Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

“I won’t.” Still, I’m glad he said it.


“Tomasetti, there are two cops standing outside the car.”

Sighing, he pulls away, gives my hand a final squeeze. “Stay put. Lots of people want to talk to you.”

“I know the drill.”

“You up to it?”

“I am now.”

“Let me know if anyone gives you any shit.”

He opens the door and gets out, leaving me alone with my thoughts, the ghosts of my past, and the knowledge that somehow everything is going to be all right.





EPILOGUE

Drizzle floats down from a sky the color of cast iron when I pull onto the narrow gravel shoulder in front of the graabhof. I sit there for a moment, watching the procession of buggies pull in and park, the young hostlers taking hold of the reins and leading the horses forward so that all the buggies are lined up neatly. It’s a scene vastly different from the one that played out six days ago when Joseph King was laid to rest.

This is an unusual gathering. It’s not a funeral, more like an after-the-fact memorial service. I’m profoundly moved that the Amish community turned out; some hired drivers and traveled from as far away as Painters Mill and beyond to pay their final respects.

Families with children, couples, the young and elderly alike leave their buggies and approach the plain headstones where Joseph and Naomi King will lay side by side for all of eternity.

Shutting down the engine, I get out of the rental car and make my way through the gate. I spot Jonas King, his brother Edward, and Logan standing apart from the crowd. Jonas raises his hand and I wave. I see Bishop Fisher and his wife, Salome, standing near the headstones. The bishop notices my approach and gives me a nod. I stop before reaching him. This gathering isn’t about me, and I remind myself I’m an outsider here. This is about Joseph and Naomi King, gone before their time. It’s about their children, the Amish community as a whole, and setting the record straight.

The crunch of tires over gravel draws my attention. I glance behind me to see a white van pull up to the gate. The rear passenger door slides open. I recognize my brother, Jacob, and his wife, Irene, immediately as they disembark. I’m surprised to see that my sister, Sarah, rode with them as well. My chest swells at the sight of them as they start toward me. We shared so much in the years we lived next door to Joseph King. I wonder if their memories are as crystal and happy as mine, if their regrets as deep.

“Jacob.” I nod at my brother as he and his wife approach. “Irene. Wie geth’s alleweil?” I ask. How goes it now?

“Mir sinn zimmlich gut,” Jacob says. We are pretty good.

“I’m glad you came,” I say.

“Yaeder mon set kumma,” Irene puts in. Everyone ought to have come.

“Knowing the truth about Joseph…” Jacob shrugs. “It was the right thing to do.”

My sister joins us. “Hi, Katie.”

“Sarah.” I step forward and give her a hug. “Thank you for coming.”

She eyes the small crowd standing near the headstones. “It’s a shay samling, Katie.” A nice gathering.

“Good turnout, too,” Irene puts in.

I feel my brother’s gaze on me and look his way. Our eyes meet and in that instant I know we’re remembering the way it used to be. We’re kids again and life was one big adventure. In the span of a few short summers, we learned so much about the way the world worked, learned even more about each other. It’s a rare moment, our moment, one we haven’t shared for a very long time.

“It’s been too long since you and I have seen each other,” Jacob says.

“I think it’s time we remedied that,” I reply.

He looks past me, at the mourners who’ve gathered among the headstones. “I walked past that old swimming hole yesterday,” Jacob says in Deitsch. “That old dead tree we used to jump off of is gone, but the water’s still deep.”

“You didn’t happen to see an old trunk sticking out of the gravel bottom, did you?” I ask.

“No.” He smiles. “But I looked.”

Raw emotion flashes on my sister’s face. “I hadn’t thought of that in years.”

For the span of a full minute, we stand there, embroiled in our thoughts, remembering a thousand innocent summer days and friendships that transcend even death.

As if realizing he’s ventured into dangerous territory, my brother looks down at the ground. “I’m glad you put all this together, Katie. It’s good for everyone to know the truth.” He nods at his wife, and the three of them start toward the place where the Kings are buried.

“Katie!”

I glance toward the line of buggies to see little Sadie King running toward me, her dress swishing around her legs. Behind her, the rest of her siblings and her aunt and uncle climb out of the buggy.

“Sadie.” Kneeling, I open my arms and she flings herself into my hug. “I’m so pleased all of you could make it.”

“Aunt Rebecca says Datt was a good man and we shouldn’t miss this. She said everyone was wrong about him. And now that he’s living with Jesus he can be with our mamm and finally be happy.”

I don’t know exactly what the children were told, but I’m glad their aunt and uncle put to rest any doubts they had about the decency of their father.

“Your aunt is a wise woman,” I tell her.

The four remaining children approach tentatively. They’re more reserved than Sadie, partly because we’re in the graabhof. Amish children are taught from an early age that it’s a solemn, sacred place and they are to be on their best behavior. No running or laughter. I think about Sadie’s loose relationship with the rules and it makes me smile.

The oldest, Becky, moves closer and offers her hand. “Thank you for trying to save our datt,” she says earnestly.

“It was the right thing to do,” I tell her. “I wish I could have.”

The girl’s brows knit as she considers my answer. I find myself hoping she’ll recall more good than bad when she remembers her father.

Sadie pulls away and smiles at me. “I’m going to say good-bye to my datt now,” she says, and starts toward her parents’ graves. “Bye, Katie.”

“Bye, sweetheart.”

Levi is next. Making eye contact with me, the little boy grins and keeps moving, too shy to speak, walking right past me. A man of few words, and I think he must take after his mamm.

Little Joe stops next to me and gives a serious, resolute nod. “I’m just like my datt,” he says seriously. “That’s what everyone says.”

“You look just like him,” I say. “Beheef dich.” Behave yourself.

He grins and turns to catch up with his siblings.

“Katie.”

I turn my attention to Rebecca and Daniel Beachy. They’re both clad in black, their best church clothes. Despite the harsh words between us last time I was at their farm, they stop to chat and I’m pleased to see them.

We exchange handshakes. “I’m glad you came,” I tell them. “I’m glad you brought the children.”

“Thank you for finding the truth about Joe,” Daniel tells me.

I nod. “Everyone needed to know.”