Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

The little girl nods.

I’m a couple of light-years out of my element when it comes to dealing with children. I’m not a mother and I don’t spend as much time as I should with my niece and nephews. I do, however, know that all children are innocent. They’re trusting and forgiving and vulnerable. Those things seem especially true for the Amish.

“Katie is going to ask you some questions about what happened the night Mamm went to be with Jesus,” King tells her. “Do you remember that?”

“I remember.” The little girl’s open expression falters.

“I know it’s scary, but Katie’s a policeman and she might be able to help us figure some things out. It’s important, so I want you to answer all her questions as best you can. Do you understand?”

Her foot starts to jiggle, but she nods. “Yes, Datt.”

He pauses as if to take a moment to get his words in order and then asks, “Do you remember telling Becky about what happened that night?”

Another nod.

“What did Becky do after you told her?”

“Her face turned red and she cried.”

His expression softens. “What else did she do?”

“She wrote a letter.”

He looks at me. “If you want we can talk with Becky after we’re finished here.”

I nod, but I don’t want to be part of this. I don’t want to bring yet another child into this. And I’m not convinced either girl will bring anything new to the equation.

He turns his attention back to his daughter. “Sadie, I want you to tell Katie what you saw the night Mamm went to heaven.”

The little girl hugs the faceless doll more closely against her and snuggles against her datt. She looks exhausted and scared and I feel a rise of anger that her father would put her through this.

“What’s your doll’s name?” I ask, hoping to ease her anxiety.

“Dottie.”

“That’s a pretty name.” I offer a smile I hope is reassuring. “I used to have a little hen named Dottie.”

The child grins; she thinks I’m pulling her leg, but she’s game, a good sport. “I have a rooster,” she tells me. “He’s white with a big tail and his name is Bobby Doo. Becky hatched him from an egg.”

“Good thing you didn’t eat that egg for breakfast.”

She giggles.

Silence descends, so I reach out and run my hand over her doll. “I bet you and your brothers and sisters miss your mamm.”

She gives a big nod. “Sometimes Annie still cries at night. Levi, too.”

“That happens when you miss someone.” I glance at King and he nods for me to keep going. I turn my attention back to Sadie. “Can you tell me what happened the night your mamm went to heaven?”

She bites her lip, looks down at the doll, saying nothing.

It’s wrenching to see this little girl struggle to find words no child should have to utter. It’s a helpless feeling because I have no way of knowing if she did, indeed, see anything that night. Or if her father coached her and asked her to lie for him. All I can do at this juncture is gently dig and listen.

I give her a moment and then ask, “What do you remember about that night, sweetheart?”

“I heard thunder.”

“What did you do?”

“Me and Dottie got up.”

“Do you take Dottie everywhere with you?”

She looks at the doll and scrapes at a stain with a tiny fingernail. “When I’m allowed.”

I wink at her to let her know it’s okay. “What happened after you and Dottie got up?”

“We went to go pee wee.”

“What did you see?”

“I didn’t see anything.”

I glance at Joseph, confused. If he’s relying on this kid to save his neck, he’s in for an epic fail.

He nods at his daughter. “Go on.”

“Not me. Dottie.”

“Oh.” I nod. “What did Dottie see?”

“A man.”

“Do you know who he was?” I ask. “Was he someone you’d seen before?”

She shakes her head.

“What was he doing?”

“Standing outside my mamm and datt’s bedroom.”

“Did he see you?”

She nods vigorously. “He looked … funny. His face was shiny and red. He told me to go back to bed.”

“What did you do?”

“I told him I wanted Mamm.”

“What happened next?”

Of all the questions I’ve asked, this one garners the most powerful response. Sadie seems to curl in on herself. Make herself smaller. As if she’s trying to sink more deeply into her datt’s lap. Hiding behind the doll.

“He told me Mamm was sick. Me and Dottie started to go back to our room and he raised the long gun like he was going to shoot us. I heard it click, but he must’ve been playing.”

A slow, seeping horror moves through me. Does she understand what she’s saying? Is it the truth?

I glance at Joseph, but he’s staring at her intently, stone-faced and pale.

“What did you do?” I ask, turning my attention back to the child.

“I went to my room.”

I let the words settle and then ask, “What did the man look like?”

“An Englischer.”

Of course that’s the way a little Amish girl would describe a non-Amish man she didn’t recognize. “What color was his hair, sweetie?”

“Brown like mine, only short.”

“Do you remember what color his eyes were?”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t really see his eyes.”

“How big was he?”

“Big.”

I glance at Joseph. “Bigger than your datt? Or was he smaller?”

“About the same, only fatter.”

“Do you remember what he was wearing?”

Her brows knit; then she shakes her head. “Just regular Englischer clothes.”

I’m so engrossed by her demeanor, her utter certainty about what she saw, the conviction with which she tells the story, I find my earlier skepticism starting to crumble. The story is too elaborate for a five-year-old to make up. There are too many details for her to recall had she been coached.

Still, I make an effort to shake her up. “Is it possible the man was your datt?”

Across from me, King makes a sound of annoyance. I ignore him and I don’t take my eyes off the child.

“It wasn’t my datt.”

“Are you sure? I mean, it was dark, right?”

“My datt was fishing.”

That, she was told. I continue pressing her. “Maybe he forgot something. His fishhooks maybe, and he came home to get them.”

It doesn’t elude me that all the while Joseph sits quietly, making no attempt to intervene or influence her.

“But the man didn’t look like Datt,” the girl insists.

“Really? What was different about him? I mean, you said you didn’t see the man’s face, right?”

“I saw it. I mean, a little, when he looked at me, but…” Her smooth little brows furrow. “He wasn’t Datt.”

She’s not rattled, but thinking this through, I realize. Not trying to remember forgotten lines. Not looking to her father for guidance. She’s remembering what she saw …

“He didn’t have a beard!” she exclaims. “And he didn’t wear suspenders.”

“What did you do next?” I ask.

“Me and Dottie went back to bed.”