He stares at me, eyes wide and blinking, but his thoughts seem to turn inward. “She’s been … depressed recently. ained a lot of weight since her mom passed away. A couple weeks ago she actually said, ‘I wish I was dead.’” He rubs a hand over his face. “I thought she was just acting out. You know, the pressure related to the move to Phoenix. School. Grades. The usual stuff teenagers face. And I know she’s been missing her mom.”
“Her mother passed away?” Tomasetti asks.
“A year ago,” he says. “Breast cancer.” He looks down, then back at me. “I’ve been so tied up with work. So … damn blind. I should have seen this coming. I should have—” He bites off the word as if he doesn’t know how to finish.
“We’ve got a BOLO out for her. Agent Tomasetti and I are going to get out there, too, and look for her.” I pause. “Dr. Atherton, this may or may not be related, but it may help us find her and maybe fill in some of the blanks as far as her recent behavior, so I’m just going to lay it out for you. I’m not certain, but I have reason to believe Chloe may be the woman who abandoned Baby Doe.”
“Wh—what?” He chokes out a sound that’s part laugh, part sob. “But … that’s not possible. She hasn’t been dating regularly. How could she…? She doesn’t even have a boyfriend. For God’s sake—”
“Has she been wearing baggy clothes recently?” Tomasetti asks. “Oversize shirts?Anything like that?”
For an instant, I think Atherton is going to argue the point. At the same time, I see his mind working, a terrible realization entering his eyes. “My God, the weight gain. I didn’t…” He blinks as if waking from a nightmare. “She picked out an alpaca poncho when we were in Santa Fe a few months ago. Wears it all the time…”
“You’re not the first parent this has happened to,” I tell him.
“I’m a doctor. A pediatrician, for God’s sake. How could I not see it? Why didn’t she talk to me? How could I—”
“The most important thing right now is that we find her and make sure she’s safe,” I tell him. “We can deal with the rest later.”
He raises his hands, sets his fingers against his temples, and presses hard, misery etched into his every feature. “If you’re right about the baby, maybe she’s with the child’s father.”
The question pings in my brain. Maybe she’s with the child’s father. And suddenly I have an idea where to look first.
I glance at Tomasetti. “The Amish cemetery.”
The doctor’s eyes snap to mine. “Wait. The Amish boy? Noah Fisher? I knew they were friends, but … she never let on that they were … Oh, Dear God. No wonder she was so upset when he was killed. First her mom and then the boy … She must have been in so much pain. I was so busy with work I didn’t notice any of it.”
Tomasetti is already striding toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“I’ll go with you,” Atherton cries, following.
I reach the porch, glance over my shoulder at him, and raise my hand to stop him. “I need you to stay here, Mr. Atherton, in case she comes back or calls.”
“But she needs me.” He stops, but he doesn’t look convinced.
“If she’s there, we’ll bring her home.” I reach the Explorer, look at him over the hood. “I’ll call you the instant we lay eyes on her. In the interim, try to stay calm and keep trying her cell.”
“All right.” He’s already got his smartphone to his ear.
Giving him a reassuring nod, I get in the Explorer, crank the engine, and back onto the street.
Tomasetti punches numbers into his phone. “I’m going to call EMS.”
“Tell them to meet us at the Amish cemetery. No lights or siren. I don’t want to scare her. Tell them we need the hospital on standby.”
I push the speedometer to seventy when I hit the outskirts of Painters Mill proper. The engine groans beneath the hood, the tires humming against the asphalt. I’m not sure what we’ll find when we arrive; I’m not certain Chloe will even be there. But it’s the only place I can think of where she might go to seek comfort. The place where her lover—the father of the child she abandoned—was laid to rest.
The Graabhof is located on the township road west of town. A gnarled bois d’arc tree stands guard next to the gate, a brave sentry scarred by hundreds of harsh seasons. The gate, which is usually closed, stands open. Beyond, a sea of plain headstones form neat rows before fading into the darkness like white-capped waves. It’s a pretty place during the day, a peaceful and quiet sanctuary to reflect and pay homage to the dead. Tonight, the darkness is forbidding, the silence unbearably lonely.
Tomasetti points. “There’s her Mustang.”
Sure enough, parked in the shadows beneath the tree is a red Mustang. Neither of us speaks as I park in the gravel driveway, blocking in her vehicle, and shut down the engine. Reaching into the pocket next to my seat, I hand Tomasetti an extra Maglite and we exit the Explorer. The night closes over us like a black hand slamming down. The wind grabs at my jacket as we pass through the gate. I can hear the chain latch clanging with every gust. Our Maglites flip on simultaneously, twin beams illuminating hundreds of small white headstones that run in neat lines, parallel with the fence. In the darkness, they look like ghosts, restless souls rising from the earth.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been here. My parents are buried just a few yards away, and I’ve attended several funerals over the years. I’m familiar with the general layout and use my Maglite to scan the south side where any new graves would most likely be located. I nearly miss the mound of freshly turned earth fifty yards away. A small heap on the ground next to the headstone.
“There,” I whisper.
We break into a run, both beams focused on the small form huddled next to the headstone. A sick feeling augments in my gut when she doesn’t move.
“Chloe!” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder! Are you all right?”
“Doesn’t look good.” Tomasetti mutters the words beneath his breath.
I’m a few feet away when she raises her head. I see the pale oval of her face. The shimmer of tears on her cheeks. She’s lying on her side with her arms wrapped around the headstone, as if trying to keep it from sinking into the earth.
I reach her first, drop to my knees at her side. “Sweetheart, are you all right?”
When she raises her head and looks at me, her eyes are glazed and far away. “Noah…” she whispers. “He was here. Just a moment ago. I saw him.” She looks around. “Noah…”
Tomasetti kneels beside her. “Chloe, honey, did you take any medication or pills?”
She looks away. “It doesn’t matter. I just want to be with them. Noah and my mom.”
Locating her handbag, he upends it on the grass. A wallet, makeup bag, hairbrush and, finally, a brown prescription bottle spill out. He snatches up the bottle, shakes it. “Empty.”
I grab my lapel mike, put out the emergency call for the ambulance. “Ten fifty-two. Ten eighteen. Expedite.”
“Noah wanted to marry me,” Chloe slurs. “But I said no and he died before I could tell him I’d changed my mind. Why did that have to happen?” she asks. “He never knew.”
“It’s going to be okay,” I tell her. “Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”
Chloe begins to cry. “Tell my dad I love him.… He worries all the time.…”
Grimacing, Tomasetti looks at me over the top of her head. “Let’s get her to where the Explorer is parked. Speed things up.” Even as he says the words, he lifts the girl into his arms, carrying her as if she weighs nothing.
We’re midway to the gate when I see the ambulance pull in behind my Explorer. “Hurry,” I say and we break into a run.
* * *
Three days later:
It’s the end of my shift and I’m thinking about heading to the farm, where Tomasetti is about to grill T-bone steaks and break the seal on a bottle of Cabernet. Not for the first time in the last few days, I’m reminded of how blessed I am to be loved by a good
man and how lucky I am to know that we have a bright future to look forward to.
I’ve been thinking of Chloe Atherton on and off since Tomasetti and I found her at the Amish cemetery. She’d ingested all of her mother’s painkillers. Luckily, there had been only five pills left. Her condition had been dicey for a few hours, but she pulled through. Her father didn’t let her out of his sight the entirety of the two days she was in the hospital. There’s no doubt in my mind his love for her is strong enough to get them through the challenges they face in the coming weeks and months.
On the outskirts of Painters Mill, instead of turning north toward the farm, which is located just outside Wooster, I make a detour and head east toward Charm. Ten minutes later I turn into the long lane of the Fisher farm, park adjacent to the barn, and take the sidewalk to the house.
Miriam Fisher answers a moment later and greets me in Pennsylvania Dutch. “Guder ovet.” Good evening.
The aroma of frying bologna wafts through the open door and, for an instant, I’m transported back to my childhood, where fried bologna sandwiches were not only a staple, but a treat. “I hope I’m not disturbing your ovet-essa,” I tell her. Your evening meal.
“I’m still frying and Willis is washing up, so I have a few minutes.” Eyeing me guardedly, she opens the door wider. “Witt du wennich eppes zu ess?” Would you like something to eat?
I smile. “I’m tempted, but no thank you.”
“Come in.”
I follow her to the kitchen, stopping just inside the doorway while she goes to the stove and turns bologna sizzling in a copper skillet. “What brings you to our home this evening, Kate Burkholder?”
I tell her about Chloe Atherton without revealing the girl’s identity or mentioning the incident with the pills. “Your son loved her, Miriam. He’d asked her to marry him. She was going to say yes, but she never got the chance.”
She sets her hand against her stomach as if in pain. “Such a tragic, sad thing.”
“She was devastated when Noah died, and terrified of raising the baby on her own.”
She clucks her tongue. “Poor child. Can’t blame her for being afraid, I guess.”
“She’s going to officially relinquish her parental rights so Baby Doe can be adopted.”
Miriam goes back to her skillet, pushing the bologna around with a wooden spoon, but I can tell her attention is focused on me.
“Miriam, you understand that Noah is the father,” I tell her.
The spoon stops. Without looking at me, she turns off the burner, sets down the spoon, and leans heavily against the stove. “I know. Mein Gott.” My God. “I know.”
“I spoke to the social worker a couple of hours ago. She’s still trying to find a permanent adoptive home for the baby. Since you and Willis are the child’s biological grandparents…” I’m not sure how to finish the sentence, so I let the words dangle.
Finally, she turns to me, her mouth open and quivering. Tears shimmer in her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. “I’d like to meet this girl. The mother.”
“I can’t reveal her identity. She’s a minor, so a meeting between you will be up to her and her father. But I’ll let them know.”
She nods, but I see her mind working through all the possibilities. “There is a chance Willis and I could adopt and raise Noah’s daughter? Is that what you’re telling me, Kate Burkholder?”
I nod. “It’ll probably have to go through the court system,” I tell her. “But I thought you’d want to know it’s an option.”
She glances past me; her eyes widen slightly. I glance over my shoulder to see Willis standing in the kitchen doorway a few feet away. Neither of us heard him approach. But I can tell by the look in his eyes he heard every word.
Without speaking, without making eye contact with me or his wife, he brushes past us and walks into the kitchen. For an instant, I think he’s going to keep going and walk right past us, through the mudroom and back outside. Instead, he stops at the table, sets his palms against it, leans heavily, and lowers his head.
Miriam’s eyes flick nervously to me, then to her husband. Grabbing the kitchen towel, she uses it to dry hands that are already perfectly dry. “Sitz dich anne un bleib e weil,” she says to her husband. Sit yourself down and stay a while.
Staring straight ahead, Willis pulls out a chair and sinks into it. “En kins-kind,” he whispers. A grandchild.
“You heard?” Miriam asks him.
“My hearing is just fine.” When he raises his head and looks at his wife, I see tears in his eyes. “It’s been a long time since we had a little one in this house. Not since Noah.”
“Well, I’m not so old that I can’t manage a baby,” Miriam huffs, but she’s crying, too. “A mother never forgets.”
“A father, too,” he whispers.
Realizing this is a private moment that I’m no longer a part of, I pull the social worker’s card from my pocket and place it on the table in front of Willis.
* * *
Back in the Explorer, I take a moment to calm my own emotions, trying in vain not to examine them too closely. In that instant, I’m keenly aware of my age. The passage of time. How easily the things we cherish can slip away. No matter how unflagging my denial of its existence, I know there is a silent clock ticking inside me. A clock that sets its own pace, one that cannot be sped up or slowed down or stopped.
Another deep breath and I’m steady enough to call Tomasetti.
“I hope you’re not too far away,” he says without preamble.
“You miss me that desperately, huh?”
“That, and I just broke the seal on that Cabernet you’ve been saving.”
I laugh, but my voice is thick with emotion. I don’t want him to know that I’m a little too caught up in this Baby Doe case. That I’m probably thinking a little too hard about my own life.
“Kate?”
Feeling like an idiot, I choke out a sound that betrays the tears waiting at the gate. “I’m leaving the Fisher place now.”
“Everything okay?”
“I think the grandparents are going to adopt Baby Doe,” I tell him.
“Good for them.” His voice is warm. “Good for everyone involved.” He falls silent and then asks, “So, are you coming home?”
Home.
I like the way the word rolls off his tongue. The warm impression it leaves in my chest. “John Tomasetti,” I whisper, “You can count on it.”
Read on for an excerpt from
Linda Castillo’s new novel,
After the Storm,
available July 2015
CHAPTER 1
Present day
I was eight years old when I learned there were consequences for associating with the English. Consequences that were invariably negative and imposed by well-meaning Amish parents bent on upholding the rules set forth by our Anabaptist forefathers nearly three hundred years ago. In my case, this particular life lesson transpired at the horse auction near Millersburg and involved a twelve-year-old English boy and the Appaloosa gelding he was trying to sell. Add me to the mix, and it was a dangerous concoction that ended with me taking a fall and my father’s realization that I saw the concept of rules in a completely different light—and I possessed an inherent inability to follow them.
I never forgot the lesson I learned that day or how much it hurt my eight-year-old heart, which, even at that tender age, was already raging against the unfairness of the Ordnung and all of those who would judge me for my transgressions. But the lessons of my formative years didn’t keep me from breaking the same rules time and time again, defying even the most fundamental of Amish tenets. By the time I entered my teens, just about everyone had realized I couldn’t conform and, worse, that I didn’t fit in, both of which are required of a member of the Amish community.
Now, at the age of thirty-three, I can’t quite reconcile myself to the fact that I’m still trying to please those who will never approve and failing as miserably as I did when I was an
inept and insecure fifteen-year-old girl.
“Stop worrying.”
I’m sitting in the passenger seat of John Tomasetti’s Tahoe, not sure if I’m impressed by his perceptivity or annoyed because my state of mind is so apparent. We’ve been living together at his farm for seven months now, and while we’ve had some tumultuous moments, I have to admit it’s been the happiest and most satisfying time of my life.
Tomasetti, a former detective with the Cleveland Division of Police, is an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation. Like me, he has a troubled past and more than his share of secrets, some I suspect I’m not yet privy to. But we have an unspoken agreement that we won’t let our pasts dictate our happiness or how we live our lives. Honestly, he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I like to think the sentiment runs both ways.
“What makes you think I’m worried?” I tell him, putting forth a little attitude.
“You’re fidgeting.”
“I’m fidgeting because I’m nervous,” I say. “There’s a difference.”
He glances at me, scowling, but his eyes are appreciative as he runs them over me. “You look nice.”
I hide my smile by looking out the window. “If you’re trying to make me feel better, it’s working.”
Good humor plays at the corner of his mouth. “It’s not like you to change clothes four times.”
“Hard to dress for an Amish dinner.”
“Especially when you used to be Amish, apparently.”
“Maybe I should have made an excuse.” I glance out the window at the horizon. “Weatherman said it’s going to rain.”
“It’s not like you to chicken out.”
“Unless it’s my brother.”
“Kate, he invited you. He wants you there.” He reaches over, sets his hand on my thigh just above my knee, and squeezes. I wonder if he has any idea how reassuring the gesture is. “Be yourself and let the chips fall.”
I don’t point out that being myself is exactly the thing that got me excommunicated from my Amish brethren in the first place.
He makes the turn into the long gravel lane of my brother Jacob’s farm. The place originally belonged to my parents but was handed down to him, the eldest male child, when they passed away. I mentally brace as the small apple orchard on my right comes into view. The memories aren’t far behind, and I find myself looking down the rows of trees, almost expecting to see the three Amish kids sent to pick apples for pies. Jacob, Sarah, and I had been inseparable back then, and instead of picking apples, we ended up playing hide-and-seek until it was too dark to see. As was usually the case, I was the instigator. Kate, the druvvel-machah. The “troublemaker.” Or so my datt said. The one and only time I confessed to influencing my siblings, he punished me by taking away my favorite chore: bottle-feeding the three-week-old orphan goat I’d named Sammy. I’d cajoled and argued and begged. I was rewarded by being sent to bed with no supper and a stomachache from eating too many green apples.