Page 7 of Fallen

Last I heard—likely in the course of a conversation with one of the local Amish—Rachael had left the fold and fled Painters Mill some twelve or thirteen years ago. Where did she go? Aside from authoring the book, how did she spend the last years of her life? Why was she back in town? Who hated her with such passion that they beat her to an unrecognizable heap?

The questions nag, like an irritated nerve beneath a rotting tooth. And I know in the coming days, I’m going to do everything in my power to get the answers I need, even if I don’t like what comes back at me.

CHAPTER 4

Rhoda and Dan Schwartz live on a narrow dirt track a mile or so off of Hogpath Road just outside Painters Mill. The couple is a pillar of the Amish community and has been for as long as I can remember. Now that her children are grown and married, Rhoda has gone back to teaching school at the two-room schoolhouse down the road. Dan runs the dairy farm with the help of his eldest son. They’re decent, hardworking people, good neighbors. All of that said, they were quick to condemn me when I got into trouble as a teenager. I wonder if their intolerance played a role in their daughter’s leaving the fold.

The death of a child is the worst news a parent can receive. It’s the kind of slow agony they take with them to the grave. It changes the order of their world. Steals the joy from their lives, their hope for the future. Generally speaking, the Amish are stoic when faced with grief, in part because of their faith and their belief in eternal life. Even so, when it comes to the loss of a child, there is nothing that will spare them that brutal punch of pain.

Dread lies in my gut like a stone as I make the turn and barrel up the lane. The Schwartz farmhouse is an old two-story structure that’s been added onto several times over the decades. The brick façade is crumbling in places. The front porch isn’t quite straight. But the white paint is fresh and the garden in the side yard with its picket fence and freshly turned earth is magazine-cover perfect.

I park in the gravel area at the back of the house next to an old manure spreader and follow the flagstone walkway to the front. I find Rhoda on the wraparound porch. She’s on her knees, half a dozen clay pots scattered on sheets of The Budget newspaper, and a bag of potting soil leaning against the column. She’s a pleasant-looking woman of about fifty, her silver-brown hair tucked into her kapp, and a quick smile that reveals dimples she passed on to her daughter.

“Hi, Rhoda,” I say as I ascend the steps.

She looks up from her work. “Katie Burkholder! Well, I’ll be.” She gets to her feet, brushes her hands on her skirt. “Wie bischt du heit?” How are you today?

Her expression is friendly and open, but she’s surprised to see me, wondering why I’m here, in uniform. I’m loath to tear her world apart and I experience a wave of hatred for the son of a bitch who took her daughter’s life.

She reaches for my hand and squeezes. “How’s your family, Katie?” She’s got short nails, her palms callused. “Is that sister of yours ime familye weg again?” The Amish have an aversion to the word “pregnant,” instead using their own phrase, “in the family way.” “That Sarah, always holding us in suspense.”

I look into her eyes and for the first time I notice she also passed their blue-green irises on to Rachael, too, and an uneasy sensation of her coming grief tightens my chest.

“I’m afraid this is an official visit, Rhoda.” I squeeze her hand. “Is Dan home?”

Her smile falters. Something in my expression or tone has given her pause. She cocks her head, the initial tinge of worry entering her eyes. “Is everything all right?”

“Where’s Dan?” I repeat.

“He’s inside,” she tells me. “I made fried bologna sandwiches for lunch. I suspect he’s sneaking a second one about now. If you’d like to stay, we can get caught up on things.”

She’s nervous and blabbering now. She knows I’ve news to bear, that it’s not good. A hundred scenarios are surely running through her mind, as if she’d always known her daughter’s antics would catch up with her one day and lead to this moment.

“The man eats like a horse, I tell you,” she says in Deitsch.

I want to wrap my arms around her, silence her chatter, hold her while she comes apart, absorb some of the pain I’m about to inflict. But there’s no way I can do any of those things, so I brush past her and open the door. “Mr. Schwartz?” I call out. “Dan, it’s Kate Burkholder.”

Dan Schwartz appears in the doorway that separates the living room from the kitchen, a sandwich in hand. He’s wearing a straw flat-brimmed hat. Blue work shirt. Brown trousers. Suspenders. His face splits into a grin at the sight of me. He’s still missing the eyetooth I recall from my youth. He’s never gotten it fixed.

“Wie geht’s alleweil?” How goes it now? At the sight of me and his wife, his expression falls. “Was der schinner is letz?” What in the world is wrong?

“It’s Rachael,” I tell them. “She’s dead. I’m sorry.”

“What?” Choking out a desperate-sounding laugh, Rhoda raises her hand, takes a step back, as if she’s realized I’m a carrier of some deadly contagion. “Sell is nix as baeffzes.” That’s nothing but trifling talk.

Dan reaches for his wife, misses, stumbles closer and grasps her hand in his. He says nothing. But I see the slash of pain lay him open. While the Amish live by their belief in the divine order of things and life beyond death, they are human beings first and foremost, and their pain rips a hole in my heart.

“Rachael?” Rhoda brings her hand to her face, places it over her mouth as if to prevent the scream building inside her from bursting out. “No. That can’t be. I would have known.”

“Are you sure?” Dan asks me.

“She’s gone,” I tell them. “Last night. I’m sorry.”

“But … how?” he asks. “She’s young. What happened to her?”

I almost ask them to sit down, realize I’m procrastinating, a feeble attempt to spare them that second brutal punch. But I know that delaying bad news is one thing a cop can never do. When notifying next of kin, you tell them. Straightforward. No frills. No beating around the bush. You lay down the facts. You express your sympathy. You distance yourself enough to ask the questions that need to be asked.

Because I don’t have the official cause or manner of death, I tell them what I can. “All I know is that her body was found around eleven o’clock this morning.”