Page 72 of Rage

Hoping to gain her trust, I switch to Deitsch, recite a well-known Amish adage. “Do the right thing and God will take care of the rest.”

She raises her gaze to mine, surprised, her eyes filling. “You’re Amish?”

I nod. “I left when I was eighteen.” When she doesn’t respond, I push a little harder. “I know you don’t know me, but I’m going to ask you to trust me.” I motion to the pocket of her dress. “Pull out your cell phone. Text her. Ask her to meet you here. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“She’s going to hate me.”

“When this is over, she’ll understand.”

Tears streaming, she reaches for her phone, thumbs in a message, and hits send. An instant later, the cell chimes.

She shows me her phone. I look down at the screen.

I’ll meet you in the back. Thank you!

“What does she drive?” I ask.

“I don’t know. It’s red.”

“Any idea when she’ll be here?”

“I don’t know where she’s coming from.”

“Go back inside. If she texts you again, don’t respond. I’ll wait for her out here.” I pass the cell back to her. “You did the right thing.”

“Or else I’m about to lose the best friend I ever had.” Giving me a despondent look, she turns and goes through the door without another word.

Money is a universally powerful lure, and it doesn’t take long for a red Toyota Camry to pull in and idle around the side of the restaurant. It’s not terribly unusual for a young Amish male to buy a car and drive during rumspringa. Most are self-taught or have a friend show them the ropes. For an eighteen-year-old Amish female to drive is uncommon. I wonder where she got the car and who taught her to drive.

I’m standing just inside the rear exit with the door open enough to give me a decent view of the back lot. Instead of pulling up to the landing, the driver pulls nose-in to the livestock pens of the adjacent auction building, which is out of sight from the street. I watch as a young woman gets out. She’s well dressed. Skinny jeans. Midriff T-shirt. Dark hair piled on top of her head. Strappy sandals. Even from fifteen yards away, I can see that her face is made up. She’s got her cell phone pressed to her ear, speaking to someone on the other end as she goes up the concrete ramp and ducks into the livestock stalls.

I slip out, descend the steps, and start toward the building. By the time I cross the parking lot and reach the ramp, she’s disappeared into the shadows. The auction closed hours ago. There are no animals. No stragglers. Just the twitter of sparrows from a nest in the rafters, the buzz of cicadas, and the intermittent hiss of traffic from the road. The first section of the livestock building contains the pens for goats and sheep. The front is open-air, so my view to the back is relatively clear. There’s no movement. No one there.

I continue along the front to the main part of the building and take the concrete steps up to a large overhead door that stands open. Again, I can see to the back and there’s no one there. I keep going, passing by half a dozen or so pens. I’m considering going back into the restaurant to see if she went around the other side of the building when movement snags my attention. Someone moving fast, crossing the gravel track that cuts between the two buildings.

I break into an easy jog, keeping an eye on the shadows, watching for movement. Sure enough, I see the silhouette of someone in the back, partially hidden by a column. She’s trying to remain unseen, but not doing a very good job of it.

“Wilma Borntrager?” I call out, and identify myself. “Come talk to me.”

The woman startles, then takes off running toward the parking lot—and her vehicle. I run parallel to her, keeping her in sight, hoping she’ll realize I mean her no harm and stop. No such luck. She throws open a wooden gate, nearly loses her footing, keeps going.

“Shit.” I launch myself into a run after her.

She’s not a very good runner—the strappy sandals aren’t helping—and I easily close the distance between us. “I’m a police officer,” I call out to her as I track her across the asphalt. “Hang on a sec.”

A quick look over her shoulder and she makes a beeline for her vehicle. I cut her off, raise my hands to let her know I’m not a threat. “I just want to talk to you. That’s all.”

She pivots, sprints back toward the restaurant landing. I’m a dozen feet behind her. She flies up the steps, reaches for the knob. I take the steps two at a time. She yanks open the door. I set my hand on it, shove it closed.

“Stop,” I tell her.

“Get away from me!” she snaps.

She tries to peel my hand off the door, but she’s not strong enough. Huffing her aggravation, she slaps her palm against the door and turns to me, her back against the jamb. “Bitch! You can’t do this!”

“I just want to talk,” I say.

“I don’t want to talk to you!”