The Pact Page 4

  “I’m still down at the grain co-op.”

  “You’ve been there a while, haven’t you?”

  “Eight months now.”

  I touch a stack of magazines and a single folded newspaper on the bar. Popular Science. Playboy. Last Sunday’s edition of The Advocate. “You’re a reader.”

  “Last I checked that wasn’t against the law.”

  I look at him, aware that Tomasetti has disappeared down the hall that leads into the bedrooms. O’Neil is looking at the magazines, nervous because he can’t remember what’s in the stack and he thinks I’m going to bust him for contraband. He doesn’t like me poking around, asking questions. Because he’s a parolee? Or does he have something to hide?

  “You’ve been keeping your nose clean,” I say.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Nothing of interest in the kitchen. No sign that a child has been here.

  “You have any firearms in the house, sir?”

  “I’m a felon, lady. I ain’t that stupid.”

  I tug open a couple of drawers, find nothing of interest.

  “So which kid is missing?” he asks.

  “Two boys,” I tell him, keeping it vague.

  O’Neil glances left, startles when he realizes we’re alone. “Where’s your buddy?”

  He doesn’t wait for a response. Snarling something beneath his breath, the man stalks toward the hall. “Hey!”

  “Mr. O’Neil.” I say his name firmly and start after him, hoping he doesn’t do something ill-advised. “Calm down. Stop.”

  The man doesn’t break stride. I follow him through the living room, down the hall. He smashes his hand against a wall switch. Light rains down. The man sees Tomasetti in his bedroom, and I hear his teeth grind.

  “The fuck you doing in my bedroom, man?”

  Tomasetti stares back at him, his expression calm, a take-your-best-shot glint in his eyes. “You gave us permission to look around, remember?”

  “Well, you seen enough.” O’Neil crosses the space between them in two strides, too fast, going for Tomasetti. “Sneaking around my place like I’m some kind of criminal, looking at all my shit.”

  Tomasetti holds his ground. “Put your hands on me and you’re going to jail.”

  For an instant, I think O’Neil is going to make good on all that hate in his eyes. But he stops, hands clenched, mouth working. Struggling with some dark urge he can’t quite get a handle on. Prison taught him the value of self-control, I think.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. O’Neil,” I tell him.

  The words seem to snap him out of whatever dark fugue he’d fallen into.

  Tomasetti brushes past him and we start toward the door. I step onto the deck, take a deep breath of clean air. Tomasetti stops and turns to the other man. “Word of advice: Lose the swing set. Doesn’t look good with you being a convicted sex offender.”

  O’Neil makes a sound that could be a snarl or a laugh, divides his attention between the two of us. “Hit the road, motherfuckers.”

  Tomasetti and I don’t speak until we’re in the Explorer and I make the turn onto the road. “Not exactly a citizen of the year candidate,” he says.

  I glance his way. “I’m glad you were there.”

  “Always happy to do my part when it comes to ruining a pervert’s day, Chief.”

  * * *

  Kevin ran as fast as his legs would take him. Cold air burned his throat, set his lungs on fire. Snow and sleet stung his face like icy needles. Twice he lost sight of Aaron and the yellow beam of his flashlight. Twice, he panicked, poured on the speed, and caught up.

  “Wait!” he cried as they barreled down a steep ravine. “Hold up!”

  Aaron stopped. “Hurry!” he hissed. “If old man Henderson has an ATV, he’ll catch us.”

  “No way is he getting an ATV through these woods.” Using his hands, Kevin scrambled up the other side of the ravine and looked around. “Where are we going anyway?”

  Turning, Aaron started through the trees without answering.

  Putting his head down to protect his eyes from the snow and sleet, Kevin followed. There was no trail. Just thick trees and heavy brush all around. All he could see through the snow slashing down was the glow of the flashlight and the silhouette of his friend’s back. Kevin had always believed his friend had a superhuman sense of direction. More than once Aaron had gotten them home when they’d wandered too far. This time, though, he wondered if maybe they really were lost.

  “Hey! Lookit!”

  Aaron stopped. Kevin looked up to see that they’d come upon a narrow dirt road banked on both sides by massive trees and covered with snow. A beat-up mailbox leaned at a precarious angle next to what looked like a lane.

  “Maybe they got a phone,” Kevin offered.

  Nodding, Aaron looked around. He’d lost his flat-brimmed hat at some point. Snow covered his hair and the shoulders of his coat. He looked cold and … worried. “I think we went the wrong way when we left old man Henderson’s place.”

  “So we’re lost?” Kevin said.

  “Maybe.” He shone his flashlight toward the lane. “Hard to see with all the snow.”

  Trying not to be scared, remembering that just a couple of hours ago they’d become blood brothers, Kevin went to him, held up his fist for a bump. “It happens, dude. Don’t worry about it.”

  Understanding he’d been forgiven for getting them lost, Aaron fist-bumped him back. Side by side, they started down the lane. Kevin didn’t want to admit it, but he was glad they’d stumbled upon someone to help them. He wanted to call his mom. She would come get them and drop Aaron at his house. No one had to know they’d planned to run away. Hopefully, his parents had been so worried, they’d forget all about grounding him.

  “Uh-oh.”

  Kevin looked up at the sound of his friend’s voice. He’d been so immersed in his fantasy homecoming he didn’t realize they’d reached the house. His heart sank at the sight of it. “Dude, that’s right out of Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”

  The flashlight beam revealed a lopsided porch with a hit-or-miss rail, crumbling steps, and boarded-up windows and door.

  Aaron pretended to laugh, but Kevin could tell he was spooked. “At least we’ll be out of the cold.”

  The trees fell away as they entered the yard. Kevin stepped over the mangled remnants of a wire fence. Overgrown bushes crowded the front porch. All of it punctuated by darkness and snow and wind so strong he couldn’t hear himself think.

  The boys took the steps to the porch. The plank floor creaked as they crossed to the door. “Maybe we ought to knock,” Kevin said.

  Rolling his eyes, Aaron tried the knob and tugged. The board nailed across it prevented it from opening. “Looks like everything’s boarded up.”

  Wind and snow battered them as they made their way to the rear of the house. They ascended the steps to a small porch. The back door stood open about a foot.

  “Looks like we’re in luck.” The door squeaked as Aaron pushed it the rest of the way open. The interior was cold and pitch black. The odors of mildew, dust, and rotting wood wafted out.

  “Stinks,” Kevin muttered.

  Shining the beam of his flashlight ahead, Aaron ventured deeper into the house. “Come on.”

  Marveling at his friend’s bravery, Kevin followed. The flashlight beam lit up a demolished kitchen. Broken cabinet doors. Copper pipes sticking out of the wall. An old sink sitting at a cockeyed angle on the floor. Curling linoleum.

  Dirt and debris crunched beneath their shoes as they entered a larger room with tall ceilings. Kevin caught a glimpse of peeling wallpaper, a mattress on the floor, a crumbling plaster ceiling. Creepy staircase to his right. Outside, the wind howled.

  Aaron aimed the beam at the redbrick fireplace. “If we can find some wood, we can build a fire.”

  Even in the dim light, Kevin could see that his friend was shivering. He was seriously cold, too. His ears and hands ached with it. Oh, how he’d been hoping somebody
would be here so they could use the phone. All he wanted to do was go home.

  Kevin startled when something rattled outside. “What was that?”

  Aaron jerked the beam to the window. “Just a branch,” he said.

  “Place gives me the creeps,” Kevin said.

  “At least we’re out of the wind and snow.”

  Kevin knew his friend was trying to make the best of a bad situation, but he didn’t quite manage. Aaron might be Amish and a year older, but Kevin was pretty sure he was regretting their big adventure, too.

  “Come on,” Aaron said. “Let’s find some firewood.”

  * * *

  Tomasetti and I are in the Explorer, on our way back to the woods to resume our search for the boys, when Pickles’s voice cracks over the radio. “Chief, what’s your twenty?”

  I pick up the mike. “We’re almost to the Hogpath Road bridge.”

  “I’m out at William Borntrager’s farm. Their son, Willie, says he saw the boys a couple hours ago.”

  “I’m on my way,” I tell him.

  William Borntrager and his wife, Edna, live on a lesser township road a mile from Painters Creek. They’re Beachy Amish with nine children and are well thought of among their brethren.

  Snow billows in my rearview mirror as I take the lane to the house. I park behind Pickles’s cruiser and we disembark.

  Sleet taps against our coats as we make our way to the front door. In the last hour, the temperature has dropped twenty degrees. With the wind kicking to thirty knots, windchills have fallen into the single digits.

  “Hope those boys found shelter,” I tell Tomasetti as we climb the steps to the door.

  “If they haven’t, they’re in a world of hurt about now.”

  The door opens before I can knock. A short, round Amish woman wearing a mauve dress, her hair tucked into an organdy kapp, greets us. I’ve met Edna Borntrager a few times over the years. She’s a renowned baker with an implacable personality and a reputation for being a rabble-rouser. Anyone who is under the impression that Amish women submit to their husbands hasn’t met Edna.

  “Guder ohvet,” she says. Good evening. “Get on in here out of the cold.” It’s an order, not an invitation.

  I go through the door to see a tall Amish man approach. Gray work pants. Blue work shirt. Suspenders beneath a black jacket. William Borntrager is as thin as his wife is plump. It doesn’t elude me that he leaves the speaking to her.

  The house is cozy and warm, woodsmoke and the aroma of something savory floating in the air. Pickles stands next to an old-fashioned woodstove.

  “Chief.” Wearing his uniform, a Painters Mill PD winter parka, and his trademark Lucchese boots, my eldest officer is in top form tonight. “Mrs. Borntrager says her son saw our two missing juveniles earlier this evening.”

  Before I can address the Amish woman, she tromps to the kitchen and returns with a boy—held by the ear.

  Next to me, Tomasetti clears his throat.

  “This is Willie,” she says firmly. Mouth tight with displeasure, she releases the boy’s ear. “Fazayla iahra. Nau.” Tell her. Now.

  I guess the boy to be about sixteen years old. He’s a skinny thing. Dressed much like his datt. Felt flat-brimmed hat. Trousers a few inches too short. Hair cut in a bad “Dutch Boy” style. A patch of acne on his chin.

  “We saw ’em,” he mutters.

  Quick as a snake, his mother smacks the back of his head. “Don’t you mince your words. You tell her and you tell her right. Ain’t quite so funny this time, is it?”

  I look at the boy. “You saw Aaron Kuhns and Kevin Dennison?”

  He nods. “The two of them was out there by the creek down to the icebox. They had a campfire going.”

  “How long ago?”

  “A couple hours, I reckon.”

  Judging by the extent of his mother’s displeasure, I’m guessing the story goes downhill from there. “So what happened?”

  Grimacing, he drops his eyes to the floor. “We scared ’em.”

  “Scared them?” I repeat.

  “We just … made some noise. You know, like the Butzemann. Them boys squealed and took off like jackrabbits.” A snicker escapes, but Willie quickly covers it with a cough.

  I nod, remembering those dark Amish tales from my own childhood. Butzemann is Deitsch for “scarecrow,” but it’s sort of the Amish equivalent of a zombie.

  “Schnell geiste.” Quick spirit. Mrs. Borntrager glares at her son. “Those poor little ones. Scared out of their wits. Out in all that cold and snow.”

  I pull out my notebook and address the boy. “Who were you with?”

  “Joe Fisher. Andy Yoder.”

  I recognize the names. They’re Amish teenagers from good families. I realize the situation is likely a prank gone wrong.

  “Willie, we believe those boys are lost. With a snowstorm moving in, we need to find them. Do you have any idea where they might’ve gone?”

  The boy shakes his head, risks a look at his mamm, and lowers his voice. “We didn’t mean to do any harm, Chief Burkholder.” His eyes skate away from mine, avoiding his mamm’s steely gaze, and land on the floor. “We scared them pretty good, I guess. Chased them a ways.”

  Tomasetti shakes his head. “Where did you last see them?”

  “Just north of the icebox,” Willie says.

  “Which direction were they heading?” I ask.

  “North.” His brows knit. “But they must have left the trail. That’s how we lost them.”

  When he raises his eyes to mine, I see remorse. “We were just goofing off. We didn’t know the weather was going to turn. We sure didn’t mean for them to get lost.”

  Scowling, his mother sets her hand on his shoulder. “We’ll be sure and say a prayer for those boys tonight, Chief Burkholder. I hope you find them.”

  “Me, too,” I say as we head for the door.

  * * *

  Aaron spent a lot of time outside during the winter months—mucking stalls or helping his datt—but he couldn’t remember ever being so cold. He couldn’t stop shivering. His toes were numb. His hands ached. Kevin didn’t complain, but as they searched for wood, Aaron could see that his friend was shivering, too. How was it that after so much planning and anticipation, their exciting adventure had turned into such a nightmare?

  In a second-story bedroom, Aaron spotted some old boards, and with Kevin’s help he carried them downstairs. “Why is the flashlight so dim?” Kevin asked as they descended the stairs.

  “Batteries are about to go,” Aaron told him.

  Kevin’s eyes went wide. “What are we going to do without light?”

  “Once we get a fire going, we’ll have plenty of light.”

  The boys stacked the wood in the fireplace. Aaron used a match to light the cardboard he’d put at the base. He checked the flue and within minutes they had a decent fire—and finally some heat. They sat cross-legged near the hearth, hands outstretched, fingers warming.

  “You think our folks are worried?” Kevin asked.

  “Probably.”

  “You think they’re out hunting for us?”

  Aaron banked the quick swipe of guilt. “Maybe.”

  “Man, my dad is going to kill me,” Kevin whispered. “What are we going to do?”

  Aaron stared into the flames, noticing for the first time that the smoke wasn’t going up the chimney the way it should. Already his eyes were burning. As if spending the night without a blanket wasn’t bad enough. Now they were going to have to spend it with burning eyes and throats.

  “We head home in the morning,” he said. “We tell them we got lost.”

  “Wouldn’t be too far from the truth,” Kevin said.

  “See? We don’t even have to lie.”

  Aaron looked over at his friend, pretended not to notice the tears on his cheeks. “At least we freed that buck. Whatever happens, no matter how much trouble we get into, they can’t take that away from us.”

  Wiping tears with his coat
sleeve, Kevin set his chin on his knees and stared into the fire. “All this because you’re Amish and I’m English.”

  Aaron slid up his coat sleeve, revealing the dried blood and scab on his wrist. “Can’t take this away, either.”

  The fire crackled and popped. Outside, the wind ripped around the house. Shivering, Aaron raised his hands to warm them, trying not to notice when another puff of smoke escaped the lintel and wafted toward the ceiling.

  * * *

  Instead of going back to where we’d left Glock, Tomasetti and I take the county road north to the next bridge that spans Painters Creek. If the boys were moving fast and had a head start, it’s feasible that they covered more ground than we anticipated.

  I look at Tomasetti as I shut down the engine. “Do you think they’re lost?”

  “It probably didn’t start out that way. But if they left the trail?” He shrugs. “They probably are now.”

  I watch a mix of snow and sleet pelt the windshield and can’t help but wonder if the boys are out in the elements, cold and frightened and alone. “I bet they’re wishing they were home, snug in their beds about now,” I say.

  “There’s a lesson in there somewhere.”

  “For the parents, too.”

  He arches a brow.

  I tell him about Jeff Dennison’s comments about the Amish.

  “That’s a harsh judgment,” he says.

  I think of my own childhood, my teen years, some of the choices I made. Even after so many years, I still remember the pain of a first bruise on an innocent heart. “The Amish are more subtle about it,” I tell him, “but they’re guilty, too.”

  Tomasetti nods. “In the mind of an eleven-year-old boy, that might be a pretty decent reason to take off.”

  I run with the theory. “Kevin Dennison is an only child. He’s skinny and small. Hasn’t seen his first growth spurt. Doesn’t have many friends. Likes to read graphic novels.”

  Tomasetti looks down at his notebook. “Aaron Kuhns has six little sisters. Spends most of his time working on the farm. These boys are bored and lonely. They meet when Aaron’s father is hired to build a shed for the Dennisons. They hit it off. Against all odds—and against the rules—they become friends.”