A Dark Path #7
I no longer believe we’re dealing with a lost-child situation.
While the Klines are unable—or unwilling—to admit the possibility, I suspect the incident is much more complex.
One with an Amish-versus-English twist and the age-old tragedy of forbidden love.
Is it possible that at some point Bonnie realized Thomas McKee was involved?
Did she somehow contact him? Did she leave to confront him? Or retrieve her son?
Of course, I don’t know the answers to any of those questions. I have no solid proof to back up any of it, and with a toddler missing and conceivably in danger, I can’t call off the search. The one thing I can do is find Thomas McKee.
I call Tomasetti as I pull onto the township road. “How did your meeting go?”
“Finished up half an hour ago,” he replies. “Any luck finding the kid?”
“No, but I think I have a lead.” I tell him about my conversation with Colleen McKee.
“Kate, if he took the kid and there’s no custody agreement…” He sighs. “Ohio code is pretty specific when it comes to parental kidnapping. The courts are tough on offenders.”
I lay out my theory about Bonnie Kline. “No one can find her. Her parents are scared.”
“Does she have access to a vehicle?”
“No, but she could have hired a driver and left without anyone noticing.” It’s the first time I’ve said the words aloud, and even to my ears the scenario sounds like a stretch. “I have no idea if I’m right about any of it.”
“You have a pretty good handle on the Amish mindset,” he says.
“You’re not being an optimist for my benefit, are you?”
“I don’t think anyone has come up with a more reasonable theory.”
“The cabin is only an hour or so away,” I say. “I thought I’d head up that way.”
“Want some company?” he asks. “I’m ten minutes from home.”
“I guess it’s no coincidence I’m midway to the farm now. I’ll pick you up there.”
“You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you, Chief?”
“I’m pretty sure of you.”
Despite the throb of worry in my chest and the incessant wash of rain against the windshield, I smile.
The Deer Creek Reservoir is just over an hour’s drive from Painters Mill.
The park consists of a 334-acre man-made lake surrounded by a thousand acres of unblemished forestland.
It’s a beautiful place and a favorite spot for everything from boating and fishing to bird-watching and hiking.
This morning, fog hovers among the trees and thick brush like apparitions.
“What’s the address?” Tomasetti asks from his place in the passenger seat.
I tell him and he punches it into his phone. “It’s just outside the park,” he says. “Hang a right half a mile ahead.”
I make the turn onto a rutted gravel two-track. The skeletal canopies of towering trees close around the Explorer like arthritic fingers. The vehicle pitches left and right as I traverse potholes and puddles, and I pray we don’t run into high water.
“You got a plan once we get there?” Tomasetti asks.
I glance over at him, liking the way the light from the dash plays on his features. “Our main objective, of course, is to make sure the baby is safe. That Bonnie Kline is there of her own accord.”
He scowls. “Are you expecting trouble from him?”
The question has been knocking at the back of my brain since I learned about his possible involvement.
The part of me that is a cop first and foremost reminds me that I’d be naive—and foolish—to write off the risk that McKee will resist in some way.
The part of me that has spoken to both of these young people—the part of me that understands the courage it would take for Bonnie to choose Thomas over her Amish way of life—urges me to at least give him a chance to explain.
When I don’t answer quickly enough, Tomasetti sighs. “You don’t think this is a case of parental abduction.” It’s not a question.
“I think they’re together,” I admit. “With Little Joe.”
“Even so, McKee has some explaining to do,” he growls.
“As does Bonnie,” I add. “We’ve got a dozen law enforcement officers and another dozen or so volunteers out looking for that toddler.”
“Which begs the question: How much did she know and not tell us?”
I consider the question a moment before responding. “I don’t believe she knew early on. She was genuinely terrified. But at some point, I think she got in touch with Thomas or vice versa.”
“And flew the coop,” Tomasetti says. “Not exactly a case study of responsible behavior.”
“True. But in her defense, she likely wasn’t keeping the information from us as much as she was her parents and the Amish community as a whole.”
“Ah. Now this is starting to make sense.” He slants me a sideways look. “This isn’t about the custody of a child, but a case of Amish versus English.”
I smile. “Or more specifically young love versus all those Amish rules.”
His expression softens. “Whatever the case, if McKee took the kid without permission, he might have a few loose legal ends to tie up.”
Tomasetti glances down at his cell and motions right. “There’s the lane.”
I hit the brakes and pull in. The branches of saplings and trees scrape the roof and doors of the Explorer as I start down the narrow track.
He points. “We’ve got tire ruts.”
Sure enough, the headlights reveal tire tracks in mud that are slowly being eaten away by the rain. “Someone has been here.” I punch off the headlights.
“Probably within the last couple of hours.”
The lane curves left. The trees thin and open to a clearing. A dozen yards away, a pretty log cabin sits beneath a massive eastern hemlock, white smoke puffing from a stone chimney. Parked near the front porch, an old Ford truck gleams as if it was just driven off the showroom floor.
“That’s Thomas McKee’s truck.” I stop the Explorer a good distance from the cabin so that it’s hidden behind the cover of underbrush.
I’m about to reach for the door, but Tomasetti stops me. “Keep in mind, Kate, that we’re out of our jurisdiction here.”
“I know.”
He grimaces. “We don’t know what we’re walking into. People get emotional when it comes to their kids.”
I nod, silently acknowledging that it’s situations like this one when some rookie cop underestimates the probability of trouble and gets his ass handed to him. “Okay.”
We exit the vehicle simultaneously. I barely notice the rain creeping down the collar of my jacket as I follow Tomasetti to the cabin.
Yellow light glimmers in the front window.
The smells of woodsmoke and pine needles lace the air.
In the distance, I hear the forlorn call of a common loon, telling me we’re not far from the lake.
Tomasetti ascends the steps to the porch, his feet silent. He’s pulled his weapon and holds the pistol muzzle-down at his side. I take the steps, reach the top, make eye contact with him. At his nod, I go to the door, stand slightly to one side, and knock.
“Thomas McKee!” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder with the Painters Mill Police Department! I need you to come out here and talk to me!”
Every nerve in my body jerks taut when the door swings open. A quick punch of relief courses through me at the sight of Bonnie Kline. She’s wearing an Amish dress. No apron. No kapp. A chubby toddler squirms in her arms. I see shock on her face. A flicker of fear.
Her eyes sweep from me to Tomasetti and go wide. She opens her mouth, manages a single “Oh.”
“I see you found your son,” I tell her.
“I was going to call—”
“A heads-up would have been nice,” Tomasetti says as he comes up beside me, his eyes scanning the dimly lit interior.
“Your parents are worried.” I look past her. “Where’s McKee?”
“I’m right here.”
I recognize the voice and look past her to see Thomas approach. He’s tall—well over six feet—wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, his feet in socks. No shoes.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” I tell him.
“Yes, ma’am.” He raises his hands to shoulder level.
Tomasetti’s gaze flicks from the young couple and baby to the interior of the cabin; then he shakes his head. “Well, isn’t this cozy?”
Thomas and Bonnie exchange a look that’s more telling than anything either of them could have said.
“I reckon I have some explaining to do,” Thomas mutters.
“That would be an understatement,” I tell him.
Bonnie steps aside and opens the door the rest of the way. “Come on in out of the cold and have a seat.”
A few minutes later, the four of us are seated in the living room.
Thomas sits next to Bonnie while Little Joe squirms and chatters on his lap.
Tomasetti and I have taken the mismatched chairs across from them.
Around us, the cabin is warm and comfortable, the aromas of woodsmoke and this morning’s coffee filling the air.
While Bonnie hung our slickers next to the stove, I called Sheriff Mike Rasmussen and called off the search, letting him know we have eyes on the toddler.
I asked him to inform Joseph and Erma Kline that their grandson and daughter have been located.
I assured him that Tomasetti and I are sorting out the details of what might turn out to be a misunderstanding, and that I would fill him in on the rest as soon as I got back.
Tomasetti doesn’t waste any time. He gives Thomas a pointed look. “This is your opportunity to avoid parental abduction charges,” he says. “If I were you, I’d start talking.”
The younger man grimaces and looks down at the toddler who’s crawled onto his knee. “I took him,” he admits. “It was wrong. But it was the only thing I could think of.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” Tomasetti growls.
“Little Joe has cancer,” Thomas says quietly. “Leukemia. It’s … serious. I mean, the prognosis is good, but still—” His voice breaks and he leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at the floor.
The tempo of the rain against the tin roof increases, competing with the tick of the kitchen clock and the crackle of the fire.
The four of us watch in silence as the tot goes from Thomas to his mother and climbs onto her lap.