“We forbade her to speak to the Englischers,” Levi says. “She would not listen.”
“Our Annie thinks she knows her mind.” Edna’s voice cracks on the last word. “When she wants something, there is no stopping her.”
“But her faith is strong,” Levi adds. “She loves her family. She is kind and submits to God.”
I know that sometimes even the faithful find themselves face-to-face with the devil.
“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. King. You’ve been very helpful.” I shake hands with both of them. “We’re going to do our best to find your daughter.”
Tomasetti, Goddard, and I stand as a single unit. As we start toward the door, I mentally add Amy Stutz to my list of possible sources of information. But the person I most want to speak with is the boyfriend. Any cop worth his weight knows that when a female goes missing, the first suspect is always the man who claims to love her.
*
Ten minutes later, Goddard, Tomasetti, and I are standing on the front porch of the Stutz house. Goddard has knocked twice, but no one has answered the door. “We’re batting zero,” he says with a sigh.
Tomasetti peers through the window as if expecting to discover someone lurking behind the shades. “I thought the Amish spent their evenings at home,” he growls. “Early to bed and all that bullshit.”
Goddard looks to me, the resident Amish expert. “Any idea where they might be?”
“Visiting a neighbor, maybe.” I look around, taking in the long shadows of late afternoon.
“We could wait,” Goddard suggests. “See if they show.”
“We need the name of the boyfriend,” Tomasetti mutters.
I drift to the porch rail and look out across the pasture, where eight Jersey cows and two young horses graze the lush grass. A thin layer of fog hovers in the low-lying areas. Twilight birds and crickets mingle with a cacophony of bullfrogs from the pond, where a profusion of cattails flourish. How many times growing up did I lie in my bed at night with the window open and listen to these very same sounds? How many times did I wonder what the world was like beyond the confines of the farm? I feel the memories pushing at the gate. But I don’t open it.
Goddard clears his throat. “Let’s grab a bite to eat and come back.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Tomasetti says.
And then we’re back in the Tahoe, following Goddard down the lane through plumes of billowing white dust.
I’m still thinking about the boyfriend. “If Annie and her boyfriend are tight and he knows she’s missing, why hasn’t he come forward?”
“Maybe he’s guilty of something.”
“Or they could be together.”
“Considering the blood at the scene, that would be a best-case scenario.”
We’re nearly to the end of the lane when, in my peripheral vision, I notice a flash of blue through the dust. I glance over and see an Amish girl in a blue dress standing on the shoulder. Brown paper bag in hand, she’s braving a thick bramble of raspberries. She’s picking the berries, I realize.
“Stop,” I say abruptly.
Tomasetti hits the brakes hard enough to throw me against my shoulder harness. The tires grab and the Tahoe slides to an abrupt stop. He puts the SUV in park and tosses me a speculative look. “Amy Stutz?”
“Age looks about right.”
A few yards ahead, Goddard’s brake lights come on and he pulls over.
I open the door and start toward the girl. Her eyes widen when she realizes I’m coming toward her. “Hi there,” I begin in my most friendly voice. “Wei bischt du heit?” How are you today?”
“Ich bin zimmlich gut.” I’m pretty good, but she’s looking at me as if I’m an ax murderer, and I can tell she’s thinking about making a run for the house.
“My name’s Kate. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m a police officer.”
“Oh. Hello.” It’s a duty greeting. She doesn’t want to talk to me, but she’s too polite not to respond when she’s been addressed by an adult, even if they’re English. I guess her to be about fifteen years old. She’s wearing a plain blue dress with a gauzy white kapp that’s been left untied at her nape, and on her feet are a cheap pair of sneakers.
“I’m looking for Mr. and Mrs. Stutz,” I begin.
“They’re visiting the Beiler family down the road. To see the new baby.”
“What’s your name?”
“Amy.”
I make a show of looking at the raspberry bushes. “How are the berries?”
“Juicy.” She peers into the bag. “Not too many bugs.” She eyes the Tahoe. “They’re not for sale. Mamm makes jam.”
She’s a pretty girl with hazel eyes and a sunburned nose. Her hands are dirty from picking berries and she’s got a purple stain next to her mouth.
“Do you know Annie King?” I ask.
“Ja.”
I see scratches on her arms from the thorny bushes and I can’t help but remember all the times my mamm sent me to pick raspberries or blackberries. I always returned scratched and bleeding, but it was always worth the pain because I ate as many as I harvested.