A Dark Path #5
McKee lives with his mother and four sisters in a small frame house near the railroad tracks in Painters Mill proper. I park in the driveway next to a beat-up Ford Focus and jog through the downpour to the front door and knock.
The porch light flicks on and the door swings open.
Shirley McKee is in her mid-fifties with hair dyed an unnatural-looking black and makeup more befitting a twentysomething.
She’s wearing a pink uniform, and I’m reminded that in addition to her regular shift at the factory in Coshocton, and taking care of all the bookkeeping for the body shop, she also works at LaDonna’s Diner here in Painters Mill.
She takes my measure, not quite managing to conceal the quick rise of anxiety at the sight of my uniform.
I have my badge at the ready. “Is Thomas here?” I ask.
“Morning, Chief.” She’s not happy to see me. Probably because this isn’t the first time I’ve shown up unannounced, asking about her son. “He’s not here.” Frowning, she opens the door the rest of the way and steps back. “Come on in out of the rain.”
I enter a small, cluttered living room that smells of overheated air and last night’s meat loaf. “I need to talk to him,” I say. “Do you know where I can find him?”
“I reckon he went to work early, like always. Got cars needing body work stacked up till Tuesday.” The woman turns away and starts down a narrow hall. “Lookit, I’m late for work. Can we talk while I finish my hair? I gotta be there in fifteen minutes.”
I follow her down a hall, stepping over a pile of dirty clothes, and stop at the doorway to a brightly lit bathroom. She picks up a curling iron and twists a tuft of hair around it.
“What do you want with my son?” she asks.
“I’ve got a missing minor child,” I tell her. “A two-year-old that belongs to Bonnie Kline. I’m told Thomas is the father.”
Her hand freezes. Her eyes dart to mine, hair and work momentarily forgotten. “Little Joe is missing?”
I nod. “Mrs. McKee, is it possible your son is involved?”
“Oh Lord.” She presses her hand against her abdomen. “You think Thomas took him? Is that what that Amish girl told you?”
“All I know is that the boy is missing. We’ve got flash flooding in the area and, as you can imagine, everyone is quite worried.”
The woman sets down the curling iron with a little too much force. “Look, I don’t pry into my son’s business. He’s a grown man now, and he’s got more than his share of responsibility. But let me tell you something, Chief Burkholder. Thomas would not take a two-year-old baby without permission.”
From where I’m standing, I can hear the salvo of rain against the roof. I think of the swollen creek and just how vulnerable a two-year-old is and I tamp down a rise of impatience.
Shirley McKee isn’t finished. “Thomas was crazy about that girl. She’s the first thing he’s cared about since—” Her voice breaks, but she presses on. “Problem is, her family didn’t want a damn thing to do with Thomas. All because he isn’t Amish. Like he wasn’t good enough or something.”
“Did Thomas ever mention wanting to see the boy?” I ask. “Did he ever mention wanting to have a relationship with him? Anything like that?”
The woman raises her finger at me. “Don’t you dare try to pin this on Thomas. He might’ve made a few mistakes in his time, but he’d never do anything like what you’re suggesting.” She huffs. “Kidnapping, for God’s sake. The last thing my son needs in his life is a baby.”
“Mrs. McKee, I just need to talk to him.”
But she’s on a roll and continues as if she didn’t hear me. “And while we’re on the subject of babies, let me tell you something else, Chief Burkholder. From what I hear them holier-than-thou-art Klines don’t take such good care of their little ones anyway.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Last I heard that baby was sick, and that girl’s parents wouldn’t let her take him to the doctor. How’s that for good parenting?”
“Little Joe is sick?” I ask.
She shrugs. “That’s what I heard. Believe me, they don’t talk to me. If you want details, you’ll have to ask them.”
I thank her and head toward the door.
Last I heard that baby was sick, and that girl’s parents wouldn’t let her take him to the doctor. How’s that for good parenting?
The words dog me as I drive to the body shop owned and operated by Thomas McKee.
The majority of Amish have no problem with the use of modern medicine.
Some prefer to take a more holistic approach initially, but generally speaking most church district rules do not forbid doctor visits or medication.
Is Shirley McKee badmouthing the Klines because Bonnie spurned her son?
Or is there something else afoot that may or may not be related to the baby’s disappearance?
It’s seven A.M. when I pull into the parking lot of McKee Auto Body Shop.
Two unoccupied vehicles sit near the front door.
Through the slant of rain, I see the glow of a light in the window.
I park as close as I can and hightail it inside.
A buzzer sounds when I enter. The reception lights are off, but I hear music coming from someplace ahead, so I start that way.
At the end of a corridor, a door stands open a couple of feet.
I go through it and find myself in a large, well-equipped garage.
Two men in insulated coveralls stand next to a vintage Chevy.
The hood is up and they’re looking at the engine with the intensity of a surgical team about to perform brain surgery.
From speakers on the workbench a few feet away, the guitar of Jimi Hendrix wails a mournful refrain.
“That’s a nice-looking Camaro,” I say as I approach.
One of the men looks up, turns toward me, and flicks a cigarette to the floor as if he’s been caught with contraband.
He’s in his early twenties with a barely-there beard, a sweat-stained cap, and well-worn coveralls smeared with grease.
He does a double take when he recognizes my uniform jacket and looks around as if he’s worried I might see something I shouldn’t.
“We don’t open until seven thirty,” he calls out.
I continue walking toward him. “Nineteen sixty-eight?” I ask.
“Sixty-nine,” he mutters, eyeing me as if I’m here to arrest him for something he may or may not be guilty of.
“Looks brand-new.” I reach the car and run my hand over the fender. “I like the metal flake.”
A reluctant grin curves his mouth. “She’s only got fifty thousand original miles on her. Had to replace the quarter panel. Painted her yesterday. Engine damn near purrs.”
I nod, keeping my eyes on the vehicle. “I’m looking for Thomas McKee. Is he here?”
“Ain’t seen him yet,” he tells me.
Just to keep things on the up-and-up, I remove my badge and hold it out for him to see. “Any idea where he is this morning?”
“No, ma’am.”
I turn my attention to the other man only to realize the person standing on the other side of the car isn’t a male at all, but female.
I guess her to be in her late teens. She’s lanky and tall and dressed much the same as her male counterpart right down to the coveralls and cap, but any similarities end there.
Her long brown hair is pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail.
She’s pretty despite the lack of makeup and surly expression.
Her big green eyes are familiar, though I don’t recall ever meeting her.
Stepping away from the vehicle, she gives me a dismissive once-over and follows it up with a scowl. “So what did my brother do now?” she asks.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I just need to talk to him,” I tell her. “It’s important.”
“Ain’t it always?” She slants a look at her coworker and sighs.
“In case you’re not up to speed on all the latest gossip, according to the Painters Mill PD, Thomas is the next Al Capone.
” She tosses some of that insolence at me.
“Isn’t that right? He’s either speeding or drinking beer or, God forbid, leaving a little rubber on the road. ”
“Aw, come on, Colleen.” The man next to her pats her arm. Not to comfort, but to rein her in, and I realize not only is she the spitting image of her brother, but she shares his less than stellar attitude.
I sigh. “Little Joe Kline is missing.”
Her expression falters. “Little—” She cuts off the word, swallows, and presses her hand against her chest. “Oh.”
While this girl is hotheaded and ballsy, she’s not callous. I don’t give her time to shore up. “What do you know about that?” I ask.
The rise of tension is palpable. For nearly a minute, the only sound comes from the patter of rain against the tin roof.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says.
But Colleen McKee isn’t a very good liar. While she may not know where her brother is, she does, indeed, know something. But what?
“Is Little Joe with Thomas?” I ask.
She looks away, brushes a strand of hair from her face. “I don’t know.”
I bank a rise of irritation, keep pressing. “Your mom told me Little Joe is sick. If something happens to him while he’s in your brother’s care, this is going to get very serious, very quickly.”
The girl’s eyes skate away from mine. She grasps the prop rod holding up the hood, secures it, and lets the hood slam with a deafening clank! “Can’t help you, Chief Burkholder.”
I look at the man, but he turns away, saunters over to the rollaway toolbox against the wall and pretends to dig around for a tool he can’t seem to find.
I turn my attention back to the girl. “That little boy is unaccounted for,” I tell her. “The creek next to the house is about to crest. We’re concerned for his safety.”
An emotion I can’t quite decipher flickers in her eyes, but it’s gone quickly, forcibly banished by a girl who doesn’t want me inside her head. She lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “I hope you find him.”
“Colleen.” I let her name dangle, give another hard push. “There was blood at the scene. If Thomas is involved, the only way you can help him is to tell me where he is. You know I’ll be fair.”