“Yes,” he says. “But I’m certain she didn’t move it.”
“Thank—”
He hangs up before I can finish. Smiling, I hit END and glance at Tomasetti.
“Any luck?” he asks.
I recap my conversation with the bishop.
“You sure you saw the rifle, Kate?”
“I’m sure.”
Raber comes back into the kitchen. “My wife did not see any gun,” he says.
I look at Tomasetti. I can tell from his expression that he’s thinking the same thing I am. Neither of us likes Ricky Coulter for the murders. Did someone know Coulter had worked for Slabaugh and plant the rifle in Coulter’s house for us to find?
I turn my attention back to the Amish man. “Have you had any visitors today?”
He looks confused for a moment, as if the thought had never occurred to him, then slowly shakes his head. “Frannie and I arrived here around five o’clock. We’ve been busy with the children and chores. Supper and prayer and baths. We’ve had no visitors.”
I nod. There’s been a lot of traffic in and out of the house in the last day or so. Almost anyone could have come in and taken it, unnoticed. “Are the children here?”
“Of course they are.”
“Could you go get Mose for me?”
His hesitation tells me he doesn’t want to do it. The Amish are extremely protective of their young, particularly when it comes to outsiders. “Please,” I say. “I wouldn’t ask you to wake him at this hour if it wasn’t important.”
Shaking his head in resignation, Raber turns and starts toward the living room. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Outside, rain pours off the gutters and slaps the ground. It’s so quiet inside, I can hear the hiss of the lantern.
“What the hell is going on?” I whisper.
Across the room, I see Tomasetti looking at the potbellied stove. “Who had access to the house?”
“Almost anyone. A visitor.”
“I sent the rifle to the lab for latents,” he tells me. “Results should—”
Raber bursts into the kitchen. “Mose is gone!”
“Gone?” Tomasetti and I exchange looks. “Where?”
“I don’t know.” The Amish man looks upset. “He’s not in his bed.”
“Any idea where he might be?” I ask.
Raber shakes his head. “I do not know.”
“Does he have transportation?” Tomasetti asks.
“The horses.” He crosses the room, yanks a heavy wool coat off a wooden dowel set into the wall. “I will check.”
Tomasetti stops him. “We’ll take the barn. You go check the other children.”
The man looks undecided for a moment, then his eyes find mine. “Mose and his brothers and sister are my responsibility.”
“I’m sure they’re fine,” I say. “Go check on the others. Agent Tomasetti and I will check the barn.”
“Ja.” Jerking his head, he spins and disappears into the darkened living room.
“Let’s go.” I fly into the mudroom, jog to the door, yank it open.
Then we’re outside in the cold, sprinting through the rain. I can hear Tomasetti beside me, cursing. Without moonlight, the nights in Amish country are incredibly dark. There are no streetlamps, no porch lights or glowing windows. We splash through a deep puddle, and I’m soaked from the knees down. Fumbling for the mini Maglite in my pocket, I pull it out, turn it on.
I see the behemoth shape of the barn twenty feet ahead. Concern transforms into an edgy uneasiness when I notice that the door is ajar. We pause before entering, not sure what we might be walking into. I’m aware of Tomasetti next to me, pulling his sidearm. I do the same, keep my finger off the trigger. He goes in first, but I’m right behind him.
Entering the barn is like stepping into a long-buried casket. It’s dark and dank and dusty. I smell the earthy scents of horses and hay, punctuated by the unpleasant tang of the manure and hogs. I sweep the area with the flashlight. I see huge wooden rafters garlanded with gossamer cobwebs. The rails of the fence are dead ahead. I can see the glint of the pigs’ eyes.
“I can’t see shit,” Tomasetti whispers.
“I think the horse stalls are to the right,” I whisper.
We sidle right ten feet, twenty. I’m keenly aware of Tomasetti beside me, the gun in his hand. My own weapon is heavy and cold in mine. I start when I hear movement ahead and direct the beam forward. Two buggy horses look at us through the bars of their stall, chewing hay.
“Horses are here. Mose has got to be around somewhere,” I say.
“Unless he walked into town for a beer.”
Considering my own teenage years, I realize it’s a possibility. “Let’s check the loft.”
“Lead the way.”
I hand the Maglite to Tomasetti. Spotting the loft ladder, which consists of six short timbers nailed to the wall, I look up into the darkness. “Mose!” I shout. “It’s Kate Burkholder.”
The unmistakable thud of hurried footsteps on the wood ceiling sounds above us. I glance at Tomasetti. He motions with the light toward the opening, and I begin a too-fast climb to the top.
I feel confident we’re not in any danger; I’m more worried about Mose. He’s suffered a terrible loss and has been under a tremendous amount of emotional distress. Still, I don’t like the idea of entering a place totally blind.
Reaching the top of the ladder, I thrust my head and shoulders into the loft. I hear shuffling to my left and immediately sense a presence. Heart pounding, I heave myself up and lurch to my feet. Tomasetti is right behind me with the flashlight. The beam hits the rafters overhead as he climbs up. Then he’s on his feet and the beam sweeps over bales of alfalfa hay. A pink blanket looks out of place spread out on the floor. Then I see Mose. He’s standing next to the stack of hay. He’s wearing trousers but no shirt, and his suspenders are hanging down to his knees. Using his hand, he shields his eyes from the beam of the flashlight.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
Tomasetti steps closer, keeping the light on the boy, purposefully blinding him. “You Mose?”
He squints, his gaze skating from me to Tomasetti. “Who’re you?”
Tomasetti doesn’t answer.
“What are you doing up here?” I ask.
Mose looks uncomfortable. He can’t meet our gazes. “I just … wanted some quiet.”
For an instant, I think maybe we caught him masturbating. Ready to cut him some slack, I glance at Tomasetti. He doesn’t look quite as compassionate. Suspicion glints diamond hard in his eyes. “What are you doing up here, Mose?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“You’re hiding out here in the dark all by yourself. No one knew where you were.”
“I’m not hiding.” Mose shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m not doing anything.”
I hear movement in the hay. Tomasetti hears it, too, and he jerks the beam left. Salome emerges from behind a tall stack of hay. She’s wearing the blue dress but no stockings or shoes. Her brown hair billows about her shoulders. Her kapp hangs around her neck. She doesn’t meet my gaze, but the guilt on her face is unmistakable.
Shock is like a silent shotgun blast. The concussion pushes me back a step. I stare at her bare feet. I don’t want to acknowledge the thoughts prying into my brain. Ugly thoughts that offend some deeply ingrained sense of morality. Thoughts that affront me with the wrongness of what I see, what I feel in my heart.
Holstering his weapon, Tomasetti steps toward her. “What are you doing out here with him?”
Salome steps back and mutters something unintelligible.
Shaking his head in a gesture that looks like disgust, he shines the light on the floor. The beam stops on the scrap of white fabric lying on a bale of hay next to the blanket. Another layer of shock rattles my brain. Panties. Salome’s panties. I stare at them, aware of the pound of rain on the tin roof, matching the hard pound of my own heart.
The next thing I know,
Tomasetti crosses to Mose. “What the hell were you doing with her?”
“We were just talking.”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
A dozen alarms jangle in my head. “Tomasetti,” I warn.
He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t even acknowledge me. Every ounce of his attention is on Mose. “That girl is your sister!” he shouts.
Mose looks down at the ground.
Tomasetti shines the light on Salome. “How old are you?” he demands.
“F-fifteen.” Her voice is little more than a chirp.
“Fifteen?” He gives Mose a dark look, then turns back to the girl. “Did he force you?”
“No!”
Tomasetti’s mouth twists. He doesn’t believe her. Or maybe he doesn’t want to believe her. I see him grinding his teeth. He turns to Mose. “Do you think she’s old enough to be out here with you like this?”
“I don’t—”
“How could you disrespect her like that? How could you disrespect yourself?”
Mose gulps. “I—”
He doesn’t have time to finish the sentence. Lunging at him, Tomasetti clamps his hand around the back of the boy’s neck, shoves him toward the ladder. “Get your goddamn ass down there.”
Mose stumbles, regains his footing, and shoots a nasty glare at Tomasetti. “Don’t do that again.”
“Or what? What are you going to do, you perverted little shit?” Tomasetti thrusts a finger toward the ladder. “Get down that ladder before I throw you down.” The muscles in his jaw work as he crosses to me, hands me the flashlight. I see him pulling himself back. “Get her dressed and come on.”
“Calm down.” I make eye contact with him as I take the flashlight. “He’s a minor.”
“I know what he is,” he grinds out.
I watch them descend the ladder, then I direct the flashlight beam toward Salome. She’s sitting on a bale of hay with her head down, sobbing. She holds her kapp in one hand, her panties in the other. Shit, I think, and go to her.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods but doesn’t look at me.
I shine the light on the panties in her hand. “You need to get dressed, so we can go.”
She raises her face to mine. Tears glisten on her cheeks. Her nose is running, but she doesn’t bother to wipe away the snot. “I can’t go down there. I can’t face them.”
“Yes, you can,” I say firmly. “Get dressed.”
Rising, she turns her back to me and steps into her panties, tugs them up. Then she looks down at her kapp and begins to wail. “Why is he so mad?” she chokes out.
“You know it’s wrong for you to be out here like this with Mose, don’t you?”
Plopping down on a bale of hay, she puts her face in her hands. “You don’t understand.”
“He’s your brother,” I say. “You’re only fifteen. You shouldn’t be doing this.”
“We weren’t doing anything wrong,” she says, pulling her hair into a ponytail.
“How can you say that?” When she doesn’t respond, I touch her chin, force her gaze to mine. “How long has this been going on?”
She looks away, shrugs. “A few months.”
“Have you had sex with him?”
Her silence is the only answer I need. The thought of incest repulses me. It makes me angry and sad, maybe because I don’t know how to help. I don’t know if they can be helped. What’s done is done, and there are some things you can’t take back.
“This can’t continue,” I say. “It’s wrong. You know that, right?”
She raises her gaze to mine. She’s so young and pretty, so innocent. The loss of that innocence, so fleeting and precious, makes me want to cry. “You don’t know everything,” she says.
Something inside me goes still, and suddenly I realize she’s going to throw something unexpected at me. “What are you talking about?”
She raises her head and begins to work at the knot on the tie of her kapp. “I can’t tell you,” she sobs. “It’s too terrible. I can’t tell anyone.”
“Tell me what?” I watch her, waiting.
She works at the knot, but her hands are shaking so violently, she can’t manage to untie it. Finally, I take the kapp from her and loosen the knot.
After a moment, she looks me in the eye and heaves a sigh. “I’m going to have a baby.”
The words shock my brain, like ice water thrown in my face. For an instant, I can’t catch my breath. I’m going to have a baby. The words shake me from the inside out. All I can think is that she’s too young. That Mose is far from being a man. That they’re brother and sister. And the situation is so fundamentally immoral, I can barely get my mind around it.
“Oh, Salome.” I struggle to keep my voice steady. “Are you sure?”
She nods. “I’m sure.”
Kneeling in front of her, I set the kapp on her head and draw it snugly against her hair. It’s not until I’m actually tying it at her nape that I realize my mamm did the same thing for me a thousand times when I was a girl. It’s an unconscious gesture of kindness, a clumsy effort to comfort her. A long-gone memory that never really went away.
“How far along are you?” I ask.
“I haven’t … you know, for a couple of months.”
Here she is, fifteen years old, pregnant, and she can’t even say the word menstruation aloud. And yet she has had sex with her own brother. The utter wrongness of that makes me want to throw up. I stare at her, not knowing what to say next.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she says.
“I don’t even know what I’m thinking,” I say drily.
“Mose isn’t my real brother,” she says after a moment. “He’s adopted.”
“Adopted?” I repeat the word dumbly, not knowing whether to believe her. Still, relief is like a slash across my belly. This is the first time I’ve heard of an adoption, and a very big part of me wants desperately to believe her. A teenage pregnancy is bad enough, but for that pregnancy to be the result of incest is unthinkable. “Does he know about the baby?”
She shakes her head. “I was going to tell him, but then Mamm and Datt…” The words trail off.
“How long ago was Mose adopted?” I ask after a moment.
“A long time. I was five, I think, so about ten years. It seems like he’s always been my brother.”
In the back of my mind, I wonder if the adoption was a legal one. All cultures cherish their children. But in the Amish community, children and family are the cornerstone of life. It would be almost unheard of for an Amish couple to relinquish custody of a child. But there are a few circumstances that would warrant a change of guardianship. If the parents are killed, for example. If financial difficulties, physical health, or certain emotional problems prevent one or both parents from caring for the child.
“Do you know the circumstances of the adoption?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I was too little to understand at the time. Mose never told me.”
I get to my feet and look down at her, my emotions reeling. I can’t believe this innocent young girl is pregnant. I can’t believe her own brother is the father—even if he is adopted. I wonder how Children Services will handle the situation; I wonder if they’ll separate Mose and Salome. I don’t have much experience with that segment of the county government, but I suspect the two teenagers will now go to different homes.
“Let’s go inside,” I say after a moment.
“I can’t,” she says. “I can’t face them. They’ll know what Mose and I were doing out here.”
“It’ll be okay. I’ll stay with you.”
“I’m … ashamed.”
“All of us make mistakes,” I tell her. “What’s done is done. You can’t go back and change it.” How well I know those words.…
She raises her eyes to mine. “Even you made mistakes?”
“Especially me.” I raise my hand, brush at the tears on her cheek. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
Rising, she chokes out a sound that’s part sob, part laugh. “It doesn’t feel like it,” she says, and we start toward the ladder.
CHAPTER 12
Half an hour later, five of us sit at the Slabaugh kitchen table. Nicholas Raber and his wife, Frannie, Tomasetti, and Mose. After leaving the barn, I’d brought Salome inside. She was upset and crying, so I brewed her a cup of tea and we talked for a bit. I asked her about the rifle, and she had no idea it was missing. Afterward, I walked upstairs with her, waited while she took a bath, then put her to bed.
Samuel and Ike are still sleeping. I know this will be the last night these children sleep in their own beds. Come morning, life is going to change for them all in a very big way, especially Mose and Salome. I wish I could protect them from the further upheaval they’re facing, but I can’t.
The lantern flickers in the center of the table, the gas hissing through the glowing yellow mantle. Nicholas and his wife sit together, staring down at the tabletop, their expressions nervous and troubled. Mose is slumped in a chair, staring intently at his hands on the table in front of him. I can tell by the white knuckles that he’s apprehensive. In the dim light from the lantern, I notice the angry red glow of a new acne outbreak just below his cheekbones. Tomasetti is sitting next to Mose, his expression as dark and cold as the night.
After a moment, Tomasetti skewers Mose with a hostile look. “Salome told Kate you’re adopted. Is that true?”
Mose shifts uncomfortably in his chair, his gaze flicking from the Amish couple to me, as if we’re going to save him from having to answer.
“Don’t look at them,” Tomasetti snaps. “They can’t help you. This is your deal. Why don’t you act like a man and level with me?”
Mose wipes his hands on his trousers. “The Slabaughs adopted me ten years ago, when I was seven.”
“Why were you adopted?” I ask. “What happened to your parents?”
“They were killed in a buggy accident.”
“Where?”
“Indiana. Near Connersville.”
“How did you end up here?” Tomasetti asks.
Mose doesn’t look at him. “Rachael was my aunt. She took me in when they were killed.”
“Do you have siblings in Indiana?”