A Dark Path #7
Dirt and debris crunched beneath their shoes as they entered a larger room with tall ceilings. Kevin caught a glimpse of peeling wallpaper, a mattress on the floor, a crumbling plaster ceiling. Creepy staircase to his right. Outside, the wind howled.
Aaron aimed the beam at the redbrick fireplace. “If we can find some wood, we can build a fire.”
Even in the dim light, Kevin could see that his friend was shivering. He was seriously cold, too. His ears and hands ached with it. Oh, how he’d been hoping somebody would be here so they could use the phone. All he wanted to do was go home.
Kevin startled when something rattled outside. “What was that?”
Aaron jerked the beam to the window. “Just a branch,” he said.
“Place gives me the creeps,” Kevin said.
“At least we’re out of the wind and snow.”
Kevin knew his friend was trying to make the best of a bad situation, but he didn’t quite manage. Aaron might be Amish and a year older, but Kevin was pretty sure he was regretting their big adventure, too.
“Come on,” Aaron said. “Let’s find some firewood.”
Tomasetti and I are in the Explorer, on our way back to the woods to resume our search for the boys, when Pickles’s voice cracks over the radio. “Chief, what’s your twenty?”
I pick up the mike. “We’re almost to the Hogpath Road bridge.”
“I’m out at William Borntrager’s farm. Their son, Willie, says he saw the boys a couple hours ago.”
“I’m on my way,” I tell him.
William Borntrager and his wife, Edna, live on a lesser township road a mile from Painters Creek. They’re Beachy Amish with nine children and are well thought of among their brethren.
Snow billows in my rearview mirror as I take the lane to the house. I park behind Pickles’s cruiser and we disembark.
Sleet taps against our coats as we make our way to the front door. In the last hour, the temperature has dropped twenty degrees. With the wind kicking to thirty knots, windchills have fallen into the single digits.
“Hope those boys found shelter,” I tell Tomasetti as we climb the steps to the door.
“If they haven’t, they’re in a world of hurt about now.”
The door opens before I can knock. A short, round Amish woman wearing a mauve dress, her hair tucked into an organdy kapp, greets us.
I’ve met Edna Borntrager a few times over the years.
She’s a renowned baker with an implacable personality and a reputation for being a rabble-rouser.
Anyone who is under the impression that Amish women submit to their husbands hasn’t met Edna.
“Guder ohvet,” she says. Good evening. “Get on in here out of the cold.” It’s an order, not an invitation.
I go through the door to see a tall Amish man approach. Gray work pants. Blue work shirt. Suspenders beneath a black jacket. William Borntrager is as thin as his wife is plump. It doesn’t elude me that he leaves the speaking to her.
The house is cozy and warm, woodsmoke and the aroma of something savory floating in the air. Pickles stands next to an old-fashioned woodstove.
“Chief.” Wearing his uniform, a Painters Mill PD winter parka, and his trademark Lucchese boots, my eldest officer is in top form tonight. “Mrs. Borntrager says her son saw our two missing juveniles earlier this evening.”
Before I can address the Amish woman, she tromps to the kitchen and returns with a boy—held by the ear.
Next to me, Tomasetti clears his throat.
“This is Willie,” she says firmly. Mouth tight with displeasure, she releases the boy’s ear. “Fazayla iahra. Nau.” Tell her. Now.
I guess the boy to be about sixteen years old. He’s a skinny thing. Dressed much like his datt. Felt flat-brimmed hat. Trousers a few inches too short. Hair cut in a bad “Dutch Boy” style. A patch of acne on his chin.
“We saw ’em,” he mutters.
Quick as a snake, his mother smacks the back of his head. “Don’t you mince your words. You tell her and you tell her right. Ain’t quite so funny this time, is it?”
I look at the boy. “You saw Aaron Kuhns and Kevin Dennison?”
He nods. “The two of them was out there by the creek down to the icebox. They had a campfire going.”
“How long ago?”
“A couple hours, I reckon.”
Judging by the extent of his mother’s displeasure, I’m guessing the story goes downhill from there. “So what happened?”
Grimacing, he drops his eyes to the floor. “We scared ’em.”
“Scared them?” I repeat.
“We just … made some noise. You know, like the Butzemann. Them boys squealed and took off like jackrabbits.” A snicker escapes, but Willie quickly covers it with a cough.
I nod, remembering those dark Amish tales from my own childhood. Butzemann is Deitsch for “scarecrow,” but it’s sort of the Amish equivalent of a zombie.
“Schnell geiste.” Quick spirit. Mrs. Borntrager glares at her son. “Those poor little ones. Scared out of their wits. Out in all that cold and snow.”
I pull out my notebook and address the boy. “Who were you with?”
“Joe Fisher. Andy Yoder.”
I recognize the names. They’re Amish teenagers from good families. I realize the situation is likely a prank gone wrong.
“Willie, we believe those boys are lost. With a snowstorm moving in, we need to find them. Do you have any idea where they might’ve gone?”
The boy shakes his head, risks a look at his mamm, and lowers his voice. “We didn’t mean to do any harm, Chief Burkholder.” His eyes skate away from mine, avoiding his mamm’s steely gaze, and land on the floor. “We scared them pretty good, I guess. Chased them a ways.”
Tomasetti shakes his head. “Where did you last see them?”
“Just north of the icebox,” Willie says.
“Which direction were they heading?” I ask.
“North.” His brows knit. “But they must have left the trail. That’s how we lost them.”
When he raises his eyes to mine, I see remorse. “We were just goofing off. We didn’t know the weather was going to turn. We sure didn’t mean for them to get lost.”
Scowling, his mother sets her hand on his shoulder. “We’ll be sure and say a prayer for those boys tonight, Chief Burkholder. I hope you find them.”
“Me, too,” I say as we head for the door.
Aaron spent a lot of time outside during the winter months—mucking stalls or helping his datt—but he couldn’t remember ever being so cold.
He couldn’t stop shivering. His toes were numb.
His hands ached. Kevin didn’t complain, but as they searched for wood, Aaron could see that his friend was shivering, too.
How was it that after so much planning and anticipation, their exciting adventure had turned into such a nightmare?
In a second-story bedroom, Aaron spotted some old boards, and with Kevin’s help he carried them downstairs. “Why is the flashlight so dim?” Kevin asked as they descended the stairs.
“Batteries are about to go,” Aaron told him.
Kevin’s eyes went wide. “What are we going to do without light?”
“Once we get a fire going, we’ll have plenty of light.”
The boys stacked the wood in the fireplace. Aaron used a match to light the cardboard he’d put at the base. He checked the flue and within minutes they had a decent fire—and finally some heat. They sat cross-legged near the hearth, hands outstretched, fingers warming.
“You think our folks are worried?” Kevin asked.
“Probably.”
“You think they’re out hunting for us?”
Aaron banked the quick swipe of guilt. “Maybe.”
“Man, my dad is going to kill me,” Kevin whispered. “What are we going to do?”
Aaron stared into the flames, noticing for the first time that the smoke wasn’t going up the chimney the way it should. Already his eyes were burning. As if spending the night without a blanket wasn’t bad enough. Now they were going to have to spend it with burning eyes and throats.
“We head home in the morning,” he said. “We tell them we got lost.”
“Wouldn’t be too far from the truth,” Kevin said.
“See? We don’t even have to lie.”
Aaron looked over at his friend, pretended not to notice the tears on his cheeks. “At least we freed that buck. Whatever happens, no matter how much trouble we get into, they can’t take that away from us.”
Wiping tears with his coat sleeve, Kevin set his chin on his knees and stared into the fire. “All this because you’re Amish and I’m English.”
Aaron slid up his coat sleeve, revealing the dried blood and scab on his wrist. “Can’t take this away, either.”
The fire crackled and popped. Outside, the wind ripped around the house. Shivering, Aaron raised his hands to warm them, trying not to notice when another puff of smoke escaped the lintel and wafted toward the ceiling.
Instead of going back to where we’d left Glock, Tomasetti and I take the county road north to the next bridge that spans Painters Creek. If the boys were moving fast and had a head start, it’s feasible that they covered more ground than we anticipated.
I look at Tomasetti as I shut down the engine. “Do you think they’re lost?”
“It probably didn’t start out that way. But if they left the trail?” He shrugs. “They probably are now.”
I watch a mix of snow and sleet pelt the windshield and can’t help but wonder if the boys are out in the elements, cold and frightened and alone. “I bet they’re wishing they were home, snug in their beds about now,” I say.
“There’s a lesson in there somewhere.”
“For the parents, too.”
He arches a brow.
I tell him about Jeff Dennison’s comments about the Amish.
“That’s a harsh judgment,” he says.
I think of my own childhood, my teen years, some of the choices I made. Even after so many years, I still remember the pain of a first bruise on an innocent heart. “The Amish are more subtle about it,” I tell him, “but they’re guilty, too.”
Tomasetti nods. “In the mind of an eleven-year-old boy, that might be a pretty decent reason to take off.”
I run with the theory. “Kevin Dennison is an only child. He’s skinny and small. Hasn’t seen his first growth spurt. Doesn’t have many friends. Likes to read graphic novels.”