Page 3 of The Pact

Kevin squealed. “What was that?”

Aaron spun. “Run!”

Fumbling with the flashlight, he launched himself into a sprint. The beam of his flashlight played wildly over the trees as they entered the trailhead. He got a better grip, set the beam on the trail, and booked it. He was a fast runner. Datt always said he was agile as a goat with the stamina of a mule. He risked a glance over his shoulder. Kevin was a few feet behind him. Arms pumping. Mouth open. Face contorted into a mask of terror.

“Faster,” Aaron hissed. “Come on!”

That was when he spotted movement behind his friend. The shifting of shadows. Not just one, but two. Too dark to make out any detail, but he thought it was a person.

“What the hell, dude?” Kevin cried.

“Shut up and run!” Aaron whispered. “They’re coming!”

The holiday season is a quiet time in Painters Mill. The time of year when, even though my small police department is understaffed, my officers actually have the time to take the vacations they’ve been denied through the summer and fall, when the tourists show up en masse to enjoy the bucolic countryside of Ohio’s Amish country.

My name is Kate Burkholder and I’m the chief of police. I was born Amish and raised in this pretty little town of 5,300 souls, a third of whom are Amish. It’s three days before Thanksgiving and nearly eight P.M. My second-shift dispatcher, Jodie, is on vacation. Mona, who divides her time between patrol and dispatch—at least until I can get a new dispatcher hired—has come in to cover for her. I’m in my office, looking over a résumé. My candidate is due for her interview any moment.

“Chief?”

I glance up to see Mona appear in the doorway. “Your appointment is here,” she tells me.

“Send her in.”

Giving me a thumbs-up, she disappears. I’m scanning the highlights of the résumé, mildly impressed, hoping this doesn’t take too long, when another voice comes from the doorway.

“You look like you’ve had a long day.”

I look up to see a woman of about sixty enter. Friendly expression. Confident, but not pushy. Good eye contact. Her silver-brown hair is cut short. Wire-rimmed glasses. Tasteful skirt that reaches just below her knees. Practical shoes. Hose. According to her résumé, she spent six years dispatching for the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department. Last month she graduated from the Citizens’ Police Academy in Millersburg and realized she missed hanging out with cops.

I rise and we shake hands. “Thanks for coming in so late.”

“Life doesn’t always cooperate with our schedules. Mine’s pretty open right now.” She takes the chair across from my desk. “I understand you’re in need of an experienced dispatcher.”

“Full time,” I tell her, pleased she wants to get right down to business. “Gets busy at times. Can be slow, too, though. Shift might vary.”

“When you’ve raised two children and six grandkids, you’re plenty used to a busy schedule and varying shifts.” She cocks her head. “Overtime?”

“On occasion.”

“Well, that’s a plus. I do prefer to stay busy.” She’s direct, but personable. Not a nerve in sight. She might look like a cookie-baking, baby-coddling grandmother, but I get the impression she’ll dress you down as quickly as she’ll hand out an attaboy.

She passes me a sheet of paper. “I forgot to attach this to the résumé. I’m kind of rusty on all the new technology. Hope that’s not a problem. It’s a letter of recommendation from Sheriff Rasmussen.”

I take the letter, skim it, and try not to be too impressed. “Mike’s a good cop.”

“Good man, too.” She studies me intently. “Cares about the community. His deputies. That’s important.”

“Yes, it is.” For the first time I feel as if I’m the one being interviewed, and I add “judicious” to the growing list of things I like about her. In the back of my mind, I wonder how she might fit in with the rest of my team.

“Chief?”

I glance toward the door to see Mona rushing in. “Sorry to interrupt.” She casts an apologetic look to the woman sitting in the visitor chair and then back to me. “I just took a call from Monica Dennison. She and her husband are on their way here. Their eleven-year-old son is missing. Didn’t come back from fishing this afternoon and he’s not answering his cell.”

“How long has he been missing?” I ask.

“He was supposed to be home at five.”

Three hours isn’t terribly long, but enough time to cause concern, especially for an eleven-year-old.