“How’s our patient?” I ask.
He looks at me over his shoulder and grins. “Hot-water bottle helped. I think he’s enjoying the attention.”
“Can’t blame him for that.” I move to the counter and stand beside him. A ripple of concern goes through me when I recognize the items he’s arranged on the counter. “Frostbite?”
“His heels look a little white.” The Amish man gives me a half smile. “Frostnip more than likely.”
“If I can get the Explorer out of the lane, I might be able to get him to the hospital,” I say. “Say the word if you want to try.”
“He’s going to be fine, Katie.”
I watch as he pours cooking oil into a medium-size bowl. Next comes the oil of turpentine and, lastly, a dash of ammonia. He stirs everything together with a soup spoon. “Smells familiar,” I say, remembering.
I was twelve years old when my brother, Jacob, fell victim to frostbite while ice fishing at a neighbor’s pond. Upon his arrival home, my mamm cooked up a mixture using the same ingredients and applied it to his frostbitten toes.
“It’s a rite of passage for a lot of Amish boys,” he says. “For Sammy, more than once.”
“My mamm used the same remedy,” I tell him.
Adam stirs the mixture, the pungent odors of the ammonia and turpentine filling the kitchen. “It’s been a while. I’m not sure if I remembered all the ingredients.”
“Smells right.” I can’t vouch for the effectiveness of the concoction, but I had it rubbed onto my fingers and toes a couple of times growing up, and I didn’t suffer any ill effects.
“He’s sleeping?” I ask.
“Talking more likely.” He slants me an amused look. “If Gina and the girls are with him, he will not be sleeping.”
“You did your fair share of talking when you were his age,” I say teasingly.
Smiling, he taps the spoon on the side of the bowl, then sets the spoon in the sink. “So I’ve heard.”
“He looks like you.”
“He’s got his mamm’s heart. Her faith.”
The lightness of the moment gives way to solemnity. I want to say something to bring the smile back to his face, but the words don’t come and the moment is lost.
Picking up the mixing bowl, Adam carries it through the doorway to the stairs. I refill the old-fashioned water bottle, snag a towel off the counter, and follow. At the top of the stairs I hear the boy talking animatedly, and I head toward the room at the end of the hall.
“The frost bit Datt on the heel when we went deer hunting last winter.” His voice floats down the hall, making me smile. “He didn’t even feel it because he’s so big and strong.”
I enter the room to find Lizzie and Annie sitting on the side of their older brother’s bed, fascinated by the tall tale they’re being told. Adam stands just inside the doorway, holding the bowl. Gina kneels next to the bed. She’s holding a stuffed animal—a faceless black-and-white cow—simulating that it’s walking on Sammy’s tummy. The boy is enjoying the game and giggles each time the cow decides to “buck” him with its little horns.
The sight of Gina—with her wild hair, snug blue jeans, and reckless smile—on the floor next to an indisposed Amish boy is so contradictory to everything I know about her, I pause in the doorway and take in the scene. I’m aware of Adam standing in front of me. He, too, has stopped. I don’t need to see his face to know his eyes are on Gina.
The boy’s face lights up at the sight of his father. “My feet aren’t cold anymore, Datt.”
Adam moves to the small table next to the bed and sets down the bowl. “Still have to put the greidah-ayl on your heels,” he says, using the Deitsch word for ointment.
Sammy eyes the bowl with suspicion, and his smile fades.
“Take off your socks and let’s have a look at those toes,” Adam tells him.
The boy pulls up the blankets, revealing feet covered with well-used socks.
I cross to the bed and pass the water bottle to him. “Set this against your tummy,” I tell him. “It’ll help warm you up.”
He grins. “Ja.”
Gina raises her hand and holds her nose. “Those are some pretty stinky toes,” she tells the boy. “Are you sure you want to save them? Maybe we ought to just cut them off and feed them to the chickens.”
Annie lets out a squeal that’s part delight, part horror. Sammy’s mouth opens an instant before he realizes she’s kidding, and the three children burst out laughing.
“Mamm always said me and Datt have the stinkiest feet in the whole house,” he proclaims with no small amount of pride.
“I’ve no doubt,” I murmur, but I’m smiling.
Adam tugs the boy’s socks from feet that are still red from the cold. The heels are, indeed, pale but I don’t see any telltale signs of serious frostbite. He’s in the process of rubbing the unguent into the toes and heels when my cell phone vibrates.
I glance down and see Tomasetti’s name pop up on the display. Excusing myself, I leave the room and duck into the hall. “Did you make your meeting with Denny?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “We need to talk.”
I know immediately from his tone that something has changed. That it’s not good. “What’s going on?”
“Not on the cell. I’m on my way.”
* * *
I’ve just taken my cell out to the Explorer to charge when I hear the snowmobile zipping up the lane. I stand in the driveway and watch as Tomasetti slides to a stop next to my vehicle and pulls off his helmet.
John Tomasetti isn’t much of a hugger. He’s not the sentimental type. And he’s pretty good at keeping his emotions under lock and key. He doesn’t quite succeed as he crosses to me and leans in for a kiss.
“Farm is kind of quiet without you around,” he murmurs.
“You’re not insinuating I talk too much, are you?” I ask.
“Well…”
I ease away from him, tilt my head for a better look, see a flicker of something that gives me pause. “Okay,” I say. “Lay it on me.”
“There’s something else going on with Colorosa.”
“Not to state the obvious, but that could be the understatement of the year.”
“I drove to Columbus this morning and met with Denny,” he tells me, referring to Special Agent Supervisor Denny McNinch. “I told him everything. When I brought up the possibility of police corruption in Columbus, he clammed up, wouldn’t talk about it. Even when I pushed, he wouldn’t confirm or deny much.”
“Tomasetti, what does that mean?”
He shrugs. “If I were to venture a guess, I’d say there’s another agency involved, there’s an ongoing investigation, it’s hot and being kept under wraps.”
“Which agency?”
Another shrug. “My guess would be FBI. If we’re dealing with organized corruption inside a police department, even if it’s contained to a unit or involves just a few individuals, that’s extremely sensitive information. No one’s going to discuss it, at least not while it’s ongoing.”