Page 93 of The Hidden One

I didn’t have an answer. For several minutes we didn’t speak. I listened to the music, loving the voices and instruments and lyrics, and I daydreamed about escaping with Jonas into a world that wasn’t as muddled as the one in which we lived.

“You ever been to the Icebox?” Jonas asked.

The Icebox was a swimming hole on Painters Creek. A mysterious place where the water was so deep no one had ever touched the bottom. Stories abounded; the most memorable was about the English boy who’d drowned when the creek flooded. The Icebox turned into a whirlpool and sucked his canoe into the abyss. To this day, his screams can be heard in the woods at night.

“I’ve been there,” I told him, leaving out the fact that I hadn’t had the guts to get in the water.

“Elam Yoder told me his grandfather saw the whirlpool back when that kid was killed,” he said.

I felt my eyes widen. An imagination is the one thing I’d never lacked. The thought of all that water swallowing a boy alive made me shiver. “I don’t see how the water can be that deep.”

“That’s not all he said.” Watching me, he tipped his bottle and drank. “A couple weeks ago, Elam and his friends were there, swimming, and he decided to find out just how deep that hole really is. So he got this big rock, tied a rope to it, and went into the water where there’s a drop-off. He let that rock take him down, held on to the rope as long as he could, but he ran out of breath before he reached the bottom.”

My imagination surged with the mystery of it, the danger. “Did he see anything?”

“He said there was a big cave down there. All sorts of strange currents.” He lowered his voice. “Said he saw that canoe, too, and it creeped him out.”

I stared at him, feeling that tingle for adventure take hold. “Have you ever been there?” I ask.

“Twice.”

“Did you try to reach the bottom?”

“What do you think?” He laughed. “I’m a good swimmer, Katie. I tried, but I couldn’t do it. Never seen water so deep. The deeper you go, the colder it gets.”

A small part of me didn’t believe all the stories. But it was fun to imagine such a dangerous and exciting place right here in Painters Mill.

“It’s early yet. Plenty hot.” Squinting against the sun, Jonas looked out across the land. “Want to go?”

Despite my efforts otherwise, I was intrigued. I wanted to see the Icebox again. I wanted to explore its depths. I wanted Jonas and me to be the ones to reach the bottom before anyone else could.

“How far is it from here?” I ask.

“Couple miles down the road. We can be there in five minutes.”

I looked down at my dress and shoes, knowing swimming wasn’t a very good idea. But, oh, how I wanted to explore that storied body of water. I could always hang my clothes in the sun to dry afterward. Mamm might not notice. I could always tell her I slipped on a rock while wading.…

“You brought all that food.” I smile at him. “Maybe we can have our picnic there.”

Jonas smiled back. “I brought two towels, too.”

“You thought of everything.” I got to my feet. “I bet we could find a couple of big rocks.…”

He took my hand. “Come on.”

We never reached the bottom of that deep pool of water. We had sex right there on the sandy bank, atop the afghan his grandmother had knitted some forty years ago. It was a first for both of us. Awkward. Earth-shattering. Beautiful.

I won’t get into the sordid details, but we got caught. One moment we were entwined in each other’s arms, half dressed, awestruck by what had just happened, trying to come to terms with what it meant in terms of our lives and the future. Then we heard the sound of buggy wheels against gravel—and my datt’s voice calling my name—and we flew into a panic. We barely had time to yank on our clothes. One look at my datt’s face and I knew he knew. It was the most mortifying moment of my young life. Only later did I learn that Mrs. Fisher had gone to my datt and told him she’d seen us together. Because of our age difference, the bishop got involved. When the sheriff’s department paid the Bowmans a visit and had a conversation about statutory rape, Ezra Bowman decided to move his family to Pennsylvania.

Three days later Jonas was gone, and I never saw him again.

CHAPTER 30

Some nights are a bottomless pit of darkness filled with nightmares and the kinds of monsters your parents assured you didn’t exist. I’m almost surprised when I see the eastern horizon lighten with the first vestiges of dawn, and not for the first time I’m reminded that light always transcends the dark.

I’m standing on the loading dock at the rear of the old mill, smelling of pond water and mud, trying in vain not to shiver. My forearm aches with every beat of my heart. My clothes and hair are damp, cold, and uncomfortable. Despite all of it, I’m damn glad to be alive.

The occasional bark of a police radio emanates from the front of the building. Voices echo inside as the sheriff’s department wraps up their investigation. Upon their arrival, I spent two hours in the back seat of a departmental SUV, being pelted with questions by a short-tempered lieutenant and an investigator with the Pennsylvania State Police. In light of the circumstances—namely my admittance that I’d fired my weapon in self-defense—both men were particularly interested in locating my .38. I explained to them I likely dropped it in the creek when I fell. Though I’m a peace officer from a neighboring state, and I maintain a concealed-carry license in Ohio, which has a reciprocity agreement with Pennsylvania, they weren’t happy with me.