Page 6 of Disappeared

“Glock!” I shout as I rush to them.

I reach the ruts, shine my light. There are two. Large vehicle. Deep and filled with water.

“They look fresh.”

I turn at the sound of Glock’s voice to see him approach.

“No more than a couple hours,” I say. “Or they would have been washed away by now.”

“About the time the kid went missing?” he says in a low voice.

We squat for a closer look. For the span of several heartbeats the only sound comes from the rush of water and the clang of debris striking the bridge.

“Ground is soft,” he comments. “Vehicle sunk in deep.”

“Looks like the driver pulled over.” I stand, shine my light in a circle. “No way to tell which direction he went.”

“Why the hell would someone be out on a night like this?” Sighing, he gets to his feet. “At three or four o’clock in the morning?”

“And why here?”

“Maybe someone looking for the boy?” His voice isn’t hopeful.

“Most of the farms in the area are Amish,” I tell him. “Those ruts are definitely not from a buggy.”

“Chief, what the hell is that?”

I follow his stare to a small object on the ground, partially obscured by standing water. I bend and pick it up. A quiver of uneasiness goes through me when I realize it’s a child’s toy. A carved wooden horse. Amish-made. The kind of toy that might be given to a young Amish boy …

Glock’s eyes meet mine. “That hasn’t been here long, either,” he says.

I pull a plastic bag from my equipment belt and drop the horse into it. “Snap some photos of those ruts,” I tell him. “Call County. See if anyone has reported finding a little boy.”

“You got it.” He pulls out his cell.

“Keep looking.” I sigh. “I think it’s time I had another talk with the family.”

Instead of going through the field, I take the road back to the Kline house to save time. Two buggies pass by me going in the opposite direction. I’m pleased to see that the Amish community has come out in force to help with the search. While the men and older boys are out looking for Little Joe, the women have likely come together inside to help in whatever way they can, cooking and cleaning, praying, and offering emotional support.

As I jog toward the house, my suspicion that this may not be a simple case of a toddler wandering away niggles at the back of my brain. Is it possible this is something even more sinister? The thought of a kidnapping makes me queasy. Stranger abductions are rare, but they’re also the most dangerous type. For the first time it occurs to me I haven’t met the boy’s father. No one has mentioned him. I’d assumed he was out searching. By the time I push open the back door and step into the mudroom, I’m convinced I didn’t get the whole story from the family.

I’m met in the mudroom by a plump Amish woman in a wine-colored dress, a dishcloth flung over her shoulder, a smear of flower on the front of her apron.

“Guder mariye,” I say as I brush past her. Good morning.

I hear her mutter something beneath her breath as I step into the kitchen. Erma stands at the sink, washing dishes. One of the preteen girls I met earlier sits at the table, spooning oatmeal into her mouth.

“I need to speak with you,” I say to Erma.

She spins to me, hope jumping into her face. “You found Little Joe?”

I shake my head. “Where’s Bonnie?”

“I’m right here.”

The woman in question appears in the doorway. I take her measure, picking past the despair on her face, the red nose and cheeks, and eyes swollen from crying. Instead, I focus on any telltale signs of deception, all the things that didn’t occur to me when I arrived on scene forty-five minutes ago.

“I need to talk to both of you.” I let my eyes flick to the girl at the table, and the woman I passed in the mudroom. “Alone.”