Page 7 of The Hidden One

I feel myself blinking, a jumble of denials and excuses tumbling through my brain in disarray.

“Jonas has a family to care for,” Nathan tells me. “Children and a wife. A woodworking business to manage. And yet he sits in jail for a sin he did not commit.”

“The English police do not understand our ways. They do not know Jonas the way we do.” Mahlon tightens his mouth. “They will not listen to us.”

“You are a police, Kate Burkholder,” Nathan says. “You understand our ways. You understand the law of the land, too.”

“More importantly, you know Jonas Bowman.” The bishop’s eyes burn into mine. In their depths I see discernment. An awareness that puts me on edge. And questions that, because of Amish decorum, will never be voiced.

I break eye contact first, look down at the notebook in front of me, and I scribble something meaningless. All the while I assure myself Jonas would never breach the tacit boundary of privacy that had been set.

“We read about the cases you’ve solved here in Painters Mill. You are a good police.” Nathan gives a decisive nod. “We are asking for your help.”

“We have money,” Mahlon adds. “We will pay you for your time and travel.”

The men fall silent, as if all of their persuasive energies are spent. For the span of a full minute no one speaks, the only sound coming from the occasional ring of the phone in reception and tap-tap of Margaret’s fingers against the keyboard.

Everything that’s been said churns in my brain. I can’t stop thinking about Jonas. The boy I knew. The man he became. The time we spent together that last summer. The profound impression he made on my life. All at a time when I was vulnerable and confused and too young to realize some emotions cannot be contained. And some actions can’t be taken back.

Jonas was charismatic, charming, and persuasive. When he wanted something, he was relentless. He gave his all whether it was baseball or woodworking—or something a hell of a lot more personal. He was a force to be reckoned with and touched my life in ways I could never have imagined at such a tender age. Was he flawed? Without a doubt—just like the rest of us. But those human imperfections were tempered by a keen sense of right and wrong—and zero tolerance for injustice. How is it that a man with such black-and-white views could be involved in or suspected of murder?

As these men stated their case, I wondered how much they know about me and Jonas. If they know we got into a lot of trouble the last summer he was here. That it cost his family their relationship with the Amish community here in Painters Mill. That I am the reason his family left for Pennsylvania.

“I’m sure you’re aware that I have no jurisdiction in the state of Pennsylvania,” I tell them.

“Even so, there are things you can do to help, no?” This from Bishop Yoder.

I look from man to man to man. “What I can do, is make some calls and find out what’s going on in terms of the case.”

Another round of looks is exchanged, and this time there’s an air of disappointment laced with an unmistakable I-told-you-so sentiment.

Deacon Kempf sits up straighter. “We’re spending the night at the motel here in Painters Mill. Tomorrow, we will be returning to the valley.”

“We’d appreciate it if you’d sleep on it, Kate Burkholder, before making your decision.” The bishop gets to his feet and slowly straightens. “At this point, we’ve nowhere else to turn.”

I watch the men shuffle out of my office, aware that I’ve broken a sweat beneath my shirt and there’s a weight in my gut that wasn’t there when they entered.

CHAPTER 3

My earliest memory of Jonas Bowman was an ice-skating outing on a cold and windy day on the farm where I lived with my family. I was eleven years old and I’d sneaked out of the house to join my brother and some other Amish boys for a game of hockey. They were older than me and when I arrived with my stick—borrowed from my brother, Jacob—and my ice skates, the other boys promptly excluded me from the game.

Undeterred, while two boys shoveled snow from the ice, I sat alone on the stump next to the bonfire and laced up, hoping they’d change their minds once they realized how good I was. When there was a good-size patch of ice cleared, I took my stick and skated out to warm up. I whizzed across bumpy ice, swatting at a make-believe puck, concentrating on my form, keeping an eye on the boys, hoping someone would notice me. At the far end of the pond, Marvin Beachy, whom I went to school with and was only a year older than me, was skating toward me, slapping his puck from side to side. I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but I stole the puck right out from under him. I zipped across the ice fast, skates digging in and spraying ice, looking for an ally to pass it to. I was midway across the pond when someone whistled. I heard a cheer, and my heart surged. I heard Marvin yelling, too, but I was so busy stealing his puck I couldn’t look.

“Hey! Look at her go!”

“She’s faster than Marvin!”

My chest swelled with pride. I heard myself laugh. Twenty feet from shore, Eddie Weaver stuck out his foot and tripped me. No chance to break my fall. I tumbled headlong into a pile of crushed ice and snow, cutting my palms right through my mittens and my knees despite two pair of tights.

“That’s what you get for stealing my puck!” Marvin yelled.

I extricated myself from the snow, rolled off the pile, and turned to see Marvin retake his puck. Next to him, Eddie Weaver leered, pleased he’d been the one to stop the female interloper. “Girls don’t play hockey,” he said.

“I do!” I shot back as I got to my feet.

Marvin pointed at me. “Yeah, look at those scrawny legs!”

Eddie snickered. “Bet her arms are just as scrawny.”