“You’re Mennonite now?”
He nods. “The religious beliefs are similar, but you don’t have to live your life as if it’s the eighteenth century.”
I pause to give Tomasetti an opening. “What can you tell us about Noah Mast?” he asks.
All semblance of tranquillity leaves Stoltzfus. His left eyelid begins to flutter. “I didn’t really know him. Noah was a few years younger than me, but I’d see him around. After I left, he got in touch with me and told me he wanted to leave. Asked me how to do it.”
“Did you help him?”
“I would have, but I never heard from him again.”
“At the time, had you been actively helping other Amish youths leave the lifestyle?”
“Well, I wasn’t organized about it, not like I am now. But yeah. I helped a couple kids back in those early days. I mean, it had been so hard for me.” Another nervous laugh. “I felt … compelled to help others.”
“What else can you tell us about Noah?” Tomasetti says the words amicably, but his stare is intense.
“Alls I remember is he told me he wanted out. I gathered he wasn’t getting along with his folks. I offered to help him.” Stoltzfus shrugs. “Next thing I know, he’s missing.
“Were you surprised?”
“Not really. I figured he’d just done it on his own.”
“Do you know Annie King?” Tomasetti asks.
His eyes go wide, and he begins blinking. He looks at us as if realizing he’s wandered into a lion’s den and his only escape is now blocked. “You guys don’t think I had anything to do with that, do you?”
“Did you know her?” Tomasetti repeats.
“No.”
“Did you have any contact with her?”
“No!”
“She didn’t approach you? Ask you to help her?”
“Lookit, I never met her. Never talked to her. And that’s the truth.”
CHAPTER 9
“He’s either a damn good liar or he’s telling the truth,” Tomasetti says as he makes the turn onto the highway that will take us to the motel.
“I believe him,” I say. “At least with regard to Noah Mast.”
“Seemed kind of nervous.”
“You were snarling at him.”
“I wasn’t snarling.” But in the dim light of the dash, I see his mouth curve.
Feeling the drag of thirty-six hours without sleep, I look out the window. “No one seems like a good fit.”
“Until we find someone more viable, we’ve got to go through the motions.” He glances away from his driving. “You hungry? There’s a restaurant down the road from the motel.”
“I saw it. The Flying Buck.” Having not eaten since last night, I’m starving. “And it’s a bar, Tomasetti, not a restaurant.”
“Since our restaurant choices are limited, we could probably have a beer with a burger without breaking too many rules.”
“No shots, though.”
“Suits would probably frown upon that.”
It’s nearly ten o’clock when we pull into the gravel lot of the Flying Buck. Our headlights wash over a single vehicle, a nondescript Camry that looks as if it’s just been waxed. The building itself is actually a double-wide mobile home painted in green camo. A hunting mural depicts two Labradors bounding through water and two orange-vested hunters taking aim.
A gravel walkway takes us to a covered porch scattered with tables for summertime dining. We enter through a thick wooden door capped with a set of twelve-point antlers. The interior is dim and smells like dozens of other bars where I’ve spent too much time—a combination of cooking grease, liquor, and cigarette smoke. An old Allman Brothers song about one more silver dollar crackles from a single overhead speaker. The bar is to our right, an ancient slab of wood that’s seen more than its share of calloused elbows, slurred speech, and spilled beer. A hunched old man in a cowboy hat sits with his leg crossed over his knee, smoking a pipe. The rest rooms are in the back. A sign says SIT THE HELL DOWN. We choose a table at the rear.
Tomasetti pulls out my chair for me. I want to believe he’s doing it because he’s a gentleman. But I know he will never sit down in any public place with his back to the door. Some people might call that paranoid. Not me. Maybe because I know if some crazy shit walks in with a gun, Tomasetti will be ready.
A skinny waitress with blue-gray hair and bony legs rushes to our table and slaps down menus. “Hi, folks. You here for dinner or drinks?”
“Both,” Tomasetti says. “And not necessarily in that order.”
She chuckles. “That’s what I like to hear. What can I get for ya?”
We order two bottles of Killian’s Irish Red and burgers with fries, and the waitress hustles away.
“What bothers me about Stoltzfus,” Tomasetti begins, “is that he’s put himself in the position of having access to disgruntled Amish teenagers.”
Something scratches at the back of my brain, but I can’t quite reach it. “Child predators operate much the same way.”