Page 16 of The Pact

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.”