He groans.
When Skid and I are back in the Explorer, I make a U-turn and head back toward Painters Mill. Amish country is incredibly dark at night; there are no porch lights or streetlights. As we crest the rise overlooking Painters Mill, I can’t help but notice the entire valley is black.
* * *
Painters Mill isn’t exactly a bustling metropolis, but on most Friday evenings half a dozen businesses stay open past dark. The new upscale coffee shop on the corner. Two of the Amish tourist shops. The funky little thrift store. And, of course, LaDonna’s Diner. Tonight, as I idle down Main Street, the town is as dark and deserted as some post-apocalyptic movie scene. I pull up to the police station, trying not to notice when a black cat skulks past the entrance and darts into an alley.
Skid makes eye contact with me.
“Don’t say it,” I tell him, but we both grin.
Pulling my Maglite from its nest, I head inside. The reception area is deserted. Jodie has lighted two candles along with a battery-powered lantern we keep on hand for this kind of scenario. My dispatcher is nowhere in sight.
“She’s probably in the basement, trying to start that generator,” I say.
“Pull cord is kind of hinky,” Skid puts in.
We’re midway through reception when the emergency lights blink on. The phone system beeps three times, and then one of the lines begins to shrill. I hear Jodie pound up the stairs.
I stride to the switchboard and pick up the headset just as she emerges from the hall. “Oh,” she says. “Hey.”
I nod at her as I answer the incoming 911 call. “Painters Mill Police.”
“I just had a vehicle drive through my yard,” comes an agitated male voice. “Left ruts a foot deep, went through my garden, and broke the damn dogwood tree clean in half.”
I pick up a pen. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Rick Sweeney.”
“Where are you located, Mr. Sweeney?”
He rattles off an address that’s just down the road from the Davenport farm.
I jot it down. “Did you get a look at the vehicle?”
“Hell yes I did. It was a damn buggy full of Amish kids and they looked like they was up to no good. I ran out and yelled at them and one of ’em flipped me the bird! Listen, I’ve had four buggies and a dozen cars come down this road in the last hour. I got puke in my driveway and beer cans in the ditch. They’re playing loud music and making all sorts of noise. I’m sick of it. Gotta be one of them wild parties going on someplace.”
“I’ll send an officer out there now to check it out.”
“I want someone to pay for that tree and clean up all the crap.”
“Would you like to file a police report?”
“Hell yes I would!”
“I’ll send someone to your location as soon as I have an officer—”
He hangs up on me.
I look up to find Jodie and Skid standing around the desk, watching me.
“I take it phones are up?” Skid asks.
I address Jodie. “You all set here?”
“Got it under control, Chief.”
I turn to Skid and tell him about the call from Rick Sweeney. “He’s right next to the old Davenport place.”
“Looks like they started the party without us,” he says.
“Get a statement from Sweeney and then meet me out there.”
“You got it, Chief.”
* * *
Alma had never seen so many people in one place. There were hundreds of them. Some were arriving in vehicles, windows down, radios blaring. A few were in buggies, the horses turned over to hostlers too young to partake in the festivities. The vast majority of attendees were Amish; most had traded in their dresses and suspenders for blue jeans and tee shirts. But there were a lot of Englischers in attendance, too.
It was the most exciting thing Alma had ever experienced in her life. Even more so because, in half an hour, she would be meeting Aden. He’d asked her to meet him in the old barn at nine thirty, when he got off work. She was pretty sure he was going to ask her to marry him tonight and the thought stole her breath.
Alma was so engrossed in her thoughts she didn’t see the two boys, each carting a six-pack of beer, until she nearly ran into them. Luckily, Irene saw them coming.
“Lookout!” Irene said, pulling her aside.
Alma sidestepped just in time. One of the boys turned and grinned at her as he passed. “Watch where you’re going, cutie!” he called out.
The other boy dug two beers from one of the cases, jogged up to them, and handed the cans to them. “Enjoy yourselves!” he said, and continued on with his friend.
Alma and Irene looked at each other and burst into laughter. “He was talking to you!” Alma exclaimed.
“He was looking at you.” Irene sighed. “You’re the pretty one.”
“Don’t be silly.” Alma slanted her friend a look, saddened because she knew Irene was serious. She was a firm believer that beauty was on the inside of a person, not the outside. But she’d heard the cruel names the others called her friend. Names like “homely” and “stinky.”
“You’re pretty, and anyone who says otherwise is a sau,” Alma said, using the Deitsh word for “pig.”
Irene glanced down at the swell of her breasts, which were encased in a push-up bra beneath her tee shirt. “These are pretty, maybe.”
Not wanting the topic to dampen their high spirits, Alma elbowed her. “A little bird told me Melvin Raber is going to ask you to the singing next week after worship.”
Melvin Raber was a few years older than them. He was handsome and single and worked at the Amish furniture store near Charm. Alma didn’t know for a fact he was thinking about asking Irene to the singing, but this was one of those little white lies women sometimes told to protect tender feelings.
“We’ll see,” Irene said, but she didn’t look hopeful. “How are you supposed to find Aden with all these people here?”
“We’re meeting in the barn at nine thirty.”
“Let’s drink these beers and I’ll walk you over.”
The girls popped the tabs on their beers and clinked the cans together. “Here’s to a fun and memorable night,” Alma said.
“And a boy for me!” Irene exclaimed.
“And beer for everyone!”
In unison, the girls tipped their cans and chugged.
* * *
I arrive at the Davenport farm to find along line of vehicles parked on both sides of the lane. A dozen more are parked on the shoulders of Apple Creek Road. Illuminated by my headlights, a couple of Amish boys walk alongside the road, toting a large cooler between them.
Finding a spot behind an old F-150 pickup truck, I watch them make the turn into the lane and reach for my radio. “Ten twenty-three,” I say, letting Jodie know I’ve arrived on scene. “I’ve got a hundred or so individuals out here. Skid, expedite that ten twenty-five when you finish up there, will you?” Ten twenty-five is the code for “meet me.”
“Roger that,” comes Skid’s voice.
“Jodie, you got a number for the owner?”
My dispatcher rattles off a phone number. “Kent Davenport lives in Westerville, Chief.”
“Thanks.” Racking the mike, I shut down the engine, pull out my cell, and dial.
Three rings and a gruff male voice answers. “This is Kent.”
I identify myself. “I’m calling from the property you own in Painters Mill. The farm on Apple Creek Road?”
“What about it?”
“Apparently, there’s a party happening this evening. I need to know if these individuals have permission to be there.”
“Yeah, I got a call from Ralph Baker. He said he was going to smoke some ribs and have a few people out.”
“Mr.Davenport, there are more than a hundred people here.”
“I’ll be damned. He didn’t say anything about having that many. He’d better not leave any trash.”
Since permission
was indeed granted, I won’t be able to disperse the crowd based on trespassing. But I’d bet my left pinky finger there will be a slew of other problems, including underage drinking and drug use.
“Mr. Davenport, I suspect there are some minor juveniles drinking alcohol out here this evening. Do you mind if I take a look around?”
“Help yourself. You let me know if those folks misbehave.”
I thank him and slide out of the Explorer. The wind has kicked up, but it’s a nice evening, balmy and cool. From where I’m standing I can hear the blast of country music. It’s too far away and too dark for me to see, but it sounds like a live band. Adozen or so lights—spotlights and lanterns and flashlights—illuminate the area between the house and barn.
I start toward the chaos.
* * *
The beer was just going to her head when Alma stepped into the darkened interior of the old barn. She was a little early, but she didn’t mind. A few minutes alone would give her nerves time to settle.
Anticipation pulsed inside her, keeping perfect time with the tempo of the music outside. She was so excited to see Aden she almost couldn’t breathe. It made her think of the time her mamm told her that sometimes things could be too good and it was at that point when a good girl pulled herself back. But Alma knew there was no pulling herself back from this. She loved Aden and this was going to be the most wonderful night of her life.
Flipping on the little flashlight she’d bought at Walmart, she swept the beam left and right, taking stock of the interior. It was dusty and damp with a dirt floor, falling-down stalls, and a hay loft that sagged like a swayback horse. She shone the cone of light toward the rear of the barn where a rafter had broken loose from above and slanted down at a precarious angle.
Outside, the music pulsed with energy. She could feel the bass drum vibrate all the way to her bones. All of it was punctuated by the occasional shout of some rowdy boys or the yelp of a girl who’d had too much to drink.
A sound from the rear of the barn jangled her nerves. Heart leaping, she jerked the beam left. Dust motes flew within the cone of light. Was there a back door? Had the noise been the squeak of a hinge?
“Aden?” She laughed at herself when she saw the beam shaking. Her palm was wet on the flashlight; she could actually hear her breaths hissing, feel the thrum of her heart against her ribs.
Alma took a long pull of beer, hoping the alcohol would calm her, and she moved toward the rear of the barn. “Aden? Is that you?”
A wide aisle lay straight ahead. Additional livestock stalls lined both sides. Beyond, she could see the back side of the barn, huge beams, and the wood siding, all of it dripping with cobwebs.
Stepping over a fallen board, Alma walked into the aisle, peering over the tops of the gates as she passed stalls filled with junk. Rotting bales of hay. Miscellaneous pieces of farming equipment. A rusty fifty-gallon drum. All of it had her thinking about spiders, and she shivered. “Hello? Is someone there?”
Midway down the aisle, she shifted the beam and spotted the open door at the rear of the barn. Had someone come inside? Was Aden playing a joke on her?
“If you’re trying to scare me, it’s working!” But she could feel the fingers of uneasiness pressing into the back of her neck. “Aden! Come on! This isn’t funny!”
Another sound spun her around. She swept the beam left. A shadow in the stall. Her beau’s name on her lips. The blow came down on the top of her head with stunning force. Pain streaked across her scalp. Alma fell to her knees. Shaking her head to clear it, she looked up. Movement above her. She raised her hands to protect herself.
The second blow landed like a stone. Alma fell forward. The flashlight rolled away, crazy light playing against weathered wood. Her hands hit the floor. Her elbows collapsed and then she lay face down, trying to make sense of what had happened, too stunned to move.
The final blow crashed against the back of her skull. White light exploded inside her head and then faded to red.
* * *
By the time I reach the area between the house and the barns I realize two things. I’ve seriously underestimated the size and scope of the party. And there’s a hell of a lot more going on than underage drinking.
Several generators are running, producing enough electricity to light up the entirety of Painters Mill. Farther away, someone built a riser upon which a country band is performing, guitar and a decent voice echoing among the trees. The aromas of food—barbeque and smoked meat—float pleasantly on the night air, mingling with the unmistakable smell of marijuana. All of it punctuated by laughter and shouting, both in English and Deitsh.
A group of Amish boys, some seemingly no older than sixteen or seventeen years old, walk past me, gesturing and laughing, each with a can of beer in hand. My first instinct, of course, is to stop them and ask for identification, but common sense tells me for every teenager I stop, a dozen more will fill the void.
I’m reaching for my cell to call Sheriff Rasmussen for backup when it goes off in my hand. “Burkholder,” I snap.
“Chief, it’s Mona.” Mona Kurtz is my third-shift dispatcher. As usual she’s come in to work a few hours early. Usually, I’d take a moment to explain to her that I don’t have the budget for overtime. Tonight I’m unduly relieved to have her on hand.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Traffic light is out on Main Street and a truck just plowed through the front window of the Butterhorn Bakery.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“Driver’s okay, but there’s quite a bit of damage and Mr. Skanks is pissed.”
Tom Skanks is the owner of the bakery. He makes the best apple fritters I’ve ever had the pleasure of devouring, so I’m inclined to cut him some slack. “Remind him that insurance will cover the cost of the repairs.”
“Will do.”
But I know Skanks can be a handful. “I take it power is still out?”
“I talked to the technician ten minutes ago and he said it’s going to be a few hours before they can get that line repaired.”
I need Skid here, but in order to avoid another potential accident, I opt to send him back into town to deal with the public safety issue. “Call Skid and tell him to set up a stop sign at the intersection and help Tom get the bakery secured for the night.”
“Roger that.”
“Mona?”
“Yeah, Chief?”
“Thanks for coming in early.”
I can practically hear her smile come through the line. “You got it.”
I hit end and thumb in the speed dial for Sheriff Rasmussen. “Mike, we’ve got a situation out at the old Davenport farm. There are a couple hundred people out here. A lot of juveniles and alcohol. Drugs, too.”
He groans. “We’re still dealing with that downed tower and power lines, Kate. As soon as I get someone freed up, I’ll send them that way.”
“Appreciate it.”
“For God’s sake, is there anything else that could go wrong tonight?”
“You might want to knock on wood when you say that.”
Groaning, he hangs up.
I drop the phone into my pocket. Twenty yards away, the band breaks into a decent rendition of George Strait’s Amarillo by Morning. The young Amish man manning the smoker is slicing a slab of brisket atop a butcher-block board. Beyond, a huge bonfire crackles and sparks, throwing flames ten feet into the air. It’s a chaotic, raucous scene that a cop alone hasn’t a snowball’s chance of controlling.
I’m thinking about calling one of my other officers when my phone chirps. “What’s up, Mona?”
“Chief, I just took a call from Aden Keim. He says he’s out at the rager and there’s been a serious accident.”
“Someone hurt?”
“His girlfriend is unconscious. He says they’re in the old barn on the property.”
“I know it.” I’m already jogging toward the structure, which is nestled in the trees a hundred or so yards from the house. “Get an ambulance out here, wil
l you?”
“Already en route.”
I disconnect just as I reach the barn. The interior is lit by a single lantern and at least one flashlight. There are several people standing in the doorway, mostly Amish, male and female. All of them look worried.
“Police!” I say as I enter. “Where’s the injured party?”
A young man with long blond hair and a goatee looks at me as if I’m a ghost, raises a skinny arm, and points. “Back there.”
Brushing past him, I pull out my Maglite. A young man with dark hair is on his knees next to a woman lying on the ground facedown. He looks at me as I approach. In the periphery of my flashlight beam, his face is ravaged.
“What happened?” I ask as I kneel beside the victim.
“I don’t know!” he cries. “I found her . . . like this. I mean, I walked in and she was just lying there on the ground.”
I shine my light on the girl. Though she’s wearing blue jeans and a tee shirt, there’s something about her that tells me she’s Amish. No jewelry or piercings. Minimal makeup. No nail polish. I run the beam of my flashlight over her, looking for injuries or evidence of drug use. She’s lost a shoe at some point.
“Has she been drinking?” I ask. “Doing any drugs? Anything like that?”
“No!” he cries. “She’s . . . Amish. She . . . doesn’t do those things.”
As he says the words, I spot a bloodstain the size of a quarter on the shoulder of her tee shirt. A closer look reveals more blood matted in her hair at the back of her head.
He sets his hand on her upper arm as if to turn her over. I reach out and stop him. “Better not to move her,” I tell him. “There’s an ambulance on the way.”
“But . . .” Looking anguished, he sets his hand against the side of her face, brushes hair from her eyes. “What’s wrong with her?” He looks at me, demanding an answer. “Why won’t she wake up?”
“What’s her name?” I ask, aware that the people in the doorway are curious and getting closer.
“Alma Fisher,” he tells me.
I hit my lapel mike. “What’s the ETA on that ambulance?”
Mona’s voice comes back at me. “Just pulled in to the gravel lane out there, Chief.”
“Make sure they know the victim is in the barn.”