Page 18 of The Pact

“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.”

Tomasetti looks down at his notebook. “Aaron Kuhns has six little sisters. Spends most of his time working on the farm. These boys are bored and lonely. They meet when Aaron’s father is hired to build a shed for the Dennisons. They hit it off. Against all odds—and against the rules—they become friends.”

“Only their parents don’t like it,” I say.

“So the boys take matters into their own hands.”

My phone vibrates against my hip. I glance down at the display to see HOLMES COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT pop up on the screen. “Burkholder.”

“Chief, I just talked to Dane Henderson out on County Line Road.” It’s Sheriff Mike Rasmussen. “He says he had a couple of trespassers out at his place earlier. I know you’re looking for those boys, and I don’t know if it’s related, but I thought you should know.”

“Did he get a look at them?” I ask.

“Said it was too dark. He claims they vandalized a fence, so he filed a complaint.”

I’ve met Henderson several times, most recently due to a dispute with a neighbor. He’s no fan of cops and has a checkered relationship with the truth. Two years ago, I received a complaint that Henderson was keeping a deer in an enclosure, which is illegal in the state of Ohio. I went out there with a wildlife officer and sure enough, he had a pretty little doe locked up in a pen. We released the deer. I let him off the hook with a warning.

“Thanks for the heads-up, Mike. I’ll head out that way.”

“You bet.”

I end the call and look at Tomasetti. “Dane Henderson’s place is just north of here.”

“Same direction the boys might’ve gone.” He shrugs. “Looking for shelter? Barn?”

“Maybe.” But a vague theory nudges the back of my brain.

Turning in my seat, I reach into the back for Kevin Dennison’s backpack and pull it onto my lap. Inside, I find the graphic novel and hand it to Tomasetti. “Or they took it upon themselves to right a wrong.”

He stares down at the cover. It’s a cartoonish drawing of two shadowy figures and a magnificent buck flying across an impossibly high fence. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

I tell him about the incident with Henderson and the deer.

“What eleven-year-old boy doesn’t want to save the world?” he says.

“My thoughts exactly.” I put the Explorer into gear and pull onto the road.

It’s midnight when I park in the driveway of Dane Henderson’s place. Aaron Kuhns and Kevin Dennison have been missing for seven hours, but I believe we’re close to finding them. The problem is that the temperature has dipped into the teens and the windchill into the single digits, and the wintry mix shows no sign of letting up.

Tomasetti motions toward the small barn behind the house. “I’ll take a look while you have a word with Einstein.”

We grin at each other and then we’re out of the Explorer. Snow and sleet slant down at a severe angle as I cross to the front porch and take the steps to the door. Dane Henderson is a squat man with long salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a braid at his nape.

“You here about them trespassers?” he says by way of greeting.