Page 8 of Outsider

“Yes, but you can call me Katie.”

“Datt said to bring you back.” Reaching out, the boy takes my hand. “Come on. We found a girl. An autseidah.” Outsider. “She’s hurt so we put her on the cot in Mamm’s sewing room.”

His hand is small, roughened with calluses, and cold in mine as he leads me through the door and into a dimly lit living room. The smells of woodsmoke and a house well lived in float on the heated air. I see a ragtag sofa piled with crocheted pillows, a handcrafted coffee table, a macramé wall covering. A propane floor lamp hisses at me from the corner.

“I’m eight, but I’m going to be nine next month.” The boy prattles as he leads me through the living room. “My sisters are putting Jimmy away.”

“Jimmy must be that big plow horse I saw when I pulled in,” I say.

“He’s fat but he still likes to pull the sleigh.” He doesn’t miss a beat as we enter a narrow hall. “Annie likes him because he’s got a pink nose.”

He takes me down the hall and stops outside a doorway. The room beyond is a small area, about ten feet square, with a single window, a workbench set against a wall, and an antique Singer sewing machine that looks like it hasn’t been used in some time.

Adam Lengacher stands just inside, looking at me. He’s tall and blond with a rangy build and the blue eyes he passed down to his son. He still wears his heavy coat, dark trousers that are wet around the hem, and boots that left a trail of watery prints.

“Hi, Adam,” I say.

“Katie.”

Remembrance flickers in his eyes. The hint of a smile on a mouth that doesn’t seem to quite remember how to do it. Even after all these years, I still see the boy he once was. The one who could talk a blue moon. The one I’d locked in the corn crib until he cried.…

“I hear you have an injured motorist on your hands,” I say.

“Found her when we were out for a sleigh ride. Looks like she wrecked out. I think she’s hurt. There’s blood.”

“We thought she was dead,” the boy says with a tad too much enthusiasm, “but Datt said she was just cold.”

Adam addresses his son. “Hohla die shveshtahs. Fazayla eena zu kumma inseid.” Fetch your sisters. Tell them to come inside.

Giving me a lingering look, the boy leaves us, his stocking feet echoing as he runs down the hall.

I start toward the cot, but Adam stops me. “Sie katt en bix, Katie.” She had a gun. “Sie gedroit mich mitt es.” She threatened me with it.

“Where’s the gun?” I ask in Deitsch.

Frowning, he reaches into his coat pocket and produces a Sig Sauer P320. It’s a nine-millimeter. Polymer grip.

“Where’s the clip?” I ask.

He reaches into his other pocket and pulls it out. It’s a typical magazine that holds seventeen rounds. I take the weapon, check the chamber, find it empty, drop it into my own coat pocket, the clip in the other.

“Did she say anything?” I ask.

“Not much.”

“Did she give you her name?” I’ll run her through LEADS to check for a record or an active warrant.

He shakes his head. “She was in and out. Delirious from the cold, I think.”

I’m ruminating the presence of the gun and the fact that he brought her here in spite of it. Another cop might have questioned his judgment, especially with three young children in tow. But having been born and raised Amish, I understand the mind-set. You don’t leave anyone, including an outsider, to the elements, especially if they’re hurt.

My eyes move past Adam to the woman on the cot. She’s bundled in a tattered quilt that’s pulled halfway over her face, damp hair sticking to her cheek. Even from several feet away, I see her shivering violently, which is a good sign if she’s hypothermic. Wet leather boots on the floor beneath the cot. A sopping coat hung on a chair back, water dripping. A smear of blood mars the wood plank floor next to the cot.

“Stay here,” I say to Adam, and start toward the woman. “Ma’am?” I begin. “I’m a police officer. I need to see your—”

The woman lifts her head and looks at me. The slap of recognition stops me in my tracks, cuts my words short. I haven’t seen Gina Colorosa in ten years. Once upon a time we’d been friends. We attended the police academy together. Graduated from the same class. We shared an apartment. Shared a hell of a lot more than that—all the trials and tribulations of young women finding their place in the world. If it hadn’t been for Gina, I probably wouldn’t have found my way into law enforcement.

“Damn. Kate Burkholder. Took you long enough to get here.”