Despite the early hour, the King farm is abuzz with activity. Two children—little girls clad in matching blue dresses—are on their way to the barn when we park next to a flatbed wagon loaded with a single milk can. They stare at us as Tomasetti and I help the bishop from the Tahoe, but they don’t stop to chat. More than likely, they’ve got cows or goats to milk before school.
A big black dog with white paws bounds over to us, tongue lolling. Tomasetti bends, stepping between the animal and the bishop to keep the dog from knocking the old man off balance.
We’re midway up the sidewalk when the screen door squeaks open and Levi King steps onto the porch. He looks gaunt and exhausted. His eyes settle on Bishop Hertzler, and I see a recoil go through his body.
“Has something happened?” he asks, starting toward us. “Is it Annie? Did you find her?”
“Mr. King—” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“Bishop?” Desperation rings in King’s voice. He stops a few feet away and stares at the old man, as if Tomasetti and I aren’t there. “Tell me. Why are you here?”
“We found a girl’s body,” I interject. “There was no ID. We need for you to come with us and tell us if it’s Annie.”
King looks at me as if I just rammed a knife into his abdomen and gutted him. His mouth opens. His lips quiver. “It isn’t Annie. It can’t be.”
In my peripheral vision, I see Tomasetti glance toward the Tahoe, and I wonder if he’s reliving the moment when someone told him about the deaths of his own daughters, the death of his wife.
The bishop maintains his grip on the younger man’s arm. “Be faithful, Levi, and leave the results to God.”
The screen door slams. I look up, to see Edna King standing on the porch in her plain dress and kapp, a threadbare dishcloth in her hands. There’s no way she overheard the conversation. But she knows this is about Annie. She knows it’s bad.
The dishcloth flutters to the ground, and then she’s running toward us. “Is it Annie?” she asks. “Did something happen?”
Levi steps back into himself. When he turns to his wife, his face is resolute and calm. “There was a girl found,” he tells her. “It may not be Annie.”
“A girl?” She covers her mouth with both hands. “She is alive?”
Her husband sets both hands on her shoulders, shakes his head. “God will take care of Annie,” he says with conviction.
“Edna, there is much comfort in that,” the bishop adds.
I see the struggle waging within her, the war between absolute faith and the terror of knowing something horrific may have happened to her daughter. “It cannot be Annie,” she whispers. “Not Annie.”
Tomasetti snags my attention and motions toward the Tahoe. I take a step back and we start down the sidewalk.
“I have to go with them,” Levi tells her. “Be strong, Edna. Get breakfast for the children. I’ll be back before you’ve washed the dishes.”
“Levi…”
I hear her crying softly, but the Amish man turns away. Stone-faced, staring straight ahead, he starts toward the Tahoe.
Behind him, his wife falls to her knees, clenches handfuls of grass in both hands, and cries out her daughter’s name.
*
The drive to Trumbull Memorial Hospital takes twenty-five minutes, but it seems like hours. The sense of dread inside the vehicle is palpable. Bishop Hertzler and Levi King ride in the backseat and spend much of that time in silent prayer or speaking quietly. Mostly, they talk about Annie—her youth and goodness, her love of God and family, the possibility that the body isn’t hers and that another family will be needing their prayers. Levi returns to that theme again and again, and I know he’s clinging to that hope with the desperation of a man trying to save his own life. In a way, he is.
By the time we park in the garage across the street from the hospital, the men have fallen silent. No one speaks as we disembark. The two Amish men draw some attention as the four of us take the skyway from the garage to the hospital. It’s always hard for me to believe there are people living in Ohio who’ve never seen an Amish person. Once inside, we take the elevator to the basement, where the morgue is located.
The elevator doors open to a reception area with pale yellow walls, a blue sofa and chair, and a couple of large areca palms. The coffee table holds a vase filled with silk peonies. A flat-screen television mounted on the wall is tuned to the Fox News Channel. As I take in the decor, I can’t help but think that someone tried a little too hard to make a dismal place seem normal.
A middle-aged woman in a fuchsia skirt and jacket sits behind a glossy oak desk with a headset on. She offers an appropriately somber smile. “Can I help you?”
Tomasetti steps ahead of us and shows his identification. “We’re here for a viewing.”
“We’re expecting you. I think they’re ready back there.” She eyes the two Amish men as she hands him a clipboard. “Just sign at the bottom.”
Tomasetti scribbles an illegible signature on the form and returns the clipboard to her.