Gone Missing

by Linda Castillo

  “I don’t know.” Even as I say the words, I know that lying by omission can be as deceptive as an outright lie. “But I’m going to find out.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Frustration rides my back as I speed past densely forested countryside interspersed with farmland and rolling, lush pastures toward Monongahela Falls. I’m annoyed because once again I’ve been pulled away from where I need to be: Buck Creek. I don’t know why the Masts failed to mention their daughter’s suicide; I don’t believe its relevant. Nor do I believe they’re involved in the disappearances. Nonetheless they’ve got some explaining to do.

  I’ve spent the last two hours racking my brain, trying to hit on some common denominator that connects the missing teens: Annie King, Bonnie Fisher, Ruth Wagler, Sadie Miller, and, finally, Noah Mast.

  Aside from being Amish, what did these five young people have in common? We haven’t been able to determine if they knew one another or if they’d been in contact with one another. In all probability, mainly due to the physical distance between them and limited transportation options, they did not. As far as we know, none of the teenagers had access to a computer or laptop, so they probably didn’t meet online. Of course, they could have used a public computer—at a library, for example—but I don’t think that’s the case.

  The most obvious characteristic they shared was that they were Amish. Second, all were between fourteen and eighteen years of age. I think about what events take place during that period of time in the life of an Amish teenager. Since most only go to school through the eighth grade, they would have finished by age fourteen and already have been considering joining the church. Some were already working, either on the farm or, depending on where they lived, outside the home. Some had entered rumspringa, which is basically a period of one or two years when the teenager is granted the freedom to experience the outside world before being baptized.

  My gut tells me that while age is key, the element that connects these teens is more personal. Something unique to these particular teenagers. But what? What are we not seeing? Why the hell doesn’t anything about this case feel right?

  I know, perhaps better than most, that the Amish keep secrets. Even conservative Amish families do. My own family, while not exactly Old Order, were conservative. My mamm and datt held my sister and brother and me to some pretty high standards, even in terms of the Amish. Jacob and Sarah fared well beneath that kind of iron-fist parenting. Neither strayed beyond the parameters of the Ordnung.

  But I floundered within those constraints. Even as young as twelve, I resented the restrictions imposed on my life, even though I had no inkling of the concept of freedom. I remember feeling as if every aspect of my life was being micromanaged—by my parents, by our bishop, by society and the Amish culture in general. I recall begrudging my brother because he—and Amish males in general—had more freedoms than I and my female peers did. Even then, the unfairness of that chafed my sensibilities.

  All of that discontent came to a head when I was fourteen and an Amish man by the name of Daniel Lapp walked into our farmhouse when I was alone and raped me. I learned the meaning of violence that day. I learned to what lengths I would go to protect myself. And I learned that I was capable of extreme violence. I learned what it meant to hate—not only another human being but myself. Especially myself.

  When my parents discovered I’d shot and killed my rapist, I learned that even decent, God-loving Amish break the law. I learned they’re capable of lying to protect their children. And, in the eyes of the angry teen I’d been, I knew that underneath all those layers of self-righteous bullshit, they were sinners, just like everyone else.

  I spent the following years rebelling against any rule that didn’t suit me—and few did. I defied my parents. I railed against all those rigid Amish tenants. I rebelled against myself, and against God. I disrupted the lives of my siblings. Embarrassed my parents. Disappointed the Amish bishop. When Mamm and Datt began to worry that I was a negative influence on my siblings, I knew it was time to leave. The thought terrified me, but I would rather have died than admit it. Instead, when I turned eighteen, I left Painters Mill for Columbus, Ohio.

  In the back of my mind, I always thought I’d fail. That I’d run back to Painters Mill with my tail between my legs. But I didn’t. Mamm traveled to Columbus when I graduated from the Police Academy. Sadly, I never saw my datt again. He died of a stroke six months later. I finally returned to Painters Mill to be with Mamm after she’d been diagnosed with breast cancer. She’d forgone conventional medical treatment, opting instead for Amish folk remedies. Those remedies did little to help, of course, and she suffered a terrible end. Even after all these years, sometimes those old regrets sneak up on me.

  In terms of Amish youth, I was an anomaly. But it’s my only perspective and I can’t help but compare my life with the lives of the missing teenagers. Do we share a common thread?

  The only teen in the group I know personally is Sadie Miller. Pretty, troubled Sadie. The last time I saw her, she’d been dressed in painted-on jeans and a revealing tank top. Wearing too much makeup and smoking cigarettes. Cursing because she’d discovered the power of shock value. Sadie and her love of fabric and art and all of her big plans for the future. Sadie, the rule breaker.

  The rule breaker.

  Something clicks in my brain.

  “Shit,” I say aloud. “That’s it.”

  I spot an exit for a rest area and swerve right. Then I’m down the ramp and parking in front of a picnic area. For an instant, I sit there, gripping the wheel, my thoughts reeling, and all I can think is, Why didn’t I see this until now?

  Getting out of the Explorer, I start toward the nearest picnic table, unclipping my phone as I go. I hit speed dial and begin to pace. One ring. Two rings. In the back of my mind, I’m already wondering if Tomasetti is avoiding me. Relief swamps me when he picks up.

  “I found the connection,” I say without preamble. “The missing teenagers were breaking the rules. They were misbehaving. Acting out.”

  “Run with it,” he says, and I do.

  “Someone’s targeting troubled Amish teens. Bonnie Fisher was sexually active. She’d had multiple partners. She was pregnant out of wedlock and contemplating an abortion. Annie King had an English boyfriend, a bad boy, and she was known to run with a tough crowd. She was having doubts about her faith and was thinking about leaving the Amish way of life.”

  The words tumble from my mouth in a rush. “Sadie Miller is prideful and individualistic. She wears makeup and tight jeans. She smokes cigarettes, drinks beer, hangs out with the English. She values all the things she shouldn’t, like her fabric art. She gets into fights, for Chrissake. She was entertaining thoughts of leaving the Amish way.”

  There’s a pause and then Tomasetti says, “I’m playing devil’s advocate here, Kate, but every one of those so-called vices could be considered typical behavior for a huge percentage of American teenagers.”

  “Not if you’re Amish. Sure, you hear about Amish kids misbehaving during rumspringa. But something like eighty percent of them go on to be baptized and join the church. These missing kids aren’t simply misbehaving. They’re breaking major Amish tenets and they’re completely impenitent. They’re anomalies and someone has taken it upon himself to do something about it.”

  “It’s tenuous,” he says. “What about Ruth Wagler? Noah Mast?”

  “I don’t have it all figured out, but I think it’s worth exploring.” I think about that for a moment. “Did Ruth Wagler’s parents mention having any problems with her before she disappeared?”

  “No, but they weren’t exactly forthcoming.”

  “I want to talk to them.”

  “Makes it tough when no one has a damn phone,” he grumbles.

  I sigh, relived he’s on board—or at least halfway in the boat. “I don’t know if I’m right but it feels . . . close.”

  “It’s not like you’re an expert on breaking the rules or anything.”


  The words dangle for a moment; then I clear my throat and tell him about Irene and Perry Mast’s having lost a daughter ten years earlier.

  “Odd that they didn’t mention it,” he says.

  “I’m on my way to Monongahela Falls now.” I pause. “If you can hang tight for a couple of hours, I’d like to go with you when you speak to the Wagler girl’s parents.”

  “I’ll wait.” He goes back to my earlier assertion. “Keeping your rule-breaking theory in mind, what do you think about Gideon Stoltzfus? Do you think he figures into this angle somehow?”

  All red hair and freckles, Gideon Stoltzfus looks about as harmless as a Labrador pup. But Tomasetti is right about appearances. Sometimes it’s the most benign-seeming individuals who are capable of the most heinous acts. “He’s put himself in a position to make direct contact with young people who are considering leaving the Amish way of life.”

  “What about motive?” he asks.

  I mull over the question and something ugly pushes at the door, trying to slip into the mix. “He’s been excommunicated. His family won’t talk to him. They won’t take meals with him. His parents won’t let him see his siblings. Those things can cause a lot of stress. A lot of anger. Rage, even.”

  “Especially if your family is the center of your life.”

  “For most Amish, it is,” I tell him. “In every sense.”

  A pause ensues. I sense that we’re both working through the possibilities.

  “So he’s pissed off at the Amish,” Tomasetti says after a moment. “He sees other young people getting away with all the things he couldn’t. His life is ruined. He’s had to join another church. Maybe he sees this as a way to get back at them. Hurt the Amish as a whole.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Murder seems extreme.”

  “Rage is an intense emotion. Add insanity and/or sociopathy to the mix and you have a fucking time bomb.”

  “How does he find them?”

  “When we talked to him, he told us most people had heard of him through word of mouth and contacted him.”

  “How does he know about the teenagers from other towns?”

  “Maybe he’s got some kind of network in place,” he tells me.

  The scenario isn’t a perfect fit. A lot of unanswered questions remain. But I know there are times when crimes simply don’t make sense, at least not in the mind of a sane person.

  “Do you think this is enough to get a search warrant?” I ask.

  “I’ll see what I can do to get things rolling.”

  “We need to talk to some of the teens he’s helped in the past,” I say. “See if Stoltzfus sent up any red flags.”

  “I’ll get to work on getting some names,” he replies.

  More than anything, I want to turn around and help him with those names, but I’m nearly to the Mast place. Better to get this out of the way while I’m here. “I’ll finish up as quickly as possible and head your way.”

  I barely notice the smell of hogs or the tall cornstalks encroaching onto the narrow gravel track as I turn the Explorer into the lane of the Mast farm. My mind is still working over my conversation with Tomasetti. The more I consider the possibility of Gideon Stoltzfus’s involvement with the missing teens, the more convinced I am that he’s a viable suspect.

  Child predators and other deviants go to great lengths to cultivate prospective victims, doing their utmost to become caregivers or counselors. Stoltzfus puts himself in direct contact with Amish teens who are considering leaving the Amish way of life. I know from experience that a good number of those teens are, at the very least, discontent, or, at worse, troubled—the type of teen that fits the profile of the missing. They would be vulnerable to someone who claims to have the answers to all of their problems.

  The grapevine is a powerful means of communication in the Amish community. It’s general knowledge that Gideon Stoltzfus helped young people leave the plain life. He’s built that reputation by taking in troubled teens, gaining their trust, and helping them start new lives. He lends them money, gives them food and a place to stay. He counsels them and helps them find jobs. What if all of those things are a front for a more sinister agenda? What if Gideon Stoltzfus has discovered the ultimate stratagem for hunting prey?

  The question sends a scatter of gooseflesh down my arms. The scenario fits—and neither Tomasetti nor I saw it until now. What I haven’t been able to figure, however, is motive. As far as we know, there is no sexual element to the kidnappings. To complicate matters, Stoltzfus, whose reputation is above reproach, has indeed helped a handful of teens leave the Amish way without a single complaint that we know of. Are there other victims who’ve never come forward? Is it possible he helps some and simply does away with others? How does he decide which teens to help and which ones to eliminate?

  In the Amish community, when someone does something deemed immoral, he or she is expected to confess before the congregation and ask for forgiveness. If the accused follows that protocol, despite the seriousness of the mistake, that person is redeemed in the eyes of the community.

  What if this is about redemption? What if, using some twisted logic, Gideon Stoltzfus takes it upon himself to cull the “bad Amish” from the community? In a perverse, fanatical way, it makes sense. Deliver the salvageable. Expunge the unredeemable.

  I park behind a black four-wheeled buggy and kill the engine. The stench of the hogs washes over me like a wave of stagnant water when I get out. The afternoon has grown hot; humidity presses down like a wet blanket. The wind has gone still and a row of black clouds roil above the treetops to the west, telling me I’ll probably be driving to Buck Creek in the rain.

  “Terrific,” I mutter as I look around. The farm is so quiet, I can hear the hogs grunting and milling about in the pen on the other side of the barn. A lone blue jay scolds me from the branches of a maple tree in the side yard as I start toward the house. I ascend the steps to the porch and knock.

  I wait a beat and knock a second time, using the heel of my hand. Frustration creeps over me when no one answers. Damn it. Cupping my hands, I peer through the window, but the mudroom is silent and dark. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I turn and scan the area, wondering if they could be feeding the stock or be baling hay in the field. Not for the first time, I curse the Amish people’s aversion to modern conveniences. A phone would make this so much easier.

  Leaving the porch, I take the sidewalk back to the Explorer. I reach for the handle, yank open the door. For an instant, I stand there, undecided. I need to get to Buck Creek, hopefully before the sky opens up. But the death of the Mast’s daughter ten years ago must be delved into.

  “Shit.” Slamming the door, I start toward the barn. I pass the slaughter shed, where Tomasetti and I talked to Perry Mast just two days ago. The severed hog heads are gone, but I can see the indentations in the grass, the oily smears of blood. The door is closed, so I continue on toward the barn. I pass by a chicken coop with an attached wire aviary where a dozen or so hens scratch and peck the ground.

  The smell of the hogs grows stronger as I near the barn. To my right, several pink snouts poke between the boards of the fence, and I know the pigs are watching me, hoping for a snack. I slide open the big door and step inside, giving my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. The interior is shadowy and smells of moldy burlap and pig shit. Dust motes float in the slant of murky light coming in from a grimy window on the west side.

  “Hello?” I call out. “Mr. and Mrs. Mast?”

  A pigeon coos from the rafters above. An antique-looking manure spreader stands next to a big hay wagon that’s missing a wheel. A rusty hand auger leans against the wall. A leather harness hangs from an overhead tack hook. I can smell the saddle soap from where I stand. Several empty burlap bags lay scattered on the floor in the corner. Kernels of corn glow yellow against the dirt floor.

  “Hello? Mr. Mast? It’s Kate Burkholder.”

  I cross to the window at the back and look out. Below, a small pen
houses a dozen or more Hampshire hogs. Some are lying on their sides in the shade; others root around in a shallow mud puddle. To my right, in a larger pasture, two old draft horses and a sleek Standardbred gelding stand beneath the shade of a walnut tree, half-asleep, swatting flies with their tails.

  I turn my attention to the field beyond the pasture, hoping to see someone cutting hay, but there’s no thresher or wagon or team of horses. The Masts aren’t home, and now I’m going to have to hang around before heading to Buck Creek.

  “Damn,” I say with a sigh, knowing the day is going to be a bust.

  I leave the barn. I’m closing the door behind me when I notice the greenhouse to my right. Some Amish use them to get a head start on their seedlings until the soil is warm enough to plant. I head that way on the outside chance someone’s there, but I know it’s wishful thinking. I’ve already decided that instead of waiting here for the Masts to return, I would be better off speaking to someone at the sheriff’s office and, if I can find him, to the Amish bishop. Hopefully, someone will be able to shed some light on the death of Rebecca Mast.

  Midway to the greenhouse, I pass by a fire pit surrounded by a low stone retaining wall. A steel fifty-gallon drum vented with bullet holes stands upright in the center of the pit. Growing up, we handled our trash much the same way, by putting everything that couldn’t be composted into a big drum and burning it. If we were lucky, Datt would let Jacob and Sarah and me roast marshmallows.

  Thunder rumbles like the long, low growl of a cross dog. The wind has picked up just enough to turn the maple leaves silver side up, their shimmering surfaces contrasting sharply against the black sky. I smell the acrid scent of ash and something else that gives me pause.

  I breathe in deeply, trying to place the smell. It’s earthy and spicy and slightly exotic. It reminds me of Christmas ham at the farm. Clove, I realize, and my heart begins to pound. Turning, I walk back to the fire pit, step down off the retaining wall, cross to the drum, and peer inside. It’s half-full of partially burned trash. I see part of a cereal box, a melted bread wrapper. The smell of clove is stronger, definitely emanating from inside the barrel.