer to him than Adam or I, coming at him from the opposite side. Gray water washes into her coat, but she pays it no heed. Clenching her teeth, she sweeps the branch across the ice with such force that it nearly strikes the boy, but she stops it just in time.
“Grab it!” she shouts. “I got you! Grab on.”
The boy’s head breaks the surface. He’s sputtering and choking, beginning to cry. He lifts his hand to grab it, but the waterlogged glove weighs down his arm.
“Shake off your glove!” I shout. “Grab the stick!”
The boy slings off the remaining glove, makes a wild grab for the length of wood, gets it on the second try. Small blue fingers cling to the branch. Adam scrambles closer to Gina. The ice groans beneath their weight. He’s shoulder-to-shoulder with her and takes the stick from her.
“Hold on tight!” Adam gets to his knees, wriggles backward, pulling. “I’ve got you, son. Hold on. Don’t let go.”
At first the ice crumbles beneath the boy’s weight, his body acting as an icebreaker. Adam continues to pull and finally the ice holds. The boy’s shoulders, hips, and finally his legs emerge until he’s facedown on the ice.
Adam scrambles to his feet, bends, and scoops up his son, wraps his arms around the boy. “I’ve got you,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
I sidle away from the hole on my hands and knees. Still on her belly, soaking wet, Gina scoots away from the hole in the ice, using only one elbow due to her injury. When I’m a safe distance away, I get to my feet. Watching her, realizing she risked going through the ice herself to save a little boy she barely knows, I’m moved. The punch of emotion that follows surprises me. That’s the thing about Gina. She’s loyal to a fault and sometimes it’s all or nothing. It’s one of the reasons I loved her.
Bending, I offer my hand to her. She takes it, her glove dripping. She winces as I pull her to her feet. For the span of several heartbeats, we stare at each other, breathing hard. When her face lights up with a grin I can’t help but return it.
“Don’t get cocky,” I tell her.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Turning away from her, I work off my coat and follow Adam. The Amish man carries his son to the bank, water dripping, the droplets turning the snow gray. Gina walks beside Adam, her hand on the boy’s forehead, making eye contact with him, talking softly.
Annie and Lizzie huddle next to the lacing stump, watching. Annie has begun to cry. Lizzie looks on, frightened.
The three of us reach the bank at about the same time.
“Get that wet coat off him,” Gina tells Adam.
Next to the fire, Adam drops to his knees, lays the boy on the ground. With shaking hands, he struggles to remove his son’s sopping coat. All the while murmuring gentle words in Deitsch, letting Sammy know he’s going to be all right.
The sound of Sammy’s cries shakes me. Sweet Sammy, whose voice never ceases to fill the empty spaces around us. His body shakes violently. His legs and arms vibrate against the ground as if gripped by a palsy.
“It … b-burns, Datt,” he says.
Gina goes to her knees beside them, her coat already off. Once the boy is free of his coat, she thrusts hers at Adam. “Put it on him.”
Adam drapes her coat over the boy’s wet shirt and suspenders. “You’re going to be all right,” he says tightly.
“We need to get him to the house,” I tell Adam. “Get him dry.”
“Ja.” Nodding, the Amish man scoops the boy into his arms and breaks into a lumbering run toward the house.
Both girls have begun to cry, so I go to them, put my hand on Annie’s shoulder and give it a squeeze. “He’s going to be okay,” I tell them. “He’s just cold. Come on. We’re going to need to get inside, too, so we can put some more wood in the stove.”