Part 2 (1/2)

I try to disguise that first telltale sob as a cough and noisily clear my throat. But the tears that follow betray me.

Shock flashes on the bishop's face, followed quickly by sharp concern. ”Come inside.”

I hold up my hand, angry with myself for breaking down at a time like this. I remind myself this isn't about me or my emotions, but a young mother whose world is about to be shattered. ”Paul Borntrager and two of his children were killed tonight,” I tell him.

”Paul?” He presses a hand against his chest, steps back as if pushed by some invisible force. ”The children? But how?”

Quickly, I tell him about the buggy accident. ”Mattie doesn't know yet, Bishop. I need to tell her. I thought it would be helpful if you were there.”

”Yes, of course.” He looks shaken as he glances down at the long flannel sleeping s.h.i.+rt he's wearing. ”I need to dress.” But he makes no move to leave. ”Which child survived?” he asks.

”A boy. The oldest child, I think.”

”David.” He nods. ”Mein Gott. Is he going to be all right?”

”I don't know. They took him to the hospital.” Mortified that I lost control of my emotions, I use the sleeve of my jacket to wipe away the tears.

Reaching out, he squeezes my arm. ”Katie, remember G.o.d always has a plan. It is not our place to question, but to accept.”

The words are intended to comfort me, but I wince. The tenet of acceptance is one of the belief systems I disagreed with most when I was Amish. Maybe because my own philosophy differs so profoundly. I refuse to accept the deaths of three innocent people as part of some big divine plan. I sure as h.e.l.l don't plan on forgiving the son of a b.i.t.c.h responsible.

Ten minutes later, Bishop Troyer and I are in my Explorer, heading toward the Borntrager farm. Dread rides shotgun, a dark presence whose breath is like ice on the back of my neck.

Glock called while I was waiting for the bishop and informed me that one of Sheriff Rasmussen's deputies is a certified accident reconstructionist, which will be extremely beneficial in terms of resources. It will also allow us to restrict the investigation to two jurisdictions: the Holmes County Sheriff's Department and the Painters Mill PD. I'm not territorial when it comes to my job. If an outside agency offers the resources I need, I'll be the first in line to ask for help. But in all honesty, I'm relieved to keep this case in house because I don't want to share.

The Borntrager farm is located on a dirt road that dead ends at a heavily wooded area that backs up to the greenbelt along Painters Creek. Neither the bishop nor I speak as I turn onto the gravel lane and start toward the house. It's almost nine thirty now; Paul and the children should have been home hours ago. I suspect Mattie is out of her mind with worry.

I notice the yellow glow of lantern light in the kitchen as I make the turn and the rear of the house comes into view. I imagine Mattie inside, pacing from room to room, wondering where her family is and trying to decide if she should walk to the neighbor's house to use the phone. I hate it, but I'm about to make her worst nightmare a reality....

My headlights wash over the falling-down wire fence of a chicken coop as I park. Disturbed by the light, two bantam hens flutter down from their roost, clucking their outrage.

”What are the names and ages of her children?” I don't look at the bishop as I shut down the engine.

”David is eight,” he tells me. ”Samuel was the youngest. About four years old, I think. Norah just turned six.”

Grabbing my Maglite, I swing open the door and slide from the Explorer. I'm in the process of going around the front end to open the door for the bishop to help him out when I hear the screen door slam. I look toward the house to see Mattie Borntrager rush down the steps, her dress swis.h.i.+ng at her calves, a lantern thrust out in front of her.

”h.e.l.lo?” she calls out. ”Paul? Is that you? Who's there?”

I start toward her, lower my beam. ”Mattie, it's Kate Burkholder and Bishop Troyer.”

”What? But why-” Her stride falters, and she stops a few feet away, her gaze going from me to the bishop and back to me. ”Katie?” Alarm resonates in her voice now. Even in the dim light from her lantern, I see the confusion on her features. ”I thought you were Paul,” she says. ”He took the children into town. They should have been home by now.”

She's fully clothed, wearing a print dress, a prayer kapp, and sneakers, and I realize she was probably about to leave, perhaps to use the phone.

When I say nothing, she freezes in place and eyes me with an odd mix of suspicion and fear. She's wondering why I'm here with the Amish bishop at this hour when her husband and children are missing. I'm aware of Troyer coming up beside me and in that moment, I'm unduly relieved he's here because I'm not sure I could do this on my own without going to pieces and making everything worse.

”Why are you here?” A sort of wild terror leaps into her eyes, and for an instant, I think she's going to throw down the lantern and run back to the house and lock the door. ”Where's Paul? Where are my children?”

”There's been an accident,” I say. ”I'm sorry, Mattie, but Paul and two of the children were killed. David survived.”

”What? What?” A sound that's part scream, part sob tears from her throat and echoes like the howl of some mortally wounded animal. ”No. That's not true. It can't be. They were just going to town. They'll be home soon.” Her gaze fastens onto the bishop, her eyes beseeching him to contradict me. ”I don't understand why she's saying these things.”

The old man reaches out to her, sets his hand on her shoulder. ”It is true, Mattie. They are with G.o.d now.”

”No!” She spins away from him, swinging the lantern so hard the mantle flickers inside the globe. ”G.o.d would not do that! He would not take them!”

”Sometimes G.o.d works in ways we do not understand,” the bishop says softly. ”We are Amish. We accept.”

”I do not accept that.” She steps back, but the old man goes with her, maintaining contact.

I reach for the lantern, ease it from her hand. ”David is in the hospital,” I tell her. ”He needs-”

Before I can finish, her knees buckle and hit the ground. I rush forward; the bishop reaches for her, too. But the grief-stricken woman crumples. Shaking us off, she leans forward, and curls into herself, her head hanging. ”Nooo!” Her hands clench at the gra.s.s, pulling handfuls from the ground. ”Nooo!”

I give her a moment and glance at the bishop. The resolve and strength on his ancient face bolsters me, and not for the first time, I understand why this man is the leader of the congregation. Even in the face of insurmountable tragedy, his faith is utterly unshakable.

The old man kneels next to Mattie and sets his hand on her shoulder. ”I know this is a heavy burden, my child, but David needs you.”

”David! Oh, my sweet, precious boy.” She chokes out the words as she straightens and wipes the tears from her cheeks. ”Where is he? Is he hurt? Please, I need to see him.”

I step forward and, gently, the bishop and I help her to her feet. She's unsteady and I'm afraid if I let go of her, she'll collapse again, so I maintain my grip. Her body shakes violently against mine and I wish there was some way I could stave off those tremors, absorb some of her pain, bear some of her burden.

”He's at the hospital,” I tell her. ”I'll take you.”

Silent tears stream from her eyes. She brushes at them with shaking hands, but the effort is ineffective against the deluge. Slowly, haltingly, we start toward the house. When we reach the steps, I move ahead and open the screen door. The bishop helps her inside. We shuffle through a small porch where an old-fas.h.i.+oned wringer was.h.i.+ng machine watches our sad procession. We end up in the kitchen. A single lantern burns atop a large rectangular table with bench seats on two sides and a blue and white checkered tablecloth draped over its surface. I look at the table and I think of all the meals that will never again be shared.

While Bishop Troyer helps Mattie into a chair, I go to the sink and run tap water into a gla.s.s. Crossing to the table, I hand the water to Mattie. She's gone quiet and accepts the gla.s.s as if she's lapsed into a trance. She sips and then looks up at me. ”How is David? Is he all right?”

”I don't know,” I say honestly.

”I have to get to him.” She rises without finis.h.i.+ng the water, then looks around the kitchen as if she's found herself in an unfamiliar place and doesn't know what to do next. ”If Paul were here, he would know what to do.”

I go to her side and gently take her arm. ”We're here,” I tell her. ”We'll help you.”

Bishop Troyer douses the lantern and we start toward the door.

Mattie, Bishop Troyer, and I arrive at the Emergency Room of Pomerene Hospital in Millersburg only to be told David was taken to surgery upon his arrival. Most hospitals won't perform any kind of surgery on a minor patient without parental consent unless it's a life or death situation. That the boy has already been taken into the operating room confirms his injuries are life threatening. I keep the thought to myself.

Mattie is barely able to hold it together as we take the elevator to the second floor. We garner a few curious stares as we make our way to the surgical waiting area. It never ceases to amaze me that there are people living in this part of Ohio who react as if they've never seen an Amish person.

It isn't until we're beneath the bright fluorescent lights of the surgical waiting room that I realize the stares aren't directed at the bishop, but at Mattie, and it has nothing to do with her Amishness. I've been so absorbed in the situation at hand, I hadn't noticed how strikingly beautiful she is.

Mattie was always pretty. When we were teenagers, her loveliness made her somewhat of a curiosity among our brethren. I remember the boys on rumspringa going to great lengths just to catch a glimpse of her. Mattie was demure enough to pretend she didn't notice. But she did, of course, and so did I. In contrast, I was a rather ordinary-looking girl. A long-limbed tomboy and a late bloomer to boot. I didn't begrudge Mattie her beauty; I wasn't jealous. But there was a part of me that secretly envied her. A part of me that wanted to be beautiful, too. I remember trying to mimic the way she laughed, the way she talked, even the way she wore her prayer kapp, with the ties hanging down her back just so. Generally speaking, the Amish have very little in terms of personal expression, especially when it comes to clothing. But where there's a will there's a way, especially if you're a teenage girl and determined to establish your ident.i.ty; we found creative ways to express our individualism.