Page 37 of The Hidden One

“I can’t imagine.” She shakes her head. “That well’s an old thing that was here when we bought the property. I’ve asked Jonas a dozen times to fill it in to make sure no one fell in.”

“Mamm!”

The three of us spin to see Junior burst through the front door. “They’re beating up Reuben!”

“Oh, Lord.”

“Stay put,” I tell them. Then I’m through the door, the living room and kitchen. I hit the back door with both hands. I spot lights through the trees as I take the steps two at a time to the walkway. I hear raised voices, but I’m too far away to make out what’s being said. The one thing that’s clear is that there’s some kind of scuffle taking place, and if I don’t get there quickly to deescalate the situation, Reuben might end up in jail with his father.

I yank my mini Maglite from my pocket as I jog across the grass. I enter the trees, see a deputy sheriff.

Flashlight in hand, he strides toward me. “Ma’am!”

“I’m a cop,” I tell him. “What happened?”

“You can’t be out here,” he says.

“I know, but there’s a minor child over there.” I slow down, keep moving toward the lights and the sounds of a heated confrontation. “Can you give me a hand?”

I’m aware of the deputy following me, keeping pace though I’m moving fast.

Another ten yards and I catch a glimpse of two deputies kneeling over someone on the ground. Reuben. Facedown. Arms behind his back. Shit. Shit.

“Reuben.” I slow, take a moment to crank it down a notch, calm myself. “He’s a minor child,” I say to the cops. “I can help.”

“Get her out of here!” a deputy shouts.

A second starts toward me. Face grim. Mouth taut. “Ma’am.”

“I’m a cop.” I point at Reuben. “A family friend. Let me get him out of your hair.”

The deputy stops a few feet away. In his eyes, I see a reluctant acknowledgment of the connection I’d been hoping for. The blue brotherhood. Right or wrong or somewhere in between, he’s recognized that I’m one of them. However tenuous the connection, I seize it, hold it tight.

“I’m the chief of police in Painters Mill, Ohio,” I tell them. “I need someone to tell me what the hell is going on.”

One of the deputies that had been kneeling next to Reuben gets to his feet. He’s sweating and disheveled. Pissed off. Leaves and dirt stuck to sweat-slicked arms. “If you want to keep this little shit out of jail, I suggest you take him to the house. Right now.”

“No problem.” I reach them as both men haul Reuben to his feet. The Amish boy’s shirt isn’t buttoned. His skinny, white chest is heaving and covered with dirt and dried grass. Hands cuffed behind his back. Single suspender dangles at his hip. He’s not wearing a hat. Head hanging down. Eyes not meeting mine.

“Bleiva roowich,” I say to Reuben. Stay calm.

The boy raises his eyes to mine, but he quickly looks back down at the ground.

“I can take it from here, guys,” I say to both deputies. “Thank you.” I turn my attention to the pissed-off deputy. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says nastily.

I jab a thumb at Reuben. “He won’t cause any more problems.”

The boy looks at me as if I’ve betrayed him and chokes out a sound of anger and frustration, his eyes sweeping to the deputy. “Eah sheeva mei mamm!” He pushed my mamm!

I point my finger at his face. “Don’t say another word.” I address him in English, my harsh tone leveled as much at the cops as at the boy.

Reuben hangs his head.

“Chief Burkholder.”

My heart sinks when I spot Rick Gainer approaching, the sergeant I spoke with at the sheriff’s department yesterday.