CHAPTER 20.

In the course of an investigation, a cop receives all kinds of information. A fair amount of that information is based on fact. Some is based on lies or half-truths that have been put forth to further someone's agenda. A large percentage of information is pure bulls.h.i.t. It's my job to sort through it and separate fact from fiction, even if I don't like the direction it's taking me.

There's no doubt in my mind that young Sarah Schlabach was telling the truth about seeing a man and a woman that night on the road in front of her house. Martha might have an axe to grind when it comes to Mattie, but I don't think she'd ask her eight-year-old daughter to fabricate a story to further some fifteen-year-old grudge. I didn't get the sense that the girl was lying.

Who was Mattie arguing with and why? More importantly, why didn't she mention it to me? As with any witness, the possibility exists that Sarah misinterpreted what she saw. Could the man have been Paul Borntrager? Had Mattie and her husband had a spat and decided to take it outside so they wouldn't wake the children? Or is there another possibility I'm not seeing?

One vital piece of the puzzle that's been missing from the start of this case is motive. I've been leaning toward the possibility of a stalking situation. Mattie is, after all, a stunningly beautiful woman. The kind of beauty that draws attention, perhaps even unwanted attention. I know from experience that a high percentage of stalking victims know their stalker. Does Mattie know him? Did she confront him? Did they have words that night? Is it possible that she's oblivious to the dangers and protecting him for the simple reason that he's Amish? That she doesn't want any of this to come to light to protect her own reputation?

When Mattie and I were teenagers, the boys were drawn to her with the mindless glee of children to chocolate. Several times, there had been more than one boy courting her at the same time. Petty jealousies and, once, a fight had erupted. Unlike Martha, I didn't begrudge Mattie the attention. I was content to sit back and watch. Mattie had seemed oblivious to her charms. But even with my limited view of the world, there was a part of me that was cognizant of these things called jealousy and l.u.s.t, and the lengths to which people would go to get what they want.

I'm sitting at my desk in my office, troubled and brooding, when my phone buzzes. Absently, I hit the speaker b.u.t.ton. "What's up, Lois?"

"Sheriff Redmon's here to see you, Chief. You want me to send him in?"

The visit isn't unexpected but my nerves jump anyway. "Sure. Thanks."

I end the call, look down at my hands to see them shaking. "G.o.ddammit." I press them against my desktop, order myself to stay calm.

A moment later, Sheriff Arnold Redmon and the young deputy I spoke to at the grain elevator, Fowler Hodges, appear at the door. "Afternoon, Chief Burkholder," the sheriff drawls.

"Sheriff Redmon." Standing, I round my desk, a smile pasted to my face, and extend my hand to the sheriff.

He steps into my office and reciprocates the handshake, giving me a quick once-over. His grip is firm, his palm meaty and calloused. His eyes are the color of tarnished coins. He's got a powerful presence and the kind of stare that goes right through you.

"I heard about that tussle you got into out at the Borntrager place," he says, studying my face. "Hate to see bruises on any cop, but it always seems worse on a female."

"We'll get him."

I turn my attention to the deputy, hoping my nervousness doesn't show, and we shake. "Good to see you again, Folly."

"You guys have any luck on that hit-skip?" he asks.

I give him the highlights of the investigation so far. "We're basically looking at everyone at this point."

By the time I turn my attention back to Redmon, I've decided how to handle this. "My sister tells me you identified those remains as Daniel Lapp," I begin.

"ID isn't official yet, but his brother, Benjamin, remembered him having a chipped front tooth, and sure enough we found a chipped tooth in that mess of bones. We think it's him."

"I always figured he left to get away from the Amish," I tell him.

"He tell you that?"

"Just an a.s.sumption."

"Benjamin told us Daniel helped your brother bale hay the day he disappeared. Your sister verified it. She told us Daniel was at your folks' farm that day." He holds my gaze, waits for me to elaborate.

"He was," I say simply. "All this came up after he went missing. It's in the file."

"I know it was a long time ago, Chief Burkholder, but do you recall actually seeing him that day? Did you talk to him?"

I shake my head. "I don't remember seeing him. I was in the house most of the day. Daniel and Jacob were in the field, behind the barn."

"He didn't come in for a drink of water? Anything like that?"

"I don't think so." I smile. "The hose is usually good enough for Amish kids."

Redmon watches me closely, hanging on to each syllable, as if he's memorizing every detail so he can take them apart later. "Did Lapp's parents talk to your parents when he didn't come home?"

"It seems logical that they would have, but I don't recall them visiting our farm," I say. "If they did, my parents didn't mention it to me."

"Did Daniel help your brother bale on more than one occasion that summer?"

"It's possible," I tell him. "Amish kids are always looking for work. It was a long time ago and those memories kind of run together."

"Were Jacob and Daniel friends?"

"More like friendly acquaintances."

"So they didn't hang out? Spend time together?"

"I don't think so."

"Do you mind my asking how old you were that summer?"

"I was fourteen."

He grins as if imagining me at that age. "You probably had better things to do than pay attention to a bunch of sweaty boys."

I smile, but it's so forced I feel a tick in my lip.

"Benjamin Lapp thinks something happened to his brother that day," Redmon tells me.

"Like what?"

"He thinks Daniel might've had some kind of accident while he was working in the field."

"That's the first time I've heard that." I shrug, but my heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear my own voice. I wonder if Redmon can see the vein pulsing at my throat.

"You know how these things go," the sheriff says. "Something happens to a loved one, they go missing or whatever, and the family starts looking for someone to blame. People's imaginations get to running when someone disappears."

"If anything had happened to Daniel that day, if he'd been hurt while working on our farm, I'm sure my datt would have taken him to the hospital." I tilt my head, make eye contact with Redmon. "In case you're wondering, the Amish have no problem utilizing doctors or the ER when necessary. There are no rules against that."

"To tell you the truth, Chief, I wasn't sure what the belief system was in that area," he drawls. "Did you ever wonder what happened to Daniel? I mean, since he'd been at your parents' farm that day and no one saw him again?"

"Sure," I tell him. "Everybody wondered."

He waits, watching me.

I don't believe the sheriff suspects me or anyone in my family of wrongdoing. But he hasn't ruled us out and he's not above using law enforcement interview techniques to trip me up. In this case, it's the give-someone-enough-rope-and-they'll-hang-themselves tactic. I don't bite. "Like I said, I always thought Daniel took the money he was paid that day and left."

"Benjamin was adamant that Daniel wouldn't do that. Said he was looking forward to getting baptized."

I shrug. "No offense to Benjamin, but sometimes the family is the last to know. The Amish don't want to believe there are others living among them who no longer want to be Amish."

"I guess you got a point there." He chuckles, a grandfatherly sound designed to disarm. I don't buy it for a second. The sheriff is about as grandfatherly as Charles Manson. "So you think Daniel Lapp, an eighteen-year-old Amish kid, just up and left town without so much as a good-bye to his brother and parents?"

"It wouldn't be the first time."

When neither man responds, I look from Redmon to Fowler and back to Redmon. "Do you have any idea how he got down in that pit?"

"We're not sure," Redmon tells me.

"Do you suspect foul play?"

"Coroner says someone shot him with a shotgun."

I tamp down a quick rise of alarm. "So you got results on the autopsy?"

"Autopsy isn't complete, it's all preliminary at this point. Coroner didn't have much to work with." He makes a sound of distaste. "We're talking bones and a few strands of rotted fabric, as you can imagine. While they were gathering samples for the lab, one of the technicians took a metal detector to the scene and found shotgun pellets in the soil. They're pretty sure the pellets were inside Lapp's body."

"So we're talking homicide."

"Looks like." He scratches his head. "I just can't figure who'd want an Amish kid dead."

The phone on my desk buzzes; the sound echoes in my ears as if I'm standing in a cave. I let it go to voicemail. "Wasn't that grain elevator closed down back then?" I ask.

"Wilbur Seed Company closed down back in 1976," Redmon tells me. "I checked."

"Perfect place to hide a body," Fowler adds.

Redmon's gaze burns into mine. "Anyone in your family ever have any kind of dispute with Lapp? You know, over money or pay? Anything like that?"

I've lived this moment a thousand times in the last seventeen years. I've coached myself on how to respond right down to my body language and the tone of my voice. Now that the time is here and there are two cops looking at me as if I know more than I'm letting on, all the words I had so diligently rehea.r.s.ed fly out the window, leaving me alone with my conscience and the lie I've been living with half of my life.

"Nothing that I know of," I say. "My father was an honest man and fair with wages." I put on a face of disappointment and look from man to man. "Whatever happened to Daniel Lapp didn't happen at our farm."

"Well, I appreciate your answering my questions, Chief, especially when you're occupied with that nasty hit-skip." Redmon pulls his card from his shirt pocket and hands it to me. "We had to do our due diligence. You know how it is."

"No problem." I set the card on my desk. "If I remember anything else, I'll call you."

I stand and watch the men shuffle to the door. Tension runs like hot wires up and down the back of my neck. At the doorway to the hall, the sheriff stops and turns. "Oh, one more thing, Chief, before I forget. Did your father own a shotgun?"

I stare at him, aware that my knees are shaking, my hands are shaking, so I lower myself into my chair and press them against the desktop. "My father kept a twenty-two. For hunting."

"Thanks." He ducks his head slightly. "We'll get out of your hair now."

The men trundle out, leaving me with a knot in my gut, an old, familiar fear in my heart, and the disturbing suspicion that while this visit is over, the case remains open.

My encounter with Redmon leaves me restless and edgy. Despite my best efforts, I can't get my focus back on the Borntrager case. I can't stop thinking about the secrets and the questions and an investigation that could mean the end of my career.

I arrive at Mattie's farm to find two buggies parked near the barn, the horses standing with their back legs c.o.c.ked, their heads down. Two Amish men, one of whom is smoking a pipe, stand at the open barn door, talking. They stare at me as I get out of the Explorer. I raise my hand in greeting, but neither man reciprocates. I take the sidewalk to the back porch. I don't bother knocking this time and go directly to the kitchen.

I find Mary Miller at the sink. She's a tall, angular woman with skinny legs and feet that look too big for her body. I've known her since my days at school, where she taught for a while. She worked hard to make sure I knew my multiplication tables and smacked my hand with the ruler on more than one occasion to ensure she had my undivided attention. She's married to the Amish man I saw near the barn when I arrived. They're a nice couple, with eight children, and live on small farm south of Painters Mill.

"Is Mattie here?" I ask. "I need to speak with her."

"She's resting." She turns her back to me and goes back to her dishwashing. "I see your manners haven't improved with age."

"Where is she?" I walk past her, half expecting her to snap the dish towel at my back.

The smells of mock turtle soup and lye soap follow me into the living room. I make my way to the stairs and take them two at a time to the top. Four doors stand open. The first is a bathroom with robin's-egg-blue walls and a claw-foot tub. I'm midway to the second door when Mattie appears in the doorway ahead.

"Katie?"

I can tell by the soft paleness of her complexion that I roused her from sleep. A crease mark from her pillow mars her right cheek. She's wearing a black dress and is in the process of tying her head covering as she steps into the hall. "I didn't know you were here."

"We need to talk," I tell her.

Her expression goes wary. "Has something happened? If I'd known you were coming, I would have made coffee."

"I don't want coffee. What I want is for you to level with me."

"About what?" Her eyes go into sharp focus on mine. "Have you found out something about the accident?"

"It wasn't an accident, Mattie. Someone mowed them down. There's a difference."

"I know that, but..." Her voice trails and she looks down at the floor. "I don't know what else to call it."

"Try triple murder."

She steps back, sets her hand on the jamb as if she needs the support to remain upright. "Why are you angry with me?"

I cross to her so that I'm less than a foot away. Her skin is as pale and flawless as a baby's. Her eyes are deep and clear. She's magnetic and, even as a female, I can understand why men are drawn to her. She smells of baby powder and laundry detergent and summer sun.

"Let me spell it out for you." My voice feels like a steel zipper being ripped from my throat. "I asked you if you'd had any recent disagreements or arguments with anyone. It's a straightforward question, Mattie. Then I hear about you and an unidentified man arguing on the road in front of your house in the middle of the night. What am I supposed to make of that?"

She chokes out a sound that's part laugh, part incredulity. "I don't know who you've been speaking with or what they said to you, but no such thing ever happened."

In the years we've been friends, Mattie has shocked me, infuriated me, and made me laugh. The one thing she's never done is lie. But I see the quicksilver flash of conscience in her eyes, and the truth of it hurts a h.e.l.l of a lot more than I thought it would. "You're keeping something from me. I suggest you start talking and, if it's not too much trouble, focus on the truth."

She takes a step back, presses her hand to her breast. I steel myself against the hurt in her eyes, remind myself that a man and two children are dead and I have a job to do.

"You're being purposefully cruel," she says quietly.