Page 43 of The Hidden One

Unimpressed, he bends and pulls a chicken from one of the crates. The animal’s wings flap as he lays it on the bench in front of him. With deft hands, he wraps baling twine around the bird’s feet and draws it tight. “The police said he’d been shot. They found Bowman’s muzzleloader next to him. That is the only truth I need.”

He picks up the ax. I brace an instant before he brings it down on the chicken’s neck.

I glance away, give him a moment to hang the bird to drain. “I know it was a terrible time,” I say. “Mr. Stoltzfus, I just want to make sure the right person is found and brought to trial.”

The boy I saw earlier enters, his eyes flicking from his datt to me and back to his datt. He knows something’s afoot and wants no part of it. Stoltzfus and I fall silent and watch as the boy picks up the headless chicken and takes it outside to scald and pluck.

Stoltzfus sets down the ax. “Tell me this, Kate Burkholder. What kind of man hates an eighty-six-year-old bishop so much that he strikes him down with a gun? What kind of man buries the body so that the family will never know what happened? Perhaps you should consider those questions before you come to my home and ask for my help.”

“Whoever did that to your father deserves to be punished,” I tell him.

A knowing light enters his eyes. He gives a satisfied nod. “You’ve strayed far since leaving the church, no?”

“This has nothing to do with me.”

“If you were Amish, you would know it is God who makes the final judgment. Not the police or judge or jury. Certainly not a backslider like you.”

I take the insult in stride, keep going. “That may be true, Mr. Stoltzfus, but what if Jonas Bowman didn’t do it? He’s Amish. With a wife and children. The truth matters.”

“I leave the truth to God.”

“Even if the person who did it is still out there?” I say. “What if he kills again?”

He stops working and gives me his full attention. “You need proof that Jonas did this thing?”

“I’ll take any information you have.”

“Maybe you should ask my sister about the letter.”

I blink, confused. “What letter?”

A smirk slinks across his mouth. “Jonas Bowman threatened to kill my datt. Judging from the look on your face, I’d venture to say he forgot to mention it.”

It’s the first I’ve heard of the existence of a letter. “I talked to Mary Elizabeth yesterday. She didn’t mention it.”

“For having been Amish, you know little about our ways.” He bends and removes the last chicken from its crate. “Now leave me and my family in peace. Do not come back. I do not wish to talk to you or expose my children to your kind.”

“Well, that went swimmingly,” I mutter as I climb into the Explorer and start the engine.

I expected a certain level of mistrust, especially from the family of the victim. Forgiveness may be one of the most fundamental Amish tenets, but there are times when emotion transcends ideology. Evidently, if there’s any helpful information to be had, it’s not going to come from Henry Stoltzfus.

I’ve gone just a mile or so down the road when my cell phone chirps. I glance over, see a local number I don’t recognize.

“Chief Burkholder, this is Deputy Vance.”

“The deputy who didn’t write me a ticket for trespassing.” In the back of my mind, I wonder if Sergeant Gainer has relegated an underling to deal with me and my questions.

“Look, I probably shouldn’t be talking to you,” he says. “Especially about the Stoltzfus investigation. But I’ve got something to say.”

I pull over and park. “Something bothering you about the case?”

“When we talked before, I told you I bought my kitchen cabinets from Jonas Bowman.”

“I remember.”

“Well, I spent some time with him and his kids the week they installed those cabinets and worked on my kitchen.”

“They’re a nice family,” I say.