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  “Force of impact,” he tells me. “Which basically means she was struck with such force that it broke the skin, laid it open. As far as I can see, there are no incised wounds. Or gunshot wounds for that matter. As I’m sure you’re aware, my assessment could change once I get her on the table.”

  I nod, shuddering inwardly. “Any idea of the time of death?”

  “Well, she’s in full rigor, which sets in at about two hours after death and completes at about eight hours. Depending on several factors, in this case the ambient temp and rate of decomp, full rigor ends after eighteen to twenty hours.”

  I calculate the equation, recall the manager telling me she checked in at about eight P.M. last night. “So, it’s safe to say this probably happened sometime during the night.”

  The coroner shrugs. “Or very early this morning.”

  I look around, take in the obvious signs of a struggle. I think about the cash, the possibility that this was drug related, and I ask, “Can you tell if she was moved? After she was killed?”

  Doc Coblentz nods at the technician, who has come over to stand next to us. In tandem, both men kneel and ease their gloved hands beneath the victim’s shoulder and hip and lift her several inches. Beneath her, the carpet is wet with urine. I squat for a better look. My eyes are drawn immediately to the purple-black flesh that had been pressed against the carpeted floor.

  “As you can see,” the doc says, “she’s almost into full lividity. Once the heart stops beating, gravity sets in and the blood settles to the lowest part of the body and pools. That happens at approximately twelve hours.” The men ease the body back to the floor. “I would venture to say she died shortly before or after she fell or was pushed or placed here on the floor.”

  “Any chance you can narrow down the time of death, Doc?”

  He makes a sound that’s part growl, part sigh. “Tough to do at this point, Kate. Once I get her to the morgue, I’ll get a core body temp. That said, and taking all of the usual caveats into consideration, judging by the extent of rigor and livor, I’m guessing she died somewhere between eleven P.M. and five A.M.”

  A hundred more questions fly at my brain, but I set them aside for later because I know he won’t be able to give me definitive answers. I straighten, and start toward the door. For the first time I’m aware that my face is hot, the back of my neck damp with sweat. The room feels small and claustrophobic. The air is thick and stinking of bodily fluids.

  Outside, I swallow the spit that’s pooled at the back of my throat and take a deep breath of fresh air.

  I don’t speak to anyone as I make my way toward the Explorer. I can’t get the picture of Rachael Schwartz’s brutalized body out of my head. Her skin laid open. Her face destroyed. Eye bulging from its socket. Her body broken beyond words.

  I reach the Explorer, yank open the door, and slide behind the wheel, take a moment to compose myself. With a murder investigation spooling and the clock ticking, I need to be focused on my job. On finding the person responsible and bringing him to justice. Instead, my thoughts are scattered. I’m outraged and saddened and furious at once. That a woman I knew as a child is dead. That it happened in the town whose residents I swore to serve and protect.

  “Not on my watch,” I whisper.

  Putting the vehicle in gear, I pull out of the gravel lot and head toward town.

  CHAPTER 6

  I met Rachael Schwartz for the first time when she was a newborn. The birth of a baby is a momentous occasion for all families, but it’s an especially big event when you’re Amish. After the new mom has had a few days to rest, the Amish women in the community come calling to see the new addition. Most bring a covered dish or two, help out with any chores that need to be done, and share a cup of siess kaffi or sweet coffee.

  At the age of seven, I wasn’t particularly interested in babies, but I recall my mamm dragging me over to the Schwartz farm, where I spent an hour watching her coddle and coo over a crying, red-faced infant that smelled of sour milk and stomach gas. Rachael didn’t make a good first impression.

  In a peripheral sort of way, I watched her grow up. Because of our age difference, we didn’t play together or spend time. But all Amish children attend worship and mingle afterward—and squeeze in some playtime if possible. As her personality developed, I took notice, because for once someone else was getting into trouble instead of me.

  The Amish generally have no use for babysitters. Most of the time and regardless of the occasion they take the baby with them, whether it’s to worship, a wedding, or a funeral. When I was thirteen, Rhoda and Dan Schwartz had to travel to Pennsylvania. My mamm offered up my babysitting services, perhaps in the hope of reinforcing my own understanding of responsibility and Amish gender roles. Babysitting a herd of kids was not my idea of time well spent. But I hadn’t yet discovered the power of argument, and so, by well-meaning parents hoping the experience might somehow help me find my missing maternal instinct, I was thrown to the wolves. It should have been pure misery for a girl like me—a tomboy who didn’t quite conform or know how to fit in. How unlikely that another girl who was every bit as fallible as me would turn an unbearably mundane babysitting assignment into something unexpected.

  Generally speaking, Amish kids are pretty well behaved, with a good work ethic and an early-to-bed-early-to-rise routine that make them easy to manage. Rachael was a rule-breaker with a penchant for trouble and a talent for fun.

  She was the girl whose dress was perpetually stained, her kapp never quite straight, her gap-toothed smile beaming mischief. She was perpetual motion meets chaos. The kid who talked too much and had a temper when she didn’t get her way—and might even mete out some revenge if you crossed her. But she was also a curious child who asked too many questions, especially about topics she didn’t necessarily need to know, and she was rarely satisfied with the answers she got. The one who preferred baseball to dolls, and whose favorite food was strawberry ice cream. She was a prankster. Sometimes those pranks weren’t very nice. I was a victim myself a time or two, but I quickly realized: You could get mad, but you couldn’t stay that way, because Rachael always found a way to make you laugh, even when you didn’t want to.

  Rhoda and Dan were going to be gone for three days, which meant this hell-world I’d stepped into was going to last a while. It was on that second day I learned just how alike Rachael and I really were.

  I was in the kitchen, making bologna sandwiches, when eight-year-old Danny burst in, breathless and sweating, his voice infused with panic. “Rachael got her head cut off!” he cried. “I think she’s drowning!”

  That got my attention. I dropped the spatula, ran to him, knelt in front of him. “What happened?” I asked. “Where is she?”

  “She rolled down the hill!” the boy cried. “The barrel hit a tree and it bounced over the bob-wire and went in the crick!”

  My babysitting skills may have been lacking, but I was responsible enough to experience a moment of terror. I grabbed his hand. “Show me!”

  We dashed out the back door, ran to the barn, through the stalls and equipment area, and exited through the rear pens. From there, we sprinted across the pasture, huffing and puffing. Danny yelped when he lost his hat, but he didn’t go back for it. Another fifty yards and the land swept down at a steep angle. At the base of the hill, two Amish boys were climbing over a five-strand barbed-wire fence. A fifty-five-gallon drum was wedged between the strands. Beyond, the green-blue water of Painters Creek snaked eastward, its murky surface dappled with sunlight slanting down through the trees.

  “Where is she?” I cried as I started down the hill, running too fast, especially with an eight-year-old boy in tow.

  “She flew out of the barrel!” he cried.

  The answer didn’t make any sense, so I kept going. Having heard us, the boys, on the other side of the fence now, spun toward me. Breathless with panic. Faces sweaty and red.

  “Vo is Rachael?” I called out to them. Where is Rachael?

 
“Sie fall im vassah!” her older brother shouted. She fell in the water.

  I noticed that one end of the barrel had been cut off and removed. And a horrific picture emerged. The boys had been getting inside the barrel and rolling down the hill, which was far too steep for such a game. Somehow, six-year-old Rachael had gotten involved.

  I reached the fence and vaulted it without slowing, my eyes skimming the water’s surface. “I don’t see her!”

  “She rolled down the hill in the barrel!” The neighbor boy, Samuel Miller, stuttered every word. “It hit the fence and she fell out! Went in the water!”

  I stumbled down the steep bank, tripping over the tangle of tree roots. A couple of feet from the water’s edge, I slipped in mud and plunged into the water. A crush of cold. The smell of fish and mud. Deep water. Over my head. I surfaced, sputtering.

  “Rachael!” Treading water, I looked around, felt around for her with my legs.

  “Where is she?” Even as I shouted the words, I heard a cough. I swiveled, spotted the small form crawling onto the rocky shoal on the opposite bank. Rachael, blue dress soaked and torn. On her hands and knees. Her kapp tugged down over one ear. One shoe missing.

  I dog-paddled toward her. My feet made contact with the rocky bottom and I rushed to her. “Rachael!”

  She sat on the rocks, her legs splayed in front of her. Her face was eggshell pale. Eyes huge. Expression shaken. A scrape on her chin. A drop of watery blood dangled beneath her nose.

  I thought about the barbed wire and envisioned a gaping wound in need of stitches. Every single awful scenario scrolled through my mind at a dizzying speed.

  “Are you hurt?” I heaved myself from the water and started toward her, my dress dripping, shoes squeaking with every step.

  The girl looked up at me and blinked. I braced, expecting a wail and tears. Instead, she wiped blood from her nose with a hand that was rock steady. A grin overtook her face. A laugh burst from her mouth.

  “You’re not going to tattle on me, are you, Katie?” She frowned at the smear of blood on her hand. “I want to do it again.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Ben and Loretta Bontrager own a good-size dairy operation on a sixty-two-acre spread a few miles outside Painters Mill. I’ve known Loretta since she was a youngster, too shy to speak, and hiding behind the skirt of her mamm’s dress. She was the polar opposite of Rachael and yet somehow the two girls became best friends. While Rachael was the gregarious live wire, Loretta was the quiet and obedient follower.

  Aside from the occasional wave in town, I haven’t spoken to Loretta in years. I met her husband, Ben, for the first time two years ago when he ran into some problems for selling unpasteurized milk, which is illegal in the state of Ohio. He readily agreed to cease operations and there was never a need for me to come back. Until now.

  I’ve just turned in to the lane of the Bontrager farm when I glance across the pasture to my right and spot the horse and rider. It’s common to see people riding horses here in Painters Mill. We’ve got a few cowboys, the local 4-H club; even Amish kids partake on occasion. This particular equestrian rides like poetry and takes the horse into a circle at an easy lope. Horse and rider are one, a ballad of perfect balance and animal beauty that’s so captivating, I stop the Explorer to take it in.

  After a moment, the rider spots me, slows the animal, and trots toward me. I almost can’t believe my eyes when I realize this rider is not only Amish, but female. She’s bareback, sneaker-clad feet dangling. Her skirt is hiked up to her knees and I see a pair of trousers underneath. She clutches a tuft of mane with one hand, and with the other grips the reins, which look like old leather lines that have been cut short for riding. The horse’s head is high, nostrils flared, foam at the corners of its mouth.

  “Nicely done,” I call out to her.

  The girl runs her hand over the animal’s shoulder, but not before I see the flash of pride in her eyes. “He’s a good horse,” she tells me.

  I get out and walk over to the fence that runs alongside the lane. She’s eleven or twelve years old, with big brown eyes, a sprinkling of freckles on a sunburned nose, and dark hair tucked messily into a kapp. A tiny bow peeks out at me from the base of the head covering, and I smile. That bow, which is not approved by the Ordnung, is a symbol of a girl’s individuality, a sign of independence, and a small way to set herself apart from her mamm.

  The horse is a Standardbred, the most common breed used for buggies. Most are worked so much in the course of day-to-day transportation, they’re rarely used for riding. Most are never trained for anything but driving.

  “You’re a good rider,” I tell her.

  The girl lifts a shoulder, lets it drop, looks down at her dangling foot.

  “Who trained him to ride under saddle like that?” I ask.

  “I reckon I did.”

  She mumbles the response in a way that tells me it’s an achievement she probably shouldn’t admit to, and I wonder if she’s been warned to stay off the horse. It wouldn’t be the first time an Amish girl was disallowed to partake in an activity a boy would have every right in which to excel.

  “You should enter him in the Annie Oakley Days horse show,” I tell her.

  Her eyes light up. I see pride in their depths, and I hope she holds on to that as she grows into adulthood.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Fannie Bontrager.”

  “Ben and Loretta are your parents?”

  “Ja.”

  “Are they home?”

  Nodding, she points toward the house.

  I round the front of the Explorer and open the door. Look across the hood at her. “Enjoy the rest of your ride, Fannie.”

  Beaming a grin, she wheels the horse around, and lopes away.

  Shaking my head, I get back into the Explorer and continue on.

  The Bontrager farmhouse is a two-story frame structure with fresh white paint, double redbrick chimneys, and a gleaming metal roof. I drive past a ramshackle German-style bank barn and a muddy pen where a gaggle of Holstein cows encircle a round bale of hay. I park at the rear of the house and take a narrow concrete sidewalk to the front porch. I’ve barely knocked when the door swings open.

  Loretta Bontrager wears a gray dress with a matching halsduch, or “cape”; an organdy kapp; and a pair of nondescript oxfords. She’s got a dishcloth in one hand, a soapy sponge in the other, her attention lingering on whatever she’d been cleaning.

  She does a double take at the sight of me. “Katie Burkholder?” Stepping aside, she ushers me inside. “What a surprise.”

  I go through the door and extend my hand. “It’s been a while.”

  “I’ll say.” She drops the sponge into a bucket full of suds, dries her hands with the dish towel, and grasps my hand. “Time has a way of slipping by, doesn’t it? Too fast if you ask me.”

  “I met your daughter on my way up the lane,” I tell her.

  “Probably on that horse again, eh?”

  “She’s a good rider.”

  “Like her datt, I guess.” She shakes her head. “Keeping her off that horse is like trying to keep the wool off a sheep.”

  She cocks her head, polite, wondering why I’m here. “Witt du kaffi?” Would you like coffee?

  “I can’t stay,” I tell her.

  Something in my voice must have alerted her that I’m not here for a friendly chat and she goes still.

  “Loretta, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. It’s Rachael Schwartz. She’s dead.”

  The Amish woman’s smile falters as if for an instant she thinks the words are some cruel joke. “What?” She sways, reaches out and sets her hand against the wall. “But … Rachael? Gone? How can that be?”

  “I’m sorry. I know you were close.”

  She steadies herself, lets her hand slide from the wall, and faces me. “Rachael,” she whispers. “She’s so young and healthy. How?”

  “She was murdered,” I tell her. “Sometime last night.”

/>   “Oh … no.” The words come out on a gasp. “Someone—” She cuts off the sentence as if she can’t bring herself to finish. “Do her mamm and datt know?”

  “I just talked to them.”

  She makes a sound that’s part sympathy, part pain. “Poor Rhoda and Dan. My heart is broken for them.” Tears shimmer in her eyes when she raises her gaze to mine. “I can’t understand this, Katie. Who would do such a thing? And why?”

  “I don’t know. We’re looking into it.” I pause, give her a moment. “I understand you kept in touch with her. I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on her life. The people she knew. Do you have a few minutes to answer some questions?”

  “Of course.” But she looks as if she’s grappling for strength that isn’t there, for the control she can’t quite reach. “Whatever you need … however I can help, just ask.”

  I pull my notebook from my pocket. “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  She looks down at the floor, thinking, and then raises her gaze to mine. “Over a year, I think. We met a couple of times at a little diner between Painters Mill and Cleveland, just to stay in touch and get caught up on things. I missed her so much after she moved away.” She shakes her head. “I must have sent her a hundred letters that first year, but you know Rachael. She wasn’t much of a letter writer.”

  “Did you visit her in Cleveland?”

  She shakes her head. “I had Fannie by then and it was tough to get away with a new baby and all. You know how it is.”

  “When’s the last time you talked to her?” I ask.

  “A few months, I think.”

  “Did she mention any problems? Anything unusual or troubling in her life? Arguments or disagreements with anyone? A boyfriend maybe?”

  The Amish woman considers a moment, then tightens her mouth. “She didn’t mention any problems. But you know how Rachael was. Such a happy-go-lucky girl.” Her brows furrow. “The only thing that stands out about the last time I talked to her is that she seemed a little … lost. Lonely. Homesick, maybe.”