Page 6 of The Pact

I turn to him. “Does Kevin have any other friends he might’ve gone to see?” I ask. “Maybe he lost track of time?”

The couple look at each other. “The Jamison boy,” he mutters. “They played football together.”

“And the boy down the street,” Monica adds.

“Check with them first.” Reaching into my jacket pocket, I make eye contact with Monica and pass her my card. “My cell number is on the back. If you think of anything else that might be helpful, call me. I’ll be in touch.”

In the Explorer, I hail my on-duty officer, Chuck Skidmore, aka “Skid,” as I head out of town. “What’s your twenty?”

“I’m ten-twenty-three the covered bridge, Chief,” he tells me, letting me know he has arrived on scene. “On my way down to the path that runs along the creek.”

I’m familiar with the area. Everyone who grew up in Painters Mill—whether they’re Amish or English—knows Painters Creek and the historical covered bridge that spans it. When you’re a kid, it’s a good place to swim or fish. When you’re a teenager, it’s the perfect spot for some illicit drinking or maybe to partake in some graffiti art.

“Any sign of our ten-thirty-one?” I say, using the ten code for “missing person.” The last thing we need at this point is for someone listening to their police scanner to start talking about a missing kid.

“Negative.”

“I’m ten-seventy-six as soon as I talk to the Kuhns,” I tell him, letting him know I’m en route.

I’m racking the mike when the black mass of a buggy crests a hill and comes at me out of nowhere. The glare of my headlights reveals the silhouette of a horse. Moving fast. Left of center. No lights or reflective signage. I stomp the brake. The tires bark as they lock. I steer into the skid, barely avoid going into a spin. I hit gravel on the shoulder and slide to an abrupt stop.

Gripping the wheel with both hands, I take a moment to settle. “Shit.” I flip on my overheads, grab my Maglite, then swing open the door and step out.

Dust billows in the glare of my headlights. The buggy is just ten feet away, stopped. The horse stomps and snorts, its head high, breaths puffing out in great white clouds.

Beyond, I see the silhouette of an Amish woman as she climbs down from the seat. Black cape. Winter bonnet over her kapp. “Chief Burkholder!” She runs toward me, carrying some sort of bundle, a toddler latched on to her other hand.

“Is everyone okay?” I ask.

“Ja.” She spits out the word on a breath.

My temper simmers, but she looks panicked, so I keep my voice level. “Dich voahra vayk shteik—” You were driving too fast.

“I was … imma dumla.” In a hurry. She chokes out the words on a breath. “Mei sohn. Aaron. Miah kann net finna eem.” My son. We can’t find him. “I was on my way to see you.”

She’s standing a couple of feet away, her entire body vibrating, and I realize the bundle in her arms is a baby. I see movement behind her, watch as two more children scramble down from the buggy. Girls in long, dark dresses and winter bonnets. One without a coat, as if they’d left in a rush. They’re Swartzentruber Amish, an Old Order sect that holds on to tradition with an iron fist.

“You’re Susie Kuhns?” I ask.

“Ja.” She cocks her head. “How did you—”

I tell her about the Dennisons and their missing son. “Are Aaron and Kevin friends?” I ask.

She nods. “They go fishing every so often.”

“What’s your husband’s name?”

“Levi.”

I take out my notebook and write down the name. “Where is he?”

“Looking for Aaron. Down by the creek. Our neighbor, too.” She shakes her head. “He told me not to drive into town to talk to you, but I think we need your help.”

“You did the right thing.”

Over the next minutes, I cover the same ground I covered with Jeff and Monica Dennison. Aaron is a year older than Kevin. He’s a few inches taller. Thin. Wearing a flat-brimmed hat. Blue shirt with suspenders. Black coat.

“Last time I saw him was at eight o’clock this morning,” the Amish woman recounts. “He fed the cows, grabbed his fishing pole, and left to meet Kevin.”