Page 30 of The Hidden One

Dirt and grime crunch beneath my boots as I cross to the doorway. The living room is small, with three narrow windows and the front door. The only furniture is an old sofa that’s been shredded by some animal, stuffing scattered all around. A rusty oil lantern lies on its side in the corner. The floors look like oak and are still in pretty good shape. There’s nothing of interest. Just a nice little cottage that’s seen better days.

There are no stairs or second level, so I make my way to the hall. There’s a bathroom ahead. A bedroom to my left. In the ceiling, a small square door likely leads up to an attic. I walk into the bedroom. There’s a night table. An old-timey blue-and-white-striped mattress. No closet. A rocking chair with a broken armrest sits forlornly in the corner.

Nothing to see here. Move along.

I traverse the hall, go back through the living room. In the kitchen, I pause and look around. Ananias Stoltzfus was eighty-six years old. He lived alone. A widower for five years. Did someone come into his home, murder him, and dump his body in the woods? According to reports, there were no signs of forced entry. Did Ananias know his killer? Mary Elizabeth had said her father enjoyed walking. Did he go for a walk and encounter his killer? Or did Ananias leave his house to meet someone?

I go through the door and walk outside. The house and yard are surrounded by trees, which makes it difficult to figure out exactly where I am in relation to where the bones were found, but I have a general idea, so I head in that general direction.

There’s no visible trail. No fence line to follow. I’ve only gone about fifty yards, and I’m thinking about going back, when my foot catches on something in the weeds. I glance down to see the remains of an old barbed-wire fence. Most of the wood posts have been broken off at ground level, the barbed wire rusted through and snapped. Blackberry and bramble have pulled all of it to the ground.

I stand there a moment, look around, and I realize the trees are smaller here; I’m standing in a corridor of sorts and wonder if this was once a two-track that ran parallel with the fence. Did Ananias take this route the night he disappeared?

Weaving through saplings, doing my best to avoid blackberry stickers, I walk along the broken-down fence, keeping an eye out for fallen posts and tangles of wire. The trees thicken; shadows ebb and flow all around. A chipmunk scampers across a fallen log. The tempo of the birdsong rises. Not for the first time, the beauty of the place strikes me, and I wonder what these trees would tell me if they could talk.

I walk for several minutes and reach a shallow ditch and a cross fence. The original fallen fence veers right, little more than a hump in the land that’s covered with knotted foliage. The newer woven-wire fence, topped with a single strand of barbed wire, runs straight as an arrow right to a neighboring field. How far away from where I’m standing were the remains found?

The question gnaws at my brain as I make my way back to the cottage. I’m so embroiled in my thoughts, I don’t notice the sheriff’s cruiser parked behind my Explorer until I’ve stepped into the clearing and I see the flashing red and blue lights.

A deputy in full uniform is walking around my vehicle and looking in the windows.

“Hello!” I call out to him as I approach.

He looks in my direction, and tilts his head to speak into his radio. “Ten-twelve,” he says, which is the ten code used to check the registration and to see if a vehicle is stolen.

He’s a tall guy with a runner’s build and sandy hair shorn into a crew cut. I guess him to be in his late twenties. Probably a rookie.

“We received a trespass call.” His voice is amicable, but he’s got those cop’s eyes and they’re sizing me up as I get closer. “What are you doing out here?”

“Mary Elizabeth gave me permission to look around.” I reach him and stop about ten feet away. “I was—”

“I don’t know who Mary Elizabeth is,” he tells me. “Henry Stoltzfus owns this place. He called us and said someone was breaking into the house.”

“I didn’t break in. The back door was—”

He cuts me off again. “I need for you to walk over to my vehicle.” He points. “I want you to lean against it. Nice and easy. Keep your hands where I can see them. Do you understand?”

“No problem.” I nod, raise my hands in submission. “I’m a police officer from Ohio.”

“Uh-huh.” He responds with a dismissive motion toward his cruiser. “Go lean against the vehicle and be quiet.”

“You got it.”

He’s being an asshole, but I do as I’m told. He doesn’t know me from Adam, after all. As far as he knows, I was kicking in walls and stealing copper plumbing or maybe burying a body somewhere on the premises. In the back of my mind, I wonder if Mary Elizabeth decided she didn’t want me out here after all, and ran down to the pay phone to make the call.

I reach the vehicle and lean.

“Anyone else out here with you?” the deputy asks.

His badge tells me his name is K. Vance. “Just me,” I tell him.

He crosses to me. “You got your driver’s license on you?”

“Sure.” I reach into my rear pocket, pull out my driver’s license and shield, and hand both to him.

He takes both, looks carefully at them. “Chief of police, huh?”

“Last time I checked.” It’s a flip response; I don’t want to get on his bad side, so I add a smile.