"What about you?"

"I don't think the police will be able to identify the remains." I pause. "Someone from the sheriff's office will probably come and talk to you."

"Me?" Her eyes widen. "But why?"

I tell her the same thing I told Jacob. "Daniel's brother, Benjamin, will tell them the last place Daniel was seen was our farm. That he'd come over to bale hay that morning."

She looks down at her baby, but her mind is no longer on the child. "What do I tell them?"

"Same thing you told them when he initially disappeared. You were in town, selling bread, remember?" That much, at least, is true. "Tell them you think Daniel was helping bale hay, but you don't remember seeing him. That's all you have to say."

"Katie, I don't want to speak with anyone. I don't want to lie to the police."

"You don't have a choice. If they come, you have to talk to them. You have to be consistent. You can't tell them what happened."

"How will I explain all of this to William?" she whispers furiously, as if her husband is standing at the back door, listening. "He knows nothing of this."

"Tell him the same thing you tell the police. Keep it simple. Stick to your story." I feel like a hypocrite-or worse, a crooked cop-saying those words. How many criminals, in an effort to conceal their crimes, have said the very same thing?

"I don't like all of this lying, Katie."

"None of us do," I say, meaning it. "But the alternative is worse."

She says nothing. That worries me because I know a decent number of cases are solved not because of solid police work, but because someone with intimate knowledge of the crime talks about it to the wrong person or says the wrong thing to the police.

"What about Jacob?" she asks.

"Don't worry about Jacob. I've already talked to him." When she says nothing, I add, "Datt made a decision that day, Sarah. We were children; we didn't have a choice but to go along with it."

"He was trying to protect you."

I don't have anything to say about that, so I remain silent.

She looks down at the baby, but there's no joy in her eyes now. It's as if she's no longer seeing the child because of this ma.s.sive black cloud I've brought with me and laid at her feet. Kate, always the bearer of something dark.

"Sarah." I say her name with an urgency I hadn't intended. My sister is not a liar; it doesn't come naturally to her. There's a part of me that's terrified she won't keep her mouth shut. During the Slaughterhouse Murders, she sent a note to the bishop, telling him I knew something about Daniel Lapp. The bishop went to the mayor, who pa.s.sed the note on to Tomasetti. He held on to the note, protecting me in doing so, but my sister's actions put me in a precarious position. What if she does something like that again?

"I'm the chief of police," I remind her. "If word of this gets out-if you tell anyone what happened that day-I'll lose my job. I'll never work in law enforcement again. Sarah, I could be charged with a crime. All of us could be charged."

"It wasn't your fault."

"That doesn't matter. I killed a man. My guilt or innocence won't be determined by you, but by a jury. If it goes that far, it's over for me. At least in terms of my career."

"Fine." She snaps the word without looking at me. "I'll do it. But I don't like it."

Leaving my coffee unfinished, my little niece unacknowledged, I rise and start toward the door without thanking her.

CHAPTER 14.

I'm still worrying over the exchange with my sister when I pull onto the dirt track of the Wengerd farm fifteen minutes later. There's no doubt in my mind that the sheriff's investigators will be taking a hard look at the disappearance of Daniel Lapp-if they haven't already. Even without DNA or dental records, they'll be able to match height, age, and s.e.x. They'll look at the timing and start connecting the dots-right back to me.

The Explorer bounces over deep potholes. To my left, a pasture with the gra.s.s shorn down to bare earth accommodates a dozen or more pygmy goats. On my right is a cornfield with slightly crooked rows of yellow stalks fluttering in a stiff breeze. The lane swerves and I see a mobile home with a nice wood deck tucked into a stand of trees. Beyond, a red metal building surrounded by a wood pen holds a dozen more goats with kids. Twenty yards away, Enos Wengerd stands next to a pile of burning brush, poking at it with a good-size stick, looking at me.

The breeze carries gossamer fingers of smoke my way as I get out of the Explorer. Somewhere nearby, a dog begins to bark. I hit my radio, "Six two three. I'm ten twenty-three."

"Ten four."

I slam the driver's side door and start toward Wengerd. "Enos Wengerd?"

He stabs at the brush pile with the stick. "That's me."

"Do you have a few minutes, sir? I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"There's no burn ban," he says. "I checked."

I'm midway to him when I notice the truck parked at the side of the metal building. "Not too windy yet," I comment.

"It'll do."

The truck is blue, but I can't discern the make or model. I stop ten feet from Wengerd. "Is that your truck over there?"

He leans on the stick, takes his time answering. "Yup."

He wears a straw, flat-brimmed hat, a faded work shirt, and gray trousers with suspenders. I guess him to be in his mid-twenties. Six feet tall. Two hundred pounds. I can tell from the breadth of his shoulders he partakes in a good bit of physical labor.

"I hear it caused you some trouble with the deacon," I say conversationally.

"That's not against the law, is it?"

"No," I tell him. "Unless you have an argument with the deacon and then he turns up dead."

"Wer lauert an der Wand, Heert sie eegni Schand." It's an old Amish sobriquet about gossip. If you listen through the wall, you will hear others recite your faults. "Andy Erb gossips like an old woman," Wengerd says, but he doesn't look quite as c.o.c.ky now that he knows why I'm here.

"Did you have an argument with Paul Borntrager?" I ask.

He stares at me for a long time before answering. "We had a disagreement."

"What about?"

"Paul and the bishop put me under the bann." The muscle in his jaw begins to work and I realize the bad att.i.tude is by design, perhaps to conceal just how much the excommunication has upset him.

"Why?"

"Because I bought a truck. It's against the Ordnung." He doesn't mention attending Mennonite services. "But then you know all about breaking the rules, don't you, Kate Burkholder?"

I ignore the question. "Did you get angry?"

Instead of replying, he stabs at the smoldering brush, sending a scatter of sparks into the air.

"Where did the argument happen?" I ask.

"At the auction. In Millersburg. You already knew that, though, or you wouldn't be here." He pokes harder, watching as new flames lick at the dry kindling. He's got large, strong hands and forearms turned brown from the sun. He wraps his fingers around the length of wood so tightly his knuckles go white. "I didn't run him over, if that's what you're going to ask me next."

"Where were you two nights ago?"

"Here. Clearing brush."

"Was there anyone with you?"

He sighs. "It was just me and all these goats."

"Do you mind if I take a quick look at your truck, Mr. Wengerd?" I say amicably. "Then I'll get out of your hair and let you get back to work."

"It's right there." He motions toward the vehicle, but his attention stays riveted on me.

"Thanks." I start toward the truck, aware that he's right behind me, stick in hand. Not for the first time, I wish I had eyes in the back of my head.

"It run okay?" I glance over my shoulder. He's less than three feet away. So close I can smell the smoke and sweat coming off his clothes.

"Good enough to get me under the bann," he grumbles.

The truck is an old blue F-150. Not the model I'm looking for. I'm no expert, but it also looks older. "What year?"

"Nineteen ninety-two."

I look at him over the hood as I round the front of the truck. There's no damage. No recent body work. It's not the right color, either, though I'm well aware how easily paint can be changed. But it doesn't look freshly painted. The driver's side door is covered with patches of primer. There's no brush guard. No evidence the front end has been altered in any way. Both headlights are intact and covered with dried-on insects. Aside from a small crease and a few areas of rust, the b.u.mper is undamaged. This truck was not involved in any recent accident, certainly not the kind that took out that buggy.

"Do you own any other vehicles?" I ask.

He gives me an are-you-kidding look and shakes his head.

I make two complete circles around the vehicle and then turn to him, extend my hand. "Thanks for your time, Mr. Wengerd."

He looks surprised by the gesture, but quickly reciprocates the handshake. It makes me wonder if it's the only gesture of kindness he's received since his Amish brethren excommunicated him.

The people I'm closest to have told me I have an obsessive personality, particularly when it comes to my job. I argue the point, but my defense is usually halfhearted, because they're right. When I'm in the midst of an investigation-especially a horrific and baffling one like the Borntrager case-I think of little else. I have difficulty focusing on other things that are going on in my life. I've been known to brood.

I've always chalked up my obsessive behavior to my work ethic, my black-and-white stance on right and wrong, or maybe my intolerance of people who hurt others. It wasn't until I worked the Plank case last October-the murders of an entire family-that I was forced to take a hard look at myself and examine my shortcomings. I stepped over a line in the course of that investigation. I did some things I shouldn't have. But I hate injustice. Even more, I hate the thought of someone getting away with murder.

I'm on my way back to the station when I drive by the Hope Clinic for the Amish. It's the medical facility where Paul had taken his children the afternoon of the accident. On impulse, I pull into the lot and park opposite a shedrow designed to shelter the buggy horses. A single black buggy is parked inside, the sorrel horse standing with its rear leg c.o.c.ked, swatting flies with its tail. Six parking s.p.a.ces are marked not only with the buggy symbol, but a handicapped sign as well, and I'm reminded the clinic deals mainly with children afflicted with some of the genetic disorders plaguing the Amish. It opened a few years ago to study several rare genetic diseases that apparently aren't so rare among the Amish.

The facility is housed in a small farmhouse that's been completely refashioned to look like an Amish home, with hanging planters, a porch swing, and even an old-fashioned clothesline in the side yard. The owner of the original property, Ronald Hope, pa.s.sed away four years ago. His son, Ronald Jr., rather than sell the entire farm, donated the house and outbuildings to the clinic while maintaining ownership of the land for farming. People still talk about the appropriateness of the donor's last name.

I park adjacent the shedrow, cross the parking lot to the house, and ascend the steps to the porch. The facility is wheelchair friendly with a ramp stenciled with horseshoe prints. A sign in Pennsylvania Dutch written in an Olde English font proclaims Welcome to All.

A bell jingles merrily when I enter the homey reception area. The receptionist is a fifty-something woman with curly brown hair and blue eyes. She's wearing pink scrubs with a tag telling me her name is NATALIE. Beneath her name are the words THERE'S ALWAYS HOPE.

"Hi! May I help you?"

I show her my badge and introduce myself. "I'm working on a case and was wondering if someone can talk to me about Paul Borntrager."

"Oh my goodness." She presses her hand against her matronly bosom. "That was awful about Paul and those sweet little children. Just horrible. I cried my eyes out when I heard what happened. All of us here at the clinic were just crushed."

A door that presumably leads to the interior of the clinic opens. A young blond woman, also clad in pink scrubs, steps out and then holds open the door for an Amish woman pushing a wheelchair. A boy of about eight or nine sits in the chair, playing with a stuffed bear. He's wearing trousers and suspenders and a white shirt. Through the thick lenses of his eyegla.s.ses, I see that he suffers with what used to be referred to as lazy eye.

I offer both of them a smile. The Amish woman takes in the sight of my uniform, gives me an obligatory smile, and continues on. The boy, however, hits me with huge, lopsided grin that's so infectious I find myself grinning back.

"Chief Burkholder, Doctor Armitage has a few minutes until his next appointment," the receptionist tells me. "He can speak with you now if you'd like."

"That would be great."

She stands and calls out to the Amish boy. "See you next week, Jonas! Bye, Sweetie!"

The boy turns in his chair and waves vigorously. "Bye!"

Still smiling, the receptionist motions me through the door. "Third door on the right, Chief."

My boots thud dully against the hardwood floors as I make my way down the hall. I pa.s.s three examination rooms with paper-covered exam tables, laminate counters, and sinks. But all semblance of clinical ends there. Framed photos of farm animals-horses and pigs and ducks-cover the walls. An oil winterscape of Amish children frolicking on a snowy hillside. A second painting depicts a horse and sleigh and a group of children ice skating on a frozen pond.

The last door on the right is partially open, and a bra.s.s nameplate reads: DOCTOR MIKE IS IN! I push open the door and find myself looking into a large office with a double set of French doors that open to a small deck. Judging from the size of the room, I suspect it was originally a master bedroom. It has gleaming hardwood floors and plenty of natural light. An old-fashioned banker's lamp sits atop a lovingly distressed cherrywood desk, the surface of which is littered with papers and forms and files. On the wall, a dozen or more tastefully framed diplomas and certificates are prominently displayed.

Through the French doors, I see red-stained Adirondack furniture. Two chairs, a lounger, and a table. Beyond, in a small patch of manicured gra.s.s, is an old-fashioned rocking horse and a sandbox filled with plastic shovels and colorful buckets. A man in a white lab coat and blue jeans sits on one of the wooden chairs, thumbing something into his phone.

I cross to the French door and push it open. "Dr. Armitage?"

The man startles, and only then do I realize he's smoking a cigarette. I almost laugh when he makes a feeble attempt to conceal it. He stands and drops the cigarette, sets his foot over it. "Oh, h.e.l.lo." Hand extended, he starts toward me. "You must be Chief Burkholder." He glances down at the b.u.t.t. "I guess I'm busted."

"It's not against the law to smoke," I say.

"Well, it should be. I'm a doctor, for G.o.d's sake. You'd think I'd know better." He chuckles. "Stupidest d.a.m.n habit I ever started."

We shake. His grip is firm, but not too tight. The lack of calluses tells me he doesn't do much in the way of manual labor. He maintains eye contact with me, his expression intelligent and full of good humor.

"Never too late to quit," I tell him.

"I plan to." He gives a self-deprecating laugh. "As soon as the divorce is final. Which should be any day now."

I nod. "Sorry."

"Ah, it was my own doing. All work and no play made me a pretty bad husband." Shrugging, he motions toward the door. "I've got about five minutes before my next appointment. Would you like to sit out here or would you be more comfortable inside?"