Page 8 of Disappeared

I keep my eyes on Bonnie. “Has McKee ever expressed interest in having a relationship with the boy?”

“No.” The girl studies her hands, picks at a ragged nail. “Never.”

Erma sits up straighter, stiffens her spine. “We’ll not have him here, Kate Burkholder. Thomas McKee is about as far from Amish as a man can get. Never worked a day in the field or spent an hour listening to the preacher preach. He’s a proud and wicked boy and we’re just fine without the likes of him.”

I look from mother to daughter, sensing there’s more to the story. “How did you meet him?” I ask Bonnie.

The young woman drops her gaze to the tabletop. Her embarrassment and shame are palpable. Seeing her distress, Erma reaches out, sets her hand over her daughter’s. “My husband hired him to build that pipe fence out behind the barn. Thomas did all the cutting and welding.” The older woman sighs. “Our Bonnie took him coffee a few times, and that boy, full of evil thoughts and lust, preyed on her innocence. That’s all we’ve got to say about it.”

Judging from Bonnie’s body language, there’s more to the story. A lot more. But I let it go. “Do you keep the doors locked at night?” I ask, knowing many citizens in Painters Mill—Amish and English alike—don’t.

“Mamm!”

The three of us swivel in our chairs to see one of the young girls dart into the doorway that leads to the living room. She’s out of breath, her expression frightened.

“Was der schinner is letz?” Erma asks. What in the world is wrong?

The girl swallows hard. “There’s … blood. On the floor. Next to Little Joe’s bed.”

“What?” Bonnie rises, her expression aghast. “Show me.”

I get to my feet and follow them from the room.

The Kline home is a typical farmhouse with three bedrooms upstairs, and the living room, kitchen, and mudroom on the first level. The girl pounds up the stairs, Bonnie hot on her heels. Both turn right at the landing. The hall is a dimly lit space, so I pull the mini Maglite from my equipment belt and flick it on.

I follow them to a bedroom at the end of the hall.

The young girl points. “There.”

The lighting is poor, so I slant the beam toward the bassinet as I start toward it. A quake of unease moves through me at the sight of the blood. A single drop the size of a pearl mars the wood plank floor. I shift the light to the interior of the crib and notice a smear on the pillow.

From behind me, I hear Bonnie’s quick inhale. “Mein Gott. Mamm! Es is bloot!” It is blood!

“Was it there when you put him to bed?” I ask, hoping Little Joe had a scraped knee or cut finger.

“No!” the young mother cries. “He was fine!”

Erma sets her hand on her daughter’s arm and squeezes gently. “You know Little Joe gets nosebleeds sometimes.”

The news takes my concern down half a notch. Still, neither woman seems relieved by the pronouncement, and once again I get the feeling there’s something I’m not being told.

“Mamm, look there.”

I follow Bonnie’s point and kneel. A single muddy footprint stands out on the braided rug, looking sinister and out of place next to the bassinet. It’s a large print and likely belongs to an adult male with a size eleven or twelve shoe. The outline is so perfect I can make out the waffle-type sole.

I look at Bonnie. “Do you have any idea who was in this room? Who might’ve made this print?”

“Not Datt. He didn’t come in here this morning,” she whispers. “When I told him Little Joe was missing, he went outside and began to look for him.”

Erma nods, her expression grim. “My husband always leaves his boots in the mudroom.”

A renewed sense of urgency presses into me as I get to my feet. The presence of blood in addition to the print adds a truckload of menace to an already menacing situation. I think of the tire ruts. The dropped toy. The sneaker.

“Who else has been in the house?” I ask.

Erma shakes her head. “Just us,” she tells me. “The family.”

Someone else has been in this room, a little voice whispers in my ear.