Page 57 of Fallen

There is a rhythm to a small town. An ebb and flow of a community in constant motion. A certain way of doing things. Expectations to be met. There’s a set dynamic among the citizens. Reputations to uphold or cut down. Rumors to be told, stories to be embellished upon or brought to an end. If you’re a cop and you’re not cognizant of all of those subtleties, you’re not doing your job. Having lived in Painters Mill most of my life, I also know that sometimes it’s those very same undercurrents that can make my job more difficult.

It was after four A.M. when I arrived home from the Bontrager place last night. Mona and I, along with a deputy from the Holmes County Sheriff’s Office, searched the entire Bontrager farm from corncrib to barn to chicken house and all the way to the fence line at the back of the property. The only indication anyone had been there other than Ben and Loretta was a single muddy footprint in the pen behind the barn. I snapped a dozen photos of it, but the ground was too juicy to pick up any tread and the images aren’t going to be helpful. There was no sign of a vehicle. Nothing dropped or inadvertently left behind. Because of the hour, we couldn’t canvass. I left instructions with Glock to talk with the neighbors at first light. Considering the time of the attack and that most of the farms are a mile or so apart, I’m not holding my breath.

Tomasetti spent most of the night at the police lab in London, which is just west of Columbus. He crawled into bed a little before five A.M., just as I was making my way to the shower. He let me know the information technology people at BCI are working on improving the quality of the video or at least trying to come up with some decent stills. A process that will likely take a couple of days.

I arrive at the station at seven A.M. to find Margaret’s Ford Taurus parked in its usual spot. A lone buggy sits next to the car. The horse—head down, rear leg cocked, snoozing—is tethered to the parking meter. If I’m not mistaken, the buggy belongs to the Bontragers. I wonder if one of them had an attack of conscience for not telling me the whole story about the intruder last night, and decided to make things right this morning.

I enter to find Margaret standing at the reception station, six P&P manuals stacked on the credenza behind her.

Ben and Loretta Bontrager sit stiffly on the sofa, looking uncomfortable and out of place. Previously, Ben was a talkative, mild-mannered man. This morning he’s stone-cold silent with a fractious air. Loretta looks as if she spent the night sleepless and crying. Her face is the color of paste, dark circles beneath troubled eyes. The marks on her neck have bloomed into bruises. Their daughter sits between them, her head on her mamm’s shoulder, faceless doll in her lap, unaware that this isn’t the kind of visit to be enjoyed.

Loretta gets to her feet when I enter, the knitting in her lap falling to the floor. I can tell by her expression this is the last place on earth she wants to be. Something has changed since I last spoke to her and the upshot isn’t good.

“Good morning,” I say.

“Morning, Chief.” Margaret motions to the family. “Mr. and Mrs. Bontrager arrived a few minutes ago. They’d like to talk to you if you have a few minutes.”

I turn my attention to the couple. “What can I do for you?”

The Amish woman stoops to pick up her knitting, nearly drops it again. She looks flustered and on edge. I can’t help but notice that her hands are shaking when she tucks the spool of yarn into her sewing bag.

“I need to tell you something,” she blurts. “About last night.”

“All right.” I motion toward my office.

Loretta looks at Margaret and offers a tremulous smile. “If you could keep an eye on Fannie for a few minutes?”

“Sure I can,” Margaret says cheerfully. “I was just going to fix myself a nice cup of hot chocolate.” She looks at Fannie. “Whipped cream or marshmallow, young lady?”

The Amish girl grins. “Both.”

“Heicha dei fraw.” Obey the woman. Loretta eases her daughter toward Margaret, but her attention is already on me and what lies ahead.

At the coffee station, I pour three cups and hand both of them a cup. I unlock my office door and we go inside. I motion them to the visitor chairs and then take my own chair at my desk.

Before I can say anything, Loretta sets down her cup. “I wasn’t completely honest with you last night, Chief Burkholder. I’m sorry. I should have … I should have … Ben thought I should come in as soon as possible and set things straight.”

“We didn’t want to get involved in all of this, Chief Burkholder,” Ben adds. “But telling the truth … is the right thing to do, so we came.”

“I’m glad you did.” Interest piqued, I wait.

Loretta sits up straighter, folds her hands in her lap, looks down at her hands. “I know who came to the barn last night. I saw his face. I know him.”

“Who?”

“Dane Fletcher,” she tells me. “He’s a police. A deputy. With the sheriff’s office.”

I barely hear anything past the name, over the gong of disbelief in my head. Fletch? I struggle to get my mind around the notion that he assaulted an Amish woman. I’ve known Dane Fletcher for years. He’s been with the sheriff’s office as long as I can remember. He’s a solid guy. A husband and father. A volunteer. Little League coach. Why in the name of God would he accost an Amish woman in her barn? It simply doesn’t make sense.

“Are you telling me Dane Fletcher accosted you in the barn last night, physically assaulted you, and demanded money?”

“He didn’t demand money,” she tells me. “What happened last night is about … something else.”

I stare at them, first Loretta and then her husband, and I can’t imagine where this is going. Is she telling the truth? Is it possible Fletcher and this woman are involved in some sort of illicit affair?

“Loretta, you need to tell me exactly what happened,” I say firmly. “All of it. Don’t leave anything out this time.”

She looks away, fingers a frayed thread at the hem of her halsduch.