Page 1 of Disappeared

It had been a long time since he’d been this kind of scared. The kind that caused his hands to shake, his heart to beat so fast he couldn’t catch his breath. The urge to turn tail and run—to forget the plan he’d conceived down to every last detail—clawed at his insides. Of course, he couldn’t run away. Not when there was so much at stake. When he had so much to lose.

Dear God, he hoped he could pull this off.

Rain lashed the windshield as he punched off the headlights and made the turn onto the township road. In the strobe of lightning that followed, the leafless branches of the trees trembled and swayed overhead. Squinting through the darkness and rain-blurred glass, he inched down the road, stopped at the bridge spanning Painters Creek, and killed the engine.

The truck shuddered beneath a gust of wind. Reaching into the back seat, he grabbed the slicker, jammed his arms into the sleeves, pulled it on. A final exhale, and he shoved open the door. Rain stung his face as he stepped into the maelstrom. He flipped up his hood, vaguely aware of the roar of water rushing beneath the bridge. A quick look around to get his bearings, and he started off at a jog. It took him less than a minute to reach the lane. A quick sprint and he was across the yard, past the tree at the side, and approaching the back door. The one he knew was never locked.…

The pound of rain covered the squeak of the hinges as he entered into the mudroom. No lantern light. No movement. No sign that anyone was awake. But he knew they were upstairs sleeping, and the weight of the risk he was taking terrified him more with every step. If he got caught, everything he’d ever worked for, everything he’d ever wanted, ever loved, would be gone, including his freedom.

Water dripped onto the linoleum floor as he walked through the kitchen and into the living room. At the base of the stairs, he paused to listen. The only sound that came back at him was the drumbeat of rain, keeping time with a heart racing out of control.

He took the steps two at a time to the top. In the hall he veered right, moving fast. Two doors stood closed. The last one was cracked open a few inches. He headed that way, his footfalls seeming inordinately loud, his breaths rushing, adrenaline boiling in his gut like acid. At the end of the hall, he pushed open the door.

Lightning flickered, illuminated the layout of the room. A full-size bed beneath the window. The bassinet against the wall. He crept to the crib, looked down at the small figure. Water from his slicker dripped onto the pillow. Bending, he scooped the child into his arms along with a blanket, the toy horse clutched in a tiny hand. Stooping, he snagged little sneakers off the floor. What else?

He steeled himself against the smells of baby powder and soap, the scorpion sting of regret in his chest, the knowledge that there would be no going back. For an instant, he stood there, feeling guilty and deceitful, and he longed to melt into the child, lose himself in the warmth, the innocence—all the things he was about to throw away. There was no time for any of it, certainly not some sentimentality that would do nothing but land him in jail.

Time to go.

Turning, he crossed to the door, stepped into the hall. The sleeping child twisted in his arms, mewled like a kitten. Waking up, he thought as he rushed down the stairs, and a fingernail of panic scraped up his spine. As gently as possible, he set his palm over the kid’s mouth. Small fingers pried at his hand in protest.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

Running now, he passed through the living room. The child kicked against his abdomen as he burst into the kitchen. A muffled cry rose above the din of rain as he swung open the door.

Outside, thunder roared like a beast and the ground trembled beneath its feet.

The sound of my cell phone pulsing from atop the nightstand jerks me from sleep. I reach for it, squint unseeing at the screen, and put it to my ear. “Burkholder,” I croak.

“Sorry to wake you, Chief,” comes the voice of my graveyard-shift dispatcher, Margaret. “I just took a call from Joseph Kline out on Township Road 49. They’ve got a missing toddler. He sounds pretty shaken.”

I sit up, wide awake, aware of the hammer of rain against the window. Joseph and Erma Kline are Amish. I’ve met the couple several times over the years. A lifetime ago, I went to school with Erma. She’s several years older than me, but I remember her as a well-adjusted girl with a quick smile and a penchant for chitchat.

I set my feet on the floor and cross to the closet for my clothes. “How long has the child been missing?”

“They noticed he wasn’t in his bed around four A.M. They’ve been looking since with no sign of him and decided to call you.”

A glance at my cell tells me it’s nearly five. I yank my uniform shirt from a hanger, shrug into it, and button up. “Tell them I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Roger that.”

I end the call, reach for my trousers, step into them. The light flicks on. I turn to see my significant other, John Tomasetti, standing in the doorway, looking at me.

“You’re up early,” I say.

“Some Einstein scheduled a meeting at seven.” He cocks his head. “I’d ask if that was a serious call, but the look on your face says it all.”

He starts toward me. He’s nearly dressed for the day, wearing his typical fare. Charcoal trousers. Crisp white shirt, not yet buttoned. The turquoise tie I bought him for Christmas hangs askew at his collar.

“There’s a missing toddler.” I reach for my holster, work the leather over my shoulders, buckle up. “Amish family. I have to go.”

He reaches me, shoves a travel mug of coffee into my hands. Always one step ahead. “Anything I can do?”

“Turn down the rain a little?”

John Tomasetti is an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation. He’s my best friend and the love of my life, both of those things rolled into a delightfully complicated package that makes me unabashedly happy. I’ve no doubt that if I do, indeed, need his assistance, he’ll be there.

Standing on my tiptoes, I brush my lips against his cheek, take in the hint of aftershave and the smell that is uniquely his. “You look nice in that suit, Tomasetti.”