Page 85 of The Hidden One

Neither of us moved.

I knew he was going to kiss me an instant before he angled his head and pressed his lips to mine. They were cool and wet and tasted of creek water and mint. I knew it was wrong, but I raised my face to his and he deepened the kiss. I felt his hands loosen and slide over my shoulders to my back. He pulled me closer and then his body was flush against mine. I felt the solid pressure of him in a place I’d never acknowledged and for the first time in my life I understood how men and women did the things they did.

I didn’t mean to put my arms around him. I couldn’t believe how large and hard his shoulders were. All of it was foreign and forbidden, but I wanted him even closer.

After a moment, he pulled away. He closed his eyes, pressed his forehead to mine. “I’ll drive you home from the singing.”

“I’ll find a way,” I whispered.

CHAPTER 26

There is a saying about assumptions and for the most part it holds true. When I arrived in the Kishacoquillas Valley to look into the death of Ananias Stoltzfus, I’d been operating on the notion that he was a kindly and much-loved bishop, a man revered by all. I believed that his untimely death had left a wound on the community and an ocean of broken hearts in its wake.

From the outside looking in, those things may have been true, at least in a topical sense. As bishop, Stoltzfus touched many lives in posi- tive ways—baptisms, communion, and marriages. But a number of people who came in contact with him—for some transgression or perceived wrongdoing—were met with the kind of heavy hand that could alter the course of a life—or ruin it.

Ananias Stoltzfus enjoyed hurting that young man.

He relished the tears.

I saw the pleasure of it in his eyes.

Bishop Yoder knew what kind of man Ananias Stoltzfus was. He disagreed with many of his decisions. There was friction between the two men. Was it enough to drive Yoder to commit an act of violence? Did he take it upon himself to permanently remove the man who was hurting his brethren and sucking the lifeblood from the community?

Yoder isn’t the only one who might have benefited from his death. Roman Miller—who has access to a dark pickup truck—was forced to leave the Amish and join a local Mennonite church. Levi Schmucker was accused of sexually abusing his daughter. He suffered serious physical injuries and was forced to abandon his family and leave town.

And what about Jonas? a little voice whispers.

His father was excommunicated and silenced. After Ezra’s death Jonas blamed Ananias. Jonas wrote a threatening letter and they argued publicly. The rise of doubt that follows is a physical pain.

All of these men had motive, means, and opportunity. Is one of them a killer? Is there something else I’m simply not seeing? And how does any of it play into my suspicion that Ananias and Mia were lying about where they came from?

After visiting Bishop Yoder, I went to see Nathan Kempf. Though the deacon wasn’t able to tell me anything I didn’t already know, he did have a copy of Raber’s New American Almanac. I took it back to the motel and spent a couple of hours substantiating what I already knew. Ananias Stoltzfus was never a bishop in Harmony, Minnesota. Later, I stopped by Mary Elizabeth’s place, but there was no one there. By and large, the afternoon was a bust.

It’s dusk by the time I pull into the Bowman driveway. Lightning flickers on the western horizon as I park and head inside. The wind has picked up and the air smells of rain as I take the sidewalk to the porch and knock. The door opens and Junior grins up at me, a chocolate Fudgsicle sticking out of his mouth.

“Hi, Katie!” he says excitedly. “You’re just in time. D-Datt says God is going to water the grass and m-make the tomatoes grow. Do you want a Fudgsicle? There are two left and I’m only allowed to have one.”

Before I can respond, he takes my hand and pulls me into a living room aglow with lamplight. Dorothy sits in a rocking chair, next to the window, a needle and thread in hand, clothing ostensibly in need of mending piled at her feet.

“Hi, Katie.” She looks at the boy, her mouth twitching. “God is going to make all those weeds grow, too.”

Jonas stands in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the jamb. “And He made your hands just the right size to pull them,” he says to his son.

Realizing he is the center of attention—and facing an afternoon of weed-pulling tomorrow—Junior rolls his eyes and slinks up the stairs.

Effie is curled on the sofa, tongue sticking out in concentration, an embroidery ring and swatch of fabric in her hands. I can see from where I’m standing it’s a chicken-scratch pattern, the only kind of needlepoint I enjoyed as a kid.

“Looks like someone’s going to get a pretty baby quilt,” I say to her.

“Mrs. Kurtz is going to have her baby in two weeks.” Effie raises the ring to assess her work and wrinkles her nose. “My stitches are crooked.”

“I don’t think the baby is going to notice,” Jonas mutters.

In the beat of silence that follows, the first fat drops of rain ping against the window. I look at Jonas, wishing I didn’t have to darken the scene with questions about murder.

“I need to talk to you,” I tell him.

I can tell by his expression he knows the news isn’t good.