Page 79 of Rage

As I close the distance between us, I realize there are two people standing next to the buggy. One female. And a child.

I’m midway to them when the male standing on the porch bolts. He takes all four steps in a single leap, then hits the ground running with the speed of an Olympian sprinter. Arms pumping. Feet pounding. Heading toward the woods.

Shit.

I launch myself into a run. “Stop!” I shout.

The runner doesn’t acknowledge me. Doesn’t slow down.

He’s running at an angle to me, so I veer left and cut him off. “Shtobba!” I shout in Deitsch. Stop!

My flashlight beam plays crazily over the ground as I sprint toward him. The runner is male. Not much bigger than me, but fast. Faster than me, in fact, but I have a shorter distance to cover, which gains me some ground. We’re midway to the woods when I reach him. I make a wild grab for his arm, latch on tight, use the momentum to swing him around.

“Shtobba!” I say. “I just want to talk to you.”

He stumbles backward, raises his hands, looks around as if he’s thinking about bolting again. “Okay! Okay!”

I grip his arm, get my flashlight beam on him. There’s no weapon I can see. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” I snap.

“Okay! Fine! What do you want?”

I guess him to be about sixteen years old. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Straw hat. Blue work shirt and suspenders. He’s looking at me as if I’m the Grim Reaper about to cut out his soul with my scythe, so I release him.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“Why are you running from the police?”

“You … scared me. That’s all.”

I jab my thumb toward the house. “Who’s with you?” I pose the question even as I swing my beam toward the house.

“M-my s-sister and little b-brother,” he tells me.

A young Amish woman wearing a lavender dress, an apron, and plain sneakers stands next to the buggy, her hands up as if she’s being accosted by muggers. Beside her, a little boy of about ten gapes at me, eyes wide, his hands stretched far above his head.

“We didn’t do anything!” he squeals.

What the hell?

It’s an odd combination of individuals to be visiting a recent crime scene this time of night. I turn my attention back to the young man and motion toward the buggy. “Let’s walk over to the buggy,” I say. “Nice and slow.”

Shaking his head with the theater of a ten-year-old being remanded to bed without dinner, he starts toward the buggy.

“We weren’t doing anything wrong,” he mutters.

“It’s called trespassing.” I fall in behind him. “You can put down your hands now.”

He does.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

He tightens his mouth as if he’s thinking about not answering, but he reads the seriousness of the situation in my eyes and changes his mind. “Noah.”

“Noah what?” I snap.

“Yoder,” he mumbles.