Page 60 of Outsider

Gina gives them a puzzled look. “Wood chip?”

“The hockey puck,” I clarify.

“I thought the Amish were nonviolent,” Gina says.

The children toss her puzzled looks.

“Last time I went to a hockey game, there was more punching than playing,” she explains.

Sammy looks at his father. “They fight?”

Adam ruffles the boy’s hair. “Just for show,” he tells his son.

I look at Gina. “You’d better bring some extra padding just in case.”

Half an hour later, the five of us are bundled up and walking a narrow trail through the woods east of the house, boots crunching through deep snow. The greenbelt runs parallel with Painters Creek. In summer, the area is lush with old-growth trees and thick with brush, blackberry and raspberry. Today, it’s a monochrome world of gray-black trunks and tangled skeletal brush, all of it laden with snow.

The girls walk slightly ahead. They’re clad in black capes, knitted scarves and mittens, and winter bonnets. Their plain white leather skates are tied together and hanging at their sides. Sammy wears a black winter coat, a scarf, and a ski cap to keep his ears warm. He’s forged ahead, his skates draped over his shoulder. He’s dragging an old-fashioned sled behind him. A bundle of kindling and split logs rides the sleigh, telling me Adam’s planning to build a fire so the children—and the rest of us—can warm our hands and feet.

At the rear, Gina, Adam, and I tromp through knee-deep snow. It’s bitterly cold, the wind bearing a bite that nips at the bare skin of our faces. Adam carries a snow shovel for clearing the ice and a large ax for cutting wood. I lug the pickax he’ll use to test the thickness of the ice.

Around us, the woods are stunningly beautiful and hushed, as if the world we’ve entered is holding its breath in anticipation of our arrival. Several inches of snow have collected on the tree branches, weighing down the boughs of the firs. With every gust of wind, flurries shower down. In the distance, the woeful call of a bald eagle adds another layer of enchantment to an already magical moment.

The girls stop and look up, listening. Sammy slows, raising his eyes to the treetops. The eagle calls out again, a long, shrill call that’s part mournful, part alarm.

“You hear that?” Adam says quietly.

“Awdlah,” Sammy whispers. Eagle.

“Looking for a mouse,” Lizzie whispers.

We start walking again, cognizant of our surroundings. “Weatherman is calling for more snow tonight,” I say to no one in particular. “A couple of inches.”

“Just what we need.” Adam slants a look toward Gina. “You’re getting your problems worked out?”

“We’re getting to the bottom of it,” she says.

The two of them hold gazes for a beat too long. Interest flashes in Adam’s eyes, its intensity matching the I-dare-you glint in Gina’s. Annoyed, I shake my head. “Another day or two and we’ll be out of your hair,” I tell him.

Neither of them has anything to say about that.

I spoke with Tomasetti earlier. He left before dawn to make his meeting with Denny McNinch in Columbus. He encountered some problems on the rural roads, but once he reached the interstate, it was clear sailing, though only one lane was open. If the lull in the weather holds, I suspect by tomorrow Gina and I will be driving to Columbus, where she’ll be interviewed by detectives with the Franklin County Sheriff’s Department, someone from the district attorney’s office, and, likely, BCI. At some point, she’ll be arrested and booked into the county jail. Tomasetti and I will have some explaining to do. It’s not going to be pleasant for any of us.

The creek is a wide body of water, about forty feet across here in the lowest part of the floodplain. The surface is frozen solid, covered with snow, and scoured by the wind in places. To my left, where the creek narrows, I hear the rush of water beneath the ice as it runs fast over rock. On the opposite side of the creek, the trunk of a long-dead tree juts from the bank, reaching several feet into the air. In the summertime, it’s likely the perfect place for somersaults and diving. A fifty-gallon drum that’s been cut in half lies on its side several feet from the bank. Someone has shot holes in the base, and the rim is covered with soot, telling me it’s been used to burn kindling and wood for warming cold hands and feet.

“There’s too much snow on the ice for good skating.” Adam steps onto the surface of the creek, assessing the strength of the ice. He hands the snow shovel to his son. “Clear an area there in the middle so I can test it,” he says. “It’s been plenty cold, but always good to check.”

Gina and I stand on the bank and watch as he and Sammy walk carefully to the center of the ice. The snow gives them enough traction that they can walk without slipping. Putting his weight into the effort—all seventy pounds of him—Sammy clears an area with the shovel.

“It’s kind of bumpy,” the boy says, “but we can still skate, I think.”

Using the shovel, he uncovers a small area, exposing the surface. Adam kneels and begins to pound through the ice with the pickax. The sounds of the shovel and chopping echo off the treetops, sending a flock of crows flying. The girls have brushed snow from a log on the bank and remove their shoes, slip their feet into their skates, and begin to lace up.

The sight of the creek, the anticipation of the skate—or an impromptu hockey game—is a scene from my own childhood. We had a pond on our farm and I grew up skating in winter. Instead of a fifty-gallon drum, we usually built a fire on the bank. I vividly recall rushing through chores so my siblings, Jacob and Sarah, and I could steal away for a couple of hours of skating. Usually, it was just us; Mamm and Datt rarely accompanied us or watched us play. Jacob, who was the oldest and most responsible, always checked the thickness of the ice before any of us were allowed to skate. The one time Datt went with us, I got into trouble for playing too aggressively. I suspect he knew his daughter was competitive. He didn’t understand my drive to be the fastest or to win the game, sometimes at the expense of the other kids. Looking back, I wonder if he knew my competitive streak would cause problems later.

“I think it’s thick enough,” Adam proclaims.

From their place on the log, Lizzie and Annie bring their hands together. “Hurry up and clear the ice, Sammy!” Lizzie says.