Fallen

by Linda Castillo

  I hear the wail of sirens. I’m aware of Pickles and Skid standing next to us. The bark and hiss of their radios. Most of all, I’m aware of the blood soaking the gauze, oozing between my fingers at an alarming rate, and the growing pool beneath her.

  “I was always the good one,” she whispers.

  “Loretta, stay with me,” I say. “Stay with me.”

  The Amish woman fades to unconsciousness.

  CHAPTER 41

  There is comfort in what is familiar. An inner calm that comes with ritual and routine. We find reprieve from turmoil when we partake in the things we know. The heart finds solace in the company of those we love. I’m lucky to have all of those elements in my life, especially the people I love.

  I’m sitting on a gurney in the emergency room of Pomerene Hospital, wondering where the doctor has gone, debating whether I should make my getaway while the getting away is good. The side of my head is numb where two nasty lacerations were cleaned and closed. I’ve been X-rayed, injected, and CT-scanned. Hopefully I’ll get a clean bill of health and be on my way soon. I’ve no intention of spending the night.

  I’m wearing a hospital gown with a paper sheet covering my legs, which are bruised and smeared with mud. Someone tucked my trousers, shirt, and boots into a bag and placed them on a shelf. I can see the caked mud from where I’m sitting.

  Through all the tests and good humor, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the case. About Rachael Schwartz. About Loretta and Ben Bontrager. And, of course, Fannie.

  I understand why they did what they did. To protect the child they’d loved since birth and raised as their own. Rachael Schwartz threatened to destroy all of it. After she was gone, I became a threat. What I can’t reconcile is that these two people were willing to commit multiple violent crimes—including murder—to protect their secrets. What they did goes against the very foundation of what it means to be Amish. How could they possibly believe that God would forgive them their sins and they would be welcomed into heaven? Were the stakes so high that they convinced themselves the risk of hell was worth the gain?

  Ben Bontrager was booked into the Holmes County jail. Loretta was taken by ambulance to Pomerene Hospital. Last I heard, Fannie was picked up by Children Services shortly after. The girl faces a great deal of upheaval in the coming hours and days and weeks. Likely, she’ll be placed with a foster family initially, and then probably with her biological grandparents Rhoda and Dan Schwartz. I don’t know how she’ll fare. The one thing I do know is that the Amish community will step in to help with the transition and support her.

  “Someone said there’s a dirty cop back here.”

  I look up to see Glock shove aside the privacy curtain and pause upon seeing me.

  “Dude, we’re not supposed to be back here.” Behind him, Skid glances over his shoulder as if expecting some stout nurse to stop them and escort them out.

  Next to him, Pickles and Mona struggle to see past the curtain.

  “You decent, Chief?” Mona asks.

  Despite the headache pulsing above my left ear, I find myself grinning. “Decent enough.”

  I’m embarrassed because I’m pretty sure my smile is lopsided. Not only did the doc numb my scalp before applying a the staples, but they gave me some pain medication that’s a little stronger than I expected.

  When the men hesitate, Mona pushes her way past them and thrusts out a pretty bouquet of flowers she probably bought at the hospital gift shop. “How’re you feeling?” she asks.

  “I’m fine.” Ignoring the thickness of my tongue, I watch my other three officers crowd in behind her, the men feeling awkward, trying not to show it.

  “Nice mohawk, anyway,” Skid says.

  Mona elbows him. “Dude.”

  He shoots her a what-did-I-do look.

  All of it for my benefit, which I appreciate more than they can know.

  “Any word on Loretta Bontrager’s condition?” I ask.

  “They airlifted her to Cleveland Clinic in Akron,” Glock tells me. “No word on her condition, but they think she’s going to pull through.”

  No one looks at Skid, including me. We’re following that unwritten script. The one that tells us to give him some space, and a little time to shore up before you talk about it. Even if your suspect is going to be all right, having to fire your weapon at another human being is a traumatic experience that takes a toll.

  Mona hefts the flowers and looks around for a place to put the vase.

  Glock taps the side of his head with his index finger. “How’s the head?” he asks me.

  “The proud recipient of nine staples,” I say, deadpan.

  “That’s pretty impressive.” He looks at Skid. “You just got your departmental record beat.”

  He shakes his head, whistles. “Guess I’m going to have to up my game.”

  I turn my attention to Pickles. The old man is frowning at Mona, who’s set the flowers atop a shelf that’s too small and likely used for medical supplies.

  “I owe you a big thank-you, Pickles,” I tell him. “Situation would have turned out a lot differently if you hadn’t gotten there when you did.”

  The old man raises his gaze to mine. He’s a surly guy. He doesn’t like the fact that he’s getting old. That he can’t move as fast as he once did. That he’s past putting in long hours and being in the thick of things.

  “Just doing my job, Chief.” He can’t quite meet my gaze. And in that moment, I see how much my recognizing him before his peers means to him.

  Glock grins. “Don’t let that go to your head, old man.”

  Skid follows suit. “Can’t run worth a damn,” he says good-naturedly.

  Pickles huffs a laugh, but not before I see the flash of emotion in his eyes.

  The curtain whooshes aside. All of us look that way, guilty because too many visitors have crowded into an otherwise quiet ER. Tomasetti stands there a moment, looking from person to person, and then offering me a look that’s part smile, part scowl.

  “Evidently, I’m late for the party,” he says.

  Glock clears his throat. Pickles brushes at a nonexistent speck of lint on his uniform. Skid looks down at his cell phone. Mona fiddles with the vase of flowers.

  “I’ll see if I can get a status on Loretta Bontrager,” Glock says.

  Nodding at Tomasetti, Mona makes a beeline for the still-open curtain. “Glad you’re okay,” she says.

  “See you around, Chief.” Skid offers a mock salute.

  I look past Tomasetti to see Glock holding the curtain open and the rest of my team file out.

  I smile at Tomasetti. “Took you long enough to get here.”

  He stares back. “Can’t leave you alone for more than a few hours, can I?”

  “Once again you underestimate my ability to get myself into trouble.”

  “Apparently, you are correct.”

  He crosses the distance between us in two strides, his eyes intense and steady on mine. Upon reaching me, he leans close and presses a kiss to my temple. “You scared the hell out of me,” he whispers.

  I close my eyes, overcome by his presence, his closeness, the sight and smell of him, the feel of his lips against my skin. “Not the first time,” I whisper.

  “Probably not the last.”

  His arms go around me. He pulls me tight against him. I feel the warmth of his face against mine. His hand against the back of my head. “I heard you had a close call.”

  “Too close,” I say. “If it wasn’t for Pickles and Skid…”

  He shushes me with a kiss, then pulls away, runs his knuckles down the side of my face. “I heard about Pickles,” he said. “Not bad for an old guy.”

  “You old guys are so underappreciated.” My smile feels tremulous on my lips. “Any news on Fannie Bontrager?”

  He grimaces and I’m reminded this man I love was the father of two girls who were about Fannie’s age when they were killed. “Children Services picked her up. Foster parents will probably keep he
r for a day or two, until they can figure out the family situation.”

  I think about Rhoda and Dan Schwartz. Already mourning the loss of a daughter. A granddaughter they didn’t know existed about to enter their lives. “The Amish believe children are a gift from God,” I tell him.

  “Most of us believe that,” he tells me.

  I nod. “If there’s any good news to come out of this, it is that Fannie has family here in Painters Mill.”

  “Do you think they’ll—”

  “Yes,” I say. “They will. They’re Amish.”

  “I guess that just about says it all,” he murmurs.

  I motion toward my clothes on the shelf. “What do you say we get out of here before the nurse comes back and tries to cart me out in a wheelchair?”

  He grins. “I think that’s the best idea I’ve heard all week.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Life is a river that never stops flowing. You can dam it, you can harness its power, you can poison it, but you can’t stop it. A river never ends. It changes course and cuts through the land. It floods and damages and kills. It can be weakened by drought. But it never stops. It is the fundamental giver of life.

  It’s been two weeks since Loretta and Ben Bontrager tried to murder me in the field where the old Amish schoolhouse used to stand. My cuts and bruises are healed for the most part. The nightmares have dwindled. Tomasetti and I don’t talk about it, but he always lets me know he’s there for me if I need to.

  This afternoon, I’m on duty and covering for Glock, who had an appointment with his wife, LaShonda. He hasn’t made the announcement yet, but I’m pretty sure they’re expecting their fourth child. That river of life, I think. It’s a beautiful thing that fills me with hope for the future.

  I’m idling down Folkerth Road, watching a team of horses pull a plow through river-bottom soil, when Lois’s voice snaps over my radio.

  “Chief, ten-twenty-nine.”

  A 10-29 is a general code my department uses for any type of juvenile situation and usually entails the Tuscarawas Bridge and a can of spray paint. “What’s the twenty on that?”

  “I just took a call from Rhoda Schwartz,” she tells me. “Seems their granddaughter is missing.”

  A thread of worry whispers through me at the mention of Fannie. I’m not surprised. “Any idea how long she’s been gone?”

  “She thinks maybe a couple of hours. She called from the phone shack. She and her husband are out in the buggy looking.”

  “I’m ten-seven-six,” I say, letting her know I’m on my way to the Schwartz farm.

  I hang a U-turn in the middle of the road and head that way. I haven’t seen or spoken to Fannie since the day Loretta and Ben Bontrager accosted me at their farm. But I’ve spent quite a bit of time thinking about her. Twelve is a difficult age for a girl, whether you’re Amish or English. That’s usually about the time you leave childhood behind and take that first tentative step—or misstep—into adulthood. There are a lot of unknowns, a lot of fears, none of which are easy to talk about. Add the kind of upheaval Fannie has been through to the mix, and it’s a time that can become emotionally chaotic.

  I’m passing by the Bontrager farm, which stands vacant now, and nearly to the greenbelt at the edge of the pasture when in the periphery of my vision I spot the horse and rider. I know immediately the rider is Fannie. I brake hard, hang another U-turn, and head that way.

  If the girl notices me, she doesn’t show it. The horse is galloping in the ditch alongside the road at a speed that would give any parent a panic attack. The girl leans forward, reins in one hand, a tuft of mane in the other, keeping perfect time with the animal’s stride. I stop the Explorer a hundred or so yards ahead of her, so I’m visible to both horse and rider.

  I pick up my radio. “I’ve got eyes on our ten-twenty-nine.”

  “Roger that.”

  I get out, walk around to the front, and lean against the hood. I watch her ride, a little awed because she’s good, a little sad because at some point she probably won’t be allowed to continue. A few yards away from where I stand, she straightens slightly, tugs gently on the reins.

  “Whoa,” she says quietly.

  The animal slows to a trot and then to a walk; its steel shoes crunch against the gravel on the shoulder as it walks up to me. Ten feet away, she stops the animal. It’s the same horse she was riding the day I met her. His nostrils are flared. There’s a bit of lather on his flanks and where the saddle blanket rests on his shoulder.

  “He’s beautiful,” I say.

  She’s not happy to see me. “You arrested my mamm and datt,” she says.

  “I don’t blame you for being angry.” I pretend to study the horse, but I’m cognizant of the girl, too. She’s been crying. There’s a smudge of dirt on her left cheek, and her tears left a trail.

  I go to the animal, run my hand over its forehead, along its neck. She’s braided the mane, securing the ends with rubber bands. I find myself thinking about Rachael Schwartz and that long-ago day when I found her sitting on that rocky shoal in Painters Creek, grinning like an imp, her face aglow with the aftereffects of adrenaline—and the eternal question of nurture versus nature stirs.

  “I know professional horse trainers who can’t ride like that,” I tell her.

  Her gaze jerks to mine, untrusting of the compliment, too angry with me to accept it. She doesn’t quite know how to reject it, so I simply let the statement stand.

  “I guess they sent you to pick me up,” she mutters after a moment.

  “They love you. They worry.” I shrug. “Might’ve helped if you’d let them know where you were going.”

  “Like they’d give me permission,” she huffs.

  I don’t know how much they’ve told her about Rachael Schwartz or the Bontragers. I don’t know how much she’s heard via the grapevine. I don’t even know whether to call the Schwartzes her grandparents. Does she know that Rachael Schwartz was her mother? Does she know Loretta Bontrager took her mother’s life?

  “They don’t like me to ride,” she tells me. “They’re probably going to sell him.”

  “Maybe you can come up with some kind of compromise.”

  “It’s because I’m a girl.” She speaks over me. I almost smile, because Rachael used to do exactly the same thing. “Amish girls don’t ride.”

  I nod, pretend I don’t notice when she swipes angrily at the tears that have begun to fall. “It’s not fair,” she spits.

  This is where I have to bite my tongue. The truth of the matter is the Amish are a patriarchal society. Sometimes the boys and men are allowed to do things the women and girls are not. What some people fail to recognize is that while those roles are defined and separate, they’re also equally important.

  “You’re right,” I tell her. “Sometimes life isn’t fair. It’s a hard lesson, but we do the best we can. And we try not to worry the people who love us.”

  Fannie rolls her eyes at my philosophy, sniffs.

  The clatter of shod hooves draws our attention. I look past Fannie to see a horse and buggy coming down the road at a fast clip. Dan Schwartz stands abruptly, cranes his head, and speeds toward us. A few yards away from where I’m parked, he stops the horse. I watch as Rhoda climbs down from the buggy and rushes toward us, the remnants of worry etched into her features.

  “Fannie.” The Amish woman reaches us, presses her hand to her chest. “Hi, Katie.”

  “She was exercising the horse,” I say in Deitsch.

  I feel Fannie’s eyes on me, but I don’t look at her. “Sell is en goodah,” I say, referring to the horse. That is a good one.

  Neither Dan nor Rhoda was born yesterday. They know their granddaughter was out here, riding like the wind. Even so, I suspect both of them have learned something important in the wake of Rachael’s death. Something that feels a little bit like … forbearance.

  Nodding, Rhoda steps forward, runs her hand over the animal’s sweaty shoulder. “He’s young,” she says. “Looks strong,
too.”

  “He’s too strong,” Dan grumbles from his place in the buggy. “Pushes too hard. Shies in traffic.”

  “He’s the fastest trotter in all of Painters Mill,” Fannie tells him.

  Dan grunts. “We’ve already got a buggy horse.”

  “Nellie’s getting old, Dan.” Rhoda touches the braids with her fingertips. “Got a nice mane on him and just look at that pink nose.”

  Knowing he’s being played, but sensing this is an important moment, Dan leaves the buggy and crosses to the horse in question. He smooths his hand over the animal’s rump, frowning dubiously.

  “Needs work,” he mutters.

  “Good buggy horse costs a pretty penny,” Rhoda counters.

  I shrug. “If you find someone to work with him, he might just surprise you.”

  Fannie clears her throat and climbs down from the horse. “I can do it,” she says quietly. “Train him, I mean. Turn him into a better horse.”

  “Riding a horse…” Frowning at his wife, Dan shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Is no place for a girl.”

  Rhoda waves off the comment. “En bisli gevva un namma is net en shlecht ding, eh?” A little give-and-take is not a bad thing, eh?

  I look at Fannie. “I think that’s called compromise,” I say to her. When the girl says nothing, I add, “It takes two.”

  Dan looks at his granddaughter over the rim of his glasses. “You think you can do this thing?”

  “Ja.” She says the word a little too quickly.

  “You have to stop running him,” the Amish man tells her. “Train him to be calm and steady so he’s safe on the road.”

  “I can do it,” she says.

  Rhoda looks at me. “Thank you for finding her for us, Kate Burkholder.”

  I nod, then turn my attention to Fannie, and I wait until the girl meets my gaze. “Vann du broviahra hatt genunk, du finna vassannahshtah mechta sei faloahra,” I say. When you try hard enough, you find what otherwise might be lost.

  I hope the girl understands that the phrase encompasses more than one meaning. That one is more complex than the other, and yet both are equally important.