When my parents discovered I’d shot and killed my rapist, I learned that even decent, God-loving Amish break the law. I learned they’re capable of lying to protect their children. And, in the eyes of the angry teen I’d been, I knew that underneath all those layers of self-righteous bullshit, they were sinners, just like everyone else.
I spent the following years rebelling against any rule that didn’t suit me—and few did. I defied my parents. I railed against all those rigid Amish tenants. I rebelled against myself, and against God. I disrupted the lives of my siblings. Embarrassed my parents. Disappointed the Amish bishop. When Mamm and Datt began to worry that I was a negative influence on my siblings, I knew it was time to leave. The thought terrified me, but I would rather have died than admit it. Instead, when I turned eighteen, I left Painters Mill for Columbus, Ohio.
In the back of my mind, I always thought I’d fail. That I’d run back to Painters Mill with my tail between my legs. But I didn’t. Mamm traveled to Columbus when I graduated from the Police Academy. Sadly, I never saw my datt again. He died of a stroke six months later. I finally returned to Painters Mill to be with Mamm after she’d been diagnosed with breast cancer. She’d forgone conventional medical treatment, opting instead for Amish folk remedies. Those remedies did little to help, of course, and she suffered a terrible end. Even after all these years, sometimes those old regrets sneak up on me.
In terms of Amish youth, I was an anomaly. But it’s my only perspective and I can’t help but compare my life with the lives of the missing teenagers. Do we share a common thread?
The only teen in the group I know personally is Sadie Miller. Pretty, troubled Sadie. The last time I saw her, she’d been dressed in painted-on jeans and a revealing tank top. Wearing too much makeup and smoking cigarettes. Cursing because she’d discovered the power of shock value. Sadie and her love of fabric and art and all of her big plans for the future. Sadie, the rule breaker.
The rule breaker.
Something clicks in my brain.
“Shit,” I say aloud. “That’s it.”
I spot an exit for a rest area and swerve right. Then I’m down the ramp and parking in front of a picnic area. For an instant, I sit there, gripping the wheel, my thoughts reeling, and all I can think is, Why didn’t I see this until now?
Getting out of the Explorer, I start toward the nearest picnic table, unclipping my phone as I go. I hit speed dial and begin to pace. One ring. Two rings. In the back of my mind, I’m already wondering if Tomasetti is avoiding me. Relief swamps me when he picks up.
“I found the connection,” I say without preamble. “The missing teenagers were breaking the rules. They were misbehaving. Acting out.”
“Run with it,” he says, and I do.
“Someone’s targeting troubled Amish teens. Bonnie Fisher was sexually active. She’d had multiple partners. She was pregnant out of wedlock and contemplating an abortion. Annie King had an English boyfriend, a bad boy, and she was known to run with a tough crowd. She was having doubts about her faith and was thinking about leaving the Amish way of life.”
The words tumble from my mouth in a rush. “Sadie Miller is prideful and individualistic. She wears makeup and tight jeans. She smokes cigarettes, drinks beer, hangs out with the English. She values all the things she shouldn’t, like her fabric art. She gets into fights, for Chrissake. She was entertaining thoughts of leaving the Amish way.”
There’s a pause and then Tomasetti says, “I’m playing devil’s advocate here, Kate, but every one of those so-called vices could be considered typical behavior for a huge percentage of American teenagers.”
“Not if you’re Amish. Sure, you hear about Amish kids misbehaving during rumspringa. But something like eighty percent of them go on to be baptized and join the church. These missing kids aren’t simply misbehaving. They’re breaking major Amish tenets and they’re completely impenitent. They’re anomalies and someone has taken it upon himself to do something about it.”
“It’s tenuous,” he says. “What about Ruth Wagler? Noah Mast?”
“I don’t have it all figured out, but I think it’s worth exploring.” I think about that for a moment. “Did Ruth Wagler’s parents mention having any problems with her before she disappeared?”
“No, but they weren’t exactly forthcoming.”
“I want to talk to them.”
“Makes it tough when no one has a damn phone,” he grumbles.
I sigh, relived he’s on board—or at least halfway in the boat. “I don’t know if I’m right but it feels … close.”
“It’s not like you’re an expert on breaking the rules or anything.”
The words dangle for a moment; then I clear my throat and tell him about Irene and Perry Mast’s having lost a daughter ten years earlier.
“Odd that they didn’t mention it,” he says.
“I’m on my way to Monongahela Falls now.” I pause. “If you can hang tight for a couple of hours, I’d like to go with you when you speak to the Wagler girl’s parents.”