Disappeared, page 1
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It had been a long time since he’d been this kind of scared. The kind that caused his hands to shake, his heart to beat so fast he couldn’t catch his breath. The urge to turn tail and run—to forget the plan he’d conceived down to every last detail—clawed at his insides. Of course, he couldn’t run away. Not when there was so much at stake. When he had so much to lose.
Dear God, he hoped he could pull this off.
Rain lashed the windshield as he punched off the headlights and made the turn onto the township road. In the strobe of lightning that followed, the leafless branches of the trees trembled and swayed overhead. Squinting through the darkness and rain-blurred glass, he inched down the road, stopped at the bridge spanning Painters Creek, and killed the engine.
The truck shuddered beneath a gust of wind. Reaching into the back seat, he grabbed the slicker, jammed his arms into the sleeves, pulled it on. A final exhale, and he shoved open the door. Rain stung his face as he stepped into the maelstrom. He flipped up his hood, vaguely aware of the roar of water rushing beneath the bridge. A quick look around to get his bearings, and he started off at a jog. It took him less than a minute to reach the lane. A quick sprint and he was across the yard, past the tree at the side, and approaching the back door. The one he knew was never locked.…
The pound of rain covered the squeak of the hinges as he entered into the mudroom. No lantern light. No movement. No sign that anyone was awake. But he knew they were upstairs sleeping, and the weight of the risk he was taking terrified him more with every step. If he got caught, everything he’d ever worked for, everything he’d ever wanted, ever loved, would be gone, including his freedom.
Water dripped onto the linoleum floor as he walked through the kitchen and into the living room. At the base of the stairs, he paused to listen. The only sound that came back at him was the drumbeat of rain, keeping time with a heart racing out of control.
He took the steps two at a time to the top. In the hall he veered right, moving fast. Two doors stood closed. The last one was cracked open a few inches. He headed that way, his footfalls seeming inordinately loud, his breaths rushing, adrenaline boiling in his gut like acid. At the end of the hall, he pushed open the door.
Lightning flickered, illuminated the layout of the room. A full-size bed beneath the window. The bassinet against the wall. He crept to the crib, looked down at the small figure. Water from his slicker dripped onto the pillow. Bending, he scooped the child into his arms along with a blanket, the toy horse clutched in a tiny hand. Stooping, he snagged little sneakers off the floor. What else?
He steeled himself against the smells of baby powder and soap, the scorpion sting of regret in his chest, the knowledge that there would be no going back. For an instant, he stood there, feeling guilty and deceitful, and he longed to melt into the child, lose himself in the warmth, the innocence—all the things he was about to throw away. There was no time for any of it, certainly not some sentimentality that would do nothing but land him in jail.
Time to go.
Turning, he crossed to the door, stepped into the hall. The sleeping child twisted in his arms, mewled like a kitten. Waking up, he thought as he rushed down the stairs, and a fingernail of panic scraped up his spine. As gently as possible, he set his palm over the kid’s mouth. Small fingers pried at his hand in protest.
“Shhh,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”
Running now, he passed through the living room. The child kicked against his abdomen as he burst into the kitchen. A muffled cry rose above the din of rain as he swung open the door.
Outside, thunder roared like a beast and the ground trembled beneath its feet.
* * *
The sound of my cell phone pulsing from atop the nightstand jerks me from sleep. I reach for it, squint unseeing at the screen, and put it to my ear. “Burkholder,” I croak.
“Sorry to wake you, Chief,” comes the voice of my graveyard-shift dispatcher, Margaret. “I just took a call from Joseph Kline out on Township Road 49. They’ve got a missing toddler. He sounds pretty shaken.”
I sit up, wide awake, aware of the hammer of rain against the window. Joseph and Erma Kline are Amish. I’ve met the couple several times over the years. A lifetime ago, I went to school with Erma. She’s several years older than me, but I remember her as a well-adjusted girl with a quick smile and a penchant for chitchat.
I set my feet on the floor and cross to the closet for my clothes. “How long has the child been missing?”
“They noticed he wasn’t in his bed around four A.M. They’ve been looking since with no sign of him and decided to call you.”
A glance at my cell tells me it’s nearly five. I yank my uniform shirt from a hanger, shrug into it, and button up. “Tell them I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Roger that.”
I end the call, reach for my trousers, step into them. The light flicks on. I turn to see my significant other, John Tomasetti, standing in the doorway, looking at me.
“You’re up early,” I say.
“Some Einstein scheduled a meeting at seven.” He cocks his head. “I’d ask if that was a serious call, but the look on your face says it all.”
He starts toward me. He’s nearly dressed for the day, wearing his typical fare. Charcoal trousers. Crisp white shirt, not yet buttoned. The turquoise tie I bought him for Christmas hangs askew at his collar.
“There’s a missing toddler.” I reach for my holster, work the leather over my shoulders, buckle up. “Amish family. I have to go.”
He reaches me, shoves a travel mug of coffee into my hands. Always one step ahead. “Anything I can do?”
“Turn down the rain a little?”
John Tomasetti is an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation. He’s my best friend and the love of my life, both of those things rolled into a delightfully complicated package that makes me unabashedly happy. I’ve no doubt that if I do, indeed, need his assistance, he’ll be there.
Standing on my tiptoes, I brush my lips against his cheek, take in the hint of aftershave and the smell that is uniquely his. “You look nice in that suit, Tomasetti.”
“That’s what all the female chiefs of police tell me.”
I roll my eyes as I grab my jacket and slicker from the closet. “Enjoy your meeting.”
“Uh-huh.” His eyes follow me as I stride past him. “Be careful out there, will you, Chief? Weather service just issued flash-flood warnings for every county in northeastern Ohio.”
Groaning, I shrug into my jacket. “Thanks for the coffee,” I tell him, and rush through the door.
* * *
Early spring in northeastern Ohio is a fickle season, one day promising that anxiously awaited first breath of summer only to laugh at our naiveté the next with a final blast of cold. The one constant you can always count on is rain. On this particular day, the skies have opened full bore along with a light show befitting a Fourth of July fireworks finale.
The Kline farm is just north of Painters Mill, the township where I’ve been the chief of police for about eight years. Twice I have to make a detour to avoid flooding on the road. When I cross the covered bridge that spans Painters Creek, I’m astounded to see that the usually meandering stream has tripled in size and transformed into a raging torrent. With the Kline farm just half a mile down the road, this is a worst-case scenario for a missing toddler.
Calling upon law enforcement for help is usually a last resort for many of the Amish. Most prefer to handle problems on their own without involving outsiders. On the rare occasion when they do ask for help, it’s not the Holmes County Sheriff’s Office they call, but me, jurisdiction be damned. Not because I’m better at what I do, but because of my Amish roots. I’m familiar with the traditions and religion; I’m fluent in Deitsch. Though I left the fold at the age of eighteen—and a few of the elders still won’t speak to me because of it—my connection to them, however questionable in the eyes of some, make me and my department the lesser affront.
The Klines are Swartzentruber Amish, one of the most traditional sects in Holmes County. Like the majority of their brethren, they live without the use of electricity and motorized vehicles. The Swartzentrubers take certain tenets a step farther. Many eschew indoor plumbing, forbid the use of bicycles, and forgo the utilization of gravel in their lanes. Even their attire is heavier and darker, especially for the women.
The absence of gravel makes itself evident as I turn in to the lane. My headlights illuminate an ocean of potholes and mud. I jam the Explorer into four-wheel drive and plow through. Half a mile in, the old farmhouse looms into view, plain, white, and unadorned with shutters or landscaping. Every window glows with lantern light. Behind the house,
I park behind a buggy, the horse hunkered against the onslaught of rain, and I hightail it to the house. The back door swings open as I step onto the porch and Erma Kline ushers me inside.
“Katie! My goodness, I’m glad you’re here. Kumma inseid.” Come inside. “Dumla.” Hurry.
I enter a dimly lit mudroom that smells of lye soap and woodsmoke. An old-fashioned wringer washer sits in the corner. A lantern flickers atop an antique-looking dry sink. Water from my slicker drips unceremoniously onto the floor, but the Amish woman pays it no heed.
“Did you find him?” I ask.
Erma Kline is in her early forties. She’s wearing a black dress that falls nearly to her ankles. A matching cape. A black bonnet over her prayer kapp. All of it punctuated by an expression suffused with worry.
“No,” she tells me. “We’ve searched the house and barn. He’s such a little thing. Just two years old. I don’t know where he could have gone.”
Movement in the doorway to the kitchen draws my attention. I see two preteen girls peeking out at me, their faces drawn and uncertain.
“We checked the attic again,” one of them says in Deitsch. “He’s not there.”
The Amish woman closes her eyes, presses a hand to her stomach. “Mein Gott.” My God. “Check the cellar again,” she tells them. “Take a lantern so you can see.”
“Ja.” Both girls dart away, their feet pounding as they run to the cellar door.
Nodding, I speak into my shoulder mike. “Ten twenty-three,” I say, letting my dispatcher know I’ve arrived on scene. “Ten thirty-one,” I add, using the ten code for missing juvenile. “Two-year-old Amish male. I need County out here. Lights and siren. Expedite. Who’s on duty this morning?”
“Glock,” Margaret tells me, referring to Rupert “Glock” Maddox, one of my most experienced officers.
“Tell him to get out here.” I think about the weather conditions, the swollen creek, and another layer of worry settles over the first. “Call the fire department, too. See if you can round up some volunteers.”
“You got it.”
“We could use some dogs, too. I think the sheriff knows a guy with bloodhounds.”
“Roger that.”
In the beat of silence that follows, the battery of rain on the tin roof is deafening, and I can’t help but think of a two-year-old frightened and alone in such horrendous conditions. I’m anxious to join the search, hoping we’ll find a wet and crying toddler straightaway. I’m about to ask for a description, his clothing and height and weight, when the door behind me whooshes open.
“Mamm! Any sign of him?”
I turn to see a young Amish woman burst inside. She’s wearing a black coat over her dress, black bonnet, and soaked to the skin. She’s shaking violently beneath her coat. Whether it’s from cold or fear or both, I don’t know, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Water and tears stream down a face permeated with panic.
She blinks at me and then turns her attention to her mother and chokes out a sob. “He’s not in the barn!” she cries. “I don’t understand. Where could he have gone in such a short period of time?”
Up until now, I’d assumed the missing boy was Erma’s son. But there is a terror unique to a mother. I know even before asking that this young woman is the one who’s lost her son.
“You’re his mamm?” I ask in Deitsch.
“Ja. I’m B—Bonnie.” Her face screws up and she presses a hand over her mouth as if to smother a cry. I guess her to be in her late teens. “It’s Little Joe! We have to find him. It’s cold, and he isn’t wearing his coat. He’s so little. All this rain…”
She starts toward us, but staggers, thrusts out her arms to break an impending fall. Erma and I rush to her, grasp her arms on either side. The young woman is cold to the touch, vibrating from head to foot, and beginning to hyperventilate.
“Let’s get you into a chair,” I say.
Erma and I help her to the kitchen table. She slumps into a chair, then tries to rise, but her mother presses her back.
“You just settle down,” the older woman tells her. “I’ll get you some water.”
I don’t tell them we may not have a minute to burn.
Instead, I move around the chair so I’m facing her, set my hand on her shoulder and squeeze gently. “When’s the last time you saw Little Joe?”
“I put him to bed around eight thirty last night. I got up once, around two A.M., and he was fine, sound asleep in the bassinet.”
“When did you notice him missing?” I ask.
“I got up to feed the cows at four and he wasn’t there.” A fresh round of tears streams from her eyes. “At first, I figured he’d crawled into bed with Mamm and Datt or maybe one of my sisters, but I checked right away and he wasn’t there.”
“Has he ever done anything like this before?” I ask.
“Never.”
Erma hands her a glass of water, shoves it into her hands. “Take a nice long sip now, you hear?”
The young woman obeys, then sets the glass on the table. “I can’t bear the thought of him out there all alone,” she whispers.
“We’re going to find him,” I assure her. “There are a lot of people out there looking. The sheriff’s department is on the way.”
She nods, but her eyes are chasms of a terror she can’t contain. At some point her teeth have begun to chatter. She’s crying and swipes repeatedly at the tears with shaking hands.
I divide my attention between the two women. “Can you give me a quick description of the boy? His size. What was he wearing?”
“He was in his sleep shirt,” Bonnie tells me. “It’s white flannel. Gray socks.” She gives his approximate height and weight, then emits a sob, catches herself, struggles to regain her composure. “He’s afraid of thunder.”
I quickly jot the description in my notepad, keep going. “You’ve searched the house and barn?”
“Twice,” says the older woman.
“Any other outbuildings?”
“Just that old chicken house,” she tells me. “We’ve looked there, too.”
“How many people are out there searching for him now?” I ask.
“My husband, Joseph, is on foot,” Erma tells me. “Our neighbor is in his buggy, on that two-track between our farms. Our oldest son saddled our buggy horse to search the field in the back.”
“Datt and I searched the barn,” Bonnie adds. “Even the loft.” Her face screws up. “It’s like he just disappeared.”
An ominous rumble of thunder punctuates the statement.
There are more questions to be asked, information to be confirmed, but with a two-year-old unaccounted for and a creek about to breach its banks, the rest can wait.
“I’m going to look for him,” I tell them.
“Me, too.” Bonnie tries to get to her feet.
Erma won’t hear it. “You’re soaking wet.”
“I can’t sit here and do nothing while Little Joe is out there in all that cold and rain!” Bonnie cries.
I make eye contact with her. “I’d like for you to search the house again. The barn. The chicken house, too. Sometimes kids find a place to hide and fall asleep.”
Nodding, Bonnie fights tears. “I’ll do anything,” she sobs. “I just want him back.”
“Get yourself dry.” I reach out and touch her shoulder. “Try to stay calm. We’ll find him.”
The sound of her sobbing follows me to the door.
* * *
Lightning splits the sky as I run to the barn. I enter, take a moment for my eyes to adjust to the murky light. A lantern hanging from a rafter casts a golden dome on an Amish man harnessing a sorrel gelding.
“Mr. Kline?” I call out.
He looks at me over his shoulder, continuing to work, his hands deft and quick. Joseph Kline is a reserved man. He’s serious and quiet, but with a proclivity for sharing snippets of unexpected humor. This morning, he looks as if the weight of the world resides on his shoulders.
