The young woman drops her gaze to the tabletop. Her embarrassment and shame are palpable. Seeing her distress, Erma reaches out, sets her hand over her daughter’s. “My husband hired him to build that pipe fence out behind the barn. Thomas did all the cutting and welding.” The older woman sighs. “Our Bonnie took him coffee a few times, and that boy, full of evil thoughts and lust, preyed on her innocence. That’s all we’ve got to say about it.”

  Judging from Bonnie’s body language, there’s more to the story. A lot more. But I let it go. “Do you keep the doors locked at night?” I ask, knowing many citizens in Painters Mill—Amish and English alike—don’t.

  “Mamm!”

  The three of us swivel in our chairs to see one of the young girls dart into the doorway that leads to the living room. She’s out of breath, her expression frightened.

  “Was der schinner is letz?” Erma asks. What in the world is wrong?

  The girl swallows hard. “There’s … blood. On the floor. Next to Little Joe’s bed.”

  “What?” Bonnie rises, her expression aghast. “Show me.”

  I get to my feet and follow them from the room.

  The Kline home is a typical farmhouse with three bedrooms upstairs, and the living room, kitchen, and mudroom on the first level. The girl pounds up the stairs, Bonnie hot on her heels. Both turn right at the landing. The hall is a dimly lit space, so I pull the mini Maglite from my equipment belt and flick it on.

  I follow them to a bedroom at the end of the hall.

  The young girl points. “There.”

  The lighting is poor, so I slant the beam toward the bassinet as I start toward it. A quake of unease moves through me at the sight of the blood. A single drop the size of a pearl mars the wood plank floor. I shift the light to the interior of the crib and notice a smear on the pillow.

  From behind me, I hear Bonnie’s quick inhale. “Mein Gott. Mamm! Es is bloot!” It is blood!

  “Was it there when you put him to bed?” I ask, hoping Little Joe had a scraped knee or cut finger.

  “No!” the young mother cries. “He was fine!”

  Erma sets her hand on her daughter’s arm and squeezes gently. “You know Little Joe gets nosebleeds sometimes.”

  The news takes my concern down half a notch. Still, neither woman seems relieved by the pronouncement, and once again I get the feeling there’s something I’m not being told.

  “Mamm, look there.”

  I follow Bonnie’s point and kneel. A single muddy footprint stands out on the braided rug, looking sinister and out of place next to the bassinet. It’s a large print and likely belongs to an adult male with a size eleven or twelve shoe. The outline is so perfect I can make out the waffle-type sole.

  I look at Bonnie. “Do you have any idea who was in this room? Who might’ve made this print?”

  “Not Datt. He didn’t come in here this morning,” she whispers. “When I told him Little Joe was missing, he went outside and began to look for him.”

  Erma nods, her expression grim. “My husband always leaves his boots in the mudroom.”

  A renewed sense of urgency presses into me as I get to my feet. The presence of blood in addition to the print adds a truckload of menace to an already menacing situation. I think of the tire ruts. The dropped toy. The sneaker.

  “Who else has been in the house?” I ask.

  Erma shakes her head. “Just us,” she tells me. “The family.”

  Someone else has been in this room, a little voice whispers in my ear.

  I turn my attention to Bonnie. The young Amish woman looks as if she’s about to come apart at the seams—or throw up. “What about Thomas McKee?” I ask. “Has he been angry with you? Has he been angry with the family? Anything like that?”

  Bonnie raises her gaze to mine. Through the shimmer of tears, I see a raw and primal fear and realize she’s holding on to the last of her control with a tenuous grip.

  “No.” She lowers her face into shaking hands and begins to sob. “I just want my baby. Please, Chief Burkholder, find him. Bring him back to me before something terrible happens.”

  * * *

  I call Dispatch as I pull out of the lane. “Run Thomas McKee through LEADS,” I say, referring to the Law Enforcement Automated Data System, which is a database that interfaces with several other law enforcement platforms.

  “You got it,” says my first-shift dispatcher, Lois.

  Realizing it’s too early for me to find McKee at the body shop, I head toward his residence. “Check for warrants. See if you can come up with a phone number.”

  “Roger that.”

  McKee lives with his mother and four sisters in a small frame house near the railroad tracks in Painters Mill proper. I park in the driveway next to a beat-up Ford Focus and jog through the downpour to the front door and knock.

  The porch light flicks on and the door swings open. Shirley McKee is in her mid-fifties with hair dyed an unnatural-looking black and makeup more befitting a twentysomething. She’s wearing a pink uniform, and I’m reminded that in addition to her regular shift at the factory in Coshocton, and taking care of all the bookkeeping for the body shop, she also works at LaDonna’s Diner here in Painters Mill.

  She takes my measure, not quite managing to conceal the quick rise of anxiety at the sight of my uniform.

  I have my badge at the ready. “Is Thomas here?” I ask.

  “Morning, Chief.” She’s not happy to see me. Probably because this isn’t the first time I’ve shown up unannounced, asking about her son. “He’s not here.” Frowning, she opens the door the rest of the way and steps back. “Come on in out of the rain.”

  I enter a small, cluttered living room that smells of overheated air and last night’s meat loaf. “I need to talk to him,” I say. “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “I reckon he went to work early, like always. Got cars needing body work stacked up till Tuesday.” The woman turns away and starts down a narrow hall. “Lookit, I’m late for work. Can we talk while I finish my hair? I gotta be there in fifteen minutes.”

  I follow her down a hall, stepping over a pile of dirty clothes, and stop at the doorway to a brightly lit bathroom. She picks up a curling iron and twists a tuft of hair around it.

  “What do you want with my son?” she asks.

  “I’ve got a missing minor child,” I tell her. “A two-year-old that belongs to Bonnie Kline. I’m told Thomas is the father.”

  Her hand freezes. Her eyes dart to mine, hair and work momentarily forgotten. “Little Joe is missing?”

  I nod. “Mrs. McKee, is it possible your son is involved?”

  “Oh Lord.” She presses her hand against her abdomen. “You think Thomas took him? Is that what that Amish girl told you?”

  “All I know is that the boy is missing. We’ve got flash flooding in the area and, as you can imagine, everyone is quite worried.”

  The woman sets down the curling iron with a little too much force. “Look, I don’t pry into my son’s business. He’s a grown man now, and he’s got more than his share of responsibility. But let me tell you something, Chief Burkholder. Thomas would not take a two-year-old baby without permission.”

  From where I’m standing, I can hear the salvo of rain against the roof. I think of the swollen creek and just how vulnerable a two-year-old is and I tamp down a rise of impatience.

  Shirley McKee isn’t finished. “Thomas was crazy about that girl. She’s the first thing he’s cared about since—” Her voice breaks, but she presses on. “Problem is, her family didn’t want a damn thing to do with Thomas. All because he isn’t Amish. Like he wasn’t good enough or something.”

  “Did Thomas ever mention wanting to see the boy?” I ask. “Did he ever mention wanting to have a relationship with him? Anything like that?”

  The woman raises her finger at me. “Don’t you dare try to pin this on Thomas. He might’ve made a few mistakes in his time, but he’d never do anything like what you’re suggesting.” She huffs. “Kidnapping, for God’s sake. The last thing my son needs in his life is a baby.”

  “Mrs. McKee, I just need to talk to him.”

  But she’s on a roll and continues as if she didn’t hear me. “And while we’re on the subject of babies, let me tell you something else, Chief Burkholder. From what I hear them holier-than-thou-art Klines don’t take such good care of their little ones anyway.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Last I heard that baby was sick, and that girl’s parents wouldn’t let her take him to the doctor. How’s that for good parenting?”

  “Little Joe is sick?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “That’s what I heard. Believe me, they don’t talk to me. If you want details, you’ll have to ask them.”

  I thank her and head toward the door.

  * * *

  Last I heard that baby was sick, and that girl’s parents wouldn’t let her take him to the doctor. How’s that for good parenting?

  The words dog me as I drive to the body shop owned and operated by Thomas McKee. The majority of Amish have no problem with the use of modern medicine. Some prefer to take a more holistic approach initially, but generally speaking most church district rules do not forbid doctor visits or medication. Is Shirley McKee badmouthing the Klines because Bonnie spurned her son? Or is there something else afoot that may or may not be related to the baby’s disappearance?

  It’s seven A.M. when I pull into the parking lot of McKee Auto Body Shop. Two unoccupied vehicles sit near the front door. Through the slant of rain, I see the glow of a light in the window. I park as close as I can and hightail it inside. A buzzer sounds when I enter. The reception lights are off, but I hear music coming from someplace ahead, so I start that way.

  At the end of a corridor, a door stands open a couple of feet. I go through it and find myself in a large, well-equipped garage. Two men in insulated coveralls stand next to a vintage Chevy. The hood is up and they’re looking at the engine with the intensity of a surgical team about to perform brain surgery. From speakers on the workbench a few feet away, the guitar of Jimi Hendrix wails a mournful refrain.

  “That’s a nice-looking Camaro,” I say as I approach.

  One of the men looks up, turns toward me, and flicks a cigarette to the floor as if he’s been caught with contraband. He’s in his early twenties with a barely-there beard, a sweat-stained cap, and well-worn coveralls smeared with grease. He does a double take when he recognizes my uniform jacket and looks around as if he’s worried I might see something I shouldn’t.

  “We don’t open until seven thirty,” he calls out.

  I continue walking toward him. “Nineteen sixty-eight?” I ask.

  “Sixty-nine,” he mutters, eyeing me as if I’m here to arrest him for something he may or may not be guilty of.

  “Looks brand new.” I reach the car and run my hand over the fender. “I like the metal flake.”

  A reluctant grin curves his mouth. “She’s only got fifty thousand original miles on her. Had to replace the quarter panel. Painted her yesterday. Engine damn near purrs.”

  I nod, keeping my eyes on the vehicle. “I’m looking for Thomas McKee. Is he here?”

  “Ain’t seen him yet,” he tells me.

  Just to keep things on the up-and-up, I remove my badge and hold it out for him to see. “Any idea where he is this morning?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  I turn my attention to the other man only to realize the person standing on the other side of the car isn’t a male at all, but female. I guess her to be in her late teens. She’s lanky and tall and dressed much the same as her male counterpart right down to the coveralls and cap, but any similarities end there. Her long brown hair is pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail. She’s pretty despite the lack of makeup and surly expression. Her big green eyes are familiar, though I don’t recall ever meeting her.

  Stepping away from the vehicle, she gives me a dismissive once-over and follows it up with a scowl. “So what did my brother do now?” she asks.

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I just need to talk to him,” I tell her. “It’s important.”

  “Ain’t it always?” She slants a look at her coworker and sighs. “In case you’re not up to speed on all the latest gossip, according to the Painters Mill PD, Thomas is the next Al Capone.” She tosses some of that insolence at me. “Isn’t that right? He’s either speeding or drinking beer or, God forbid, leaving a little rubber on the road.”

  “Aw, come on, Colleen.” The man next to her pats her arm. Not to comfort, but to rein her in, and I realize not only is she the spitting image of her brother, but she shares his less than stellar attitude.

  I sigh. “Little Joe Kline is missing.”

  Her expression falters. “Little—” She cuts off the word, swallows, and presses her hand against her chest. “Oh.”

  While this girl is hotheaded and ballsy, she’s not callous. I don’t give her time to shore up. “What do you know about that?” I ask.

  The rise of tension is palpable. For nearly a minute, the only sound comes from the patter of rain against the tin roof.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says.

  But Colleen McKee isn’t a very good liar. While she may not know where her brother is, she does, indeed, know something. But what?

  “Is Little Joe with Thomas?” I ask.

  She looks away, brushes a strand of hair from her face. “I don’t know.”

  I bank a rise of irritation, keep pressing. “Your mom told me Little Joe is sick. If something happens to him while he’s in your brother’s care, this is going to get very serious, very quickly.”

  The girl’s eyes skate away from mine. She grasps the prop rod holding up the hood, secures it, and lets the hood slam with a deafening clank! “Can’t help you, Chief Burkholder.”

  I look at the man, but he turns away, saunters over to the rollaway toolbox against the wall and pretends to dig around for a tool he can’t seem to find.

  I turn my attention back to the girl. “That little boy is unaccounted for,” I tell her. “The creek next to the house is about to crest. We’re concerned for his safety.”

  An emotion I can’t quite decipher flickers in her eyes, but it’s gone quickly, forcibly banished by a girl who doesn’t want me inside her head. She lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “I hope you find him.”

  “Colleen.” I let her name dangle, give another hard push. “There was blood at the scene. If Thomas is involved, the only way you can help him is to tell me where he is. You know I’ll be fair.”

  She startles when the buzzer sounds, announcing a customer, but calms herself quickly. “Sorry, Chief Burkholder. I can’t help you. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get to work.”

  * * *

  My temper sizzles as I yank open the door of the Explorer and slide behind the wheel. I sit there a moment, frustrated because I’m convinced Thomas McKee is somehow involved in the disappearance of his son—and I don’t believe a word of what I’ve been told. I’m trying to come up with some shred of leverage I can use to get Colleen McKee to come clean with what she knows when I see the front door of the body shop open. I watch as the woman in question runs toward me.

  I lean over and open the passenger side door. She slides onto the seat next to me, water dripping off the brim of her hat and the shoulders of her coveralls.

  She doesn’t waste any time. “I love Little Joe and so does Thomas.”

  I nod, wait.

  “Give me your word you won’t arrest him,” she says.

  There are no rules against a cop telling someone what they want to hear in order to gain their cooperation. Especially if an innocent young life hangs in the balance. Right or wrong or somewhere in between, it’s done. A not-so-perfect means to an end. Even so, I don’t like the idea of misleading her, so I take a more straightforward path.

  “I’ve always believed Thomas is a decent young man,” I tell her. “Even when he was getting into trouble. I know things got tough when your dad died.”

  “Your word, Chief Burkholder.”

  “All I can tell you is that I’ll do right by him,” I say. “I always have.”

  She reaches for the door handle as if to leave, but she doesn’t open it. After a moment, she leans back in the seat and closes her eyes. “He loves Little Joe,” she whispers. “And he’s crazy in love with Bonnie. When he found out she was pregnant, he wanted to marry her.” The girl’s brows knit. “That’s what I don’t understand about all of this because Bonnie was crazy about him, too, Chief Burkholder. Just because Thomas doesn’t share the same culture or religion or whatever, she walked away. Talk about a small mind. Might as well have cut his heart out.”

  I think about the cultural dynamics of Amish and English and I resist the urge to sigh. “Did he ever mention wanting custody?”

  She shakes her head. “Not without Bonnie. He loves her. And she’s just as in love with him.”

  “Do you think he took the baby?” I ask.

  “I can’t see him doing that.” She raises her gaze to mine. This time, the tough façade is gone and I get a glimpse of the raw worry beneath. “Look, I’ll defend Thomas to my dying day. He’s a good man and he would have been a fantastic dad. I think she would have married Thomas if it hadn’t been for her family giving her so much grief.”

  “Why exactly don’t they like Thomas?” I already know the answer, but I ask anyway in the hope she’ll elaborate in some way that will help me find him.

  “Because he’s not Amish. Can you believe that?” She shakes her head. “The only reason I’m telling you this is because I think there’s something going on with Little Joe.”

  “Like what?”

  “Thomas wouldn’t get into the details. He’s private about things. But I think Little Joe is sick. I think it might be serious.”

  Little Joe gets nosebleeds …

  Erma Kline’s words roll unbidden through my mind. “What’s wrong with him?”

  She shrugs. “All I know is that he’s been sick. Thomas mentioned it a time or two. At first, I figured the little guy just had a cold or the sniffles. You know how kids are. Looking back, I think Thomas was worried about him.”

 

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