Page 6 of The Hidden One

Glances are exchanged, the kind that make me wonder if they know more about me and Jonas and the past we share than I’m comfortable with.

Mahlon grimaces. “Brother Jonas was arrested two weeks ago. For murder.”

The bishop stares down at his hands and sighs. “You didn’t know?”

The Amish grapevine has a surprisingly long reach. For reasons I can’t quite pinpoint, I don’t want to tell him I’m not privy to Amish gossip. That some in the community prefer not to deal with me because I left the fold. So I simply shake my head.

I knew Jonas Bowman growing up. His father, Ezra, was minister of our church district here in Painters Mill. When I was a kid, Jonas was a minor character in the periphery of my life. I saw him during worship. He helped my datt a few times on the farm. As I grew older, we played the occasional game of baseball and hockey, went swimming in the creek. All of that changed when I was fifteen and he drove me home after a singing. It was the first time I’d ridden in a boy’s buggy without a chaperone. Or a sibling or parent or girlfriend. It was the first time I’d been alone with a boy. There were a lot of firsts for both of us that summer. Some good. Some … not so much. Jonas was nineteen and we were at an age in which four years might as well have been twenty. Of course, we were too young to care.

My composure snaps back into place. I stare at the men, aware that the cup has gone cold in my hands, that my pulse is thrumming a little too fast.

“Jonas has denied any involvement?” I ask.

“He says he did not do it,” the bishop tells me.

“He is a man of his word,” the deacon adds.

I think about the dynamics involved in the identification of a muzzleloader, especially one that’s been exposed to the elements for eighteen years. Most black-powder rifles have serial numbers, but some do not, especially if they’re old, which may very well have been the case for an Amish hunting rifle.

“Did the police find the spent bullets?” I ask.

The three men seem to consider the question, but it is Mahlon Barkman who replies. “One of the round balls was found, I think.”

“What about motive?” I ask.

The three men exchange looks, but it is Nathan Kempf who speaks. “There were hard feelings between Jonas and Ananias.”

The minister takes it from there. “His father, Ezra, was a minister, you know. There was a disagreement about a tractor Ezra bought when his two horses died unexpectedly of the sleeping sickness. Ananias would not have it and put Ezra under the bann.”

It’s an all-too-common theme among the Amish. Ezra Bowman broke the rules and Ananias Stoltzfus punished him for it.

“Silenced him, too,” the bishop adds.

“Two weeks later, Ezra passed unexpectedly.” Mahlon heaves a heavy sigh. “Jonas blamed Ananias for his death. Said the stress killed him.”

“Jonas held Ananias responsible,” Nathan tells me. “He was angry. They argued. Publicly.”

“Jonas behaved badly,” Nathan adds. “He was young. Hotheaded. Just twenty-one. He did some things.”

“Some things like what?” I ask.

“He damaged Ananias’s buggy.” Nathan shrugs. “He got caught. Had some trouble with the police.”

“It was a minor thing,” Mahlon puts in.

“Two months later, Ananias disappeared,” Nelson finishes.

“Did the police positively link the muzzleloader to Jonas?” I ask.

“The sheriff took the gun to Jonas,” the deacon tells me. “Jonas admitted it was his.” Nathan shrugs. “They arrested him the next day. Put him in jail.”

“Jonas would never commit such a sin,” Mahlon says. “He would never take the life of another man.”

“He asked for my help?” I ask.

The bishop shakes his head. “Jonas would not ask such a thing for himself,” he tells me. “He would not impose.”

“He understands that this hardship is part of God’s plan.” Deacon Kempf looks at the other two men. “It is not Jonas who is asking for your help, Kate Burkholder. It is us.”