His face hit the ground. Nose breaking on impact. A spread of pain he couldn’t quite feel. Grit in his mouth. The earth cold against his skin, winter-dead grass scratching his belly. He spit out a tooth, felt the gap with his tongue. He acknowledged the seriousness of his injury. A panic he couldn’t react to. He lay still, his mind floating above him. Why couldn’t he get up? Why couldn’t he run?
Only then did it occur to him he’d been shot. That he was badly injured, bleeding, and unable to move. He watched his attacker approach and stop a few feet away. He wanted to look up. To know what those eyes would reveal …
“You cannot fool God,” came the voice he knew so well. “He sees in your heart the things that others cannot.”
He tried to reply, but his mouth was suddenly full. He opened it, tasted the salt of blood, felt the warmth of it as it flowed onto the ground. He saw the black steel of the rifle as it was lowered. He tried to focus, but his eyes rolled back. The muzzle nudged his temple. So cold against his skin. The smell of gun oil in his nostrils.
Closing his eyes, he listened to the screech of the windmill. The shifting of the vane. The whisper of wind through the grass.
An explosion of white light.
Another clap of thunder.
And the windmill ground to a halt.
CHAPTER 1
Eighteen years later
Doyle Schlabach was glad he’d purchased the mules. Datt had gone with him to the horse auction down to Belleville last winter and argued against the purchase. Get the Belgians, he’d said. They pull better; they’re stronger. Doyle would never argue with his datt about anything, much less livestock, but while the two jennies weren’t quite as strong as their equine cousins, they suited his needs just fine. They were smart and willing and easier to keep, too. According to the breeder, their donkey dam had been bred to a Dutch draft sire. As far as Doyle was concerned, there wasn’t another team in the entire valley that could outpull these two. And they didn’t eat him out of house and home.
He was cutting hay in the south field this morning. It was a new field he’d added to his farm when the old Duffy farm went up for auction. He’d gotten a good deal on the thirty-five acres. With Datt’s help, he’d demolished the old barn, cleared the land, plowed it, and seeded for alfalfa. God had blessed the valley with an abundance of spring rain, and the hay was bountiful. It was going to be the best year he’d ever had.
The June sun beat down on the back of Doyle’s neck as he steered the mules across the field. The smell of fresh-cut alfalfa filled his nostrils, and not for the first time today he thanked God for the bounty that had been bestowed upon him. He thought about the mock turtle soup he would be eating for lunch, and his mouth watered. He jiggled the lines to hurry the mules along.
“Kumma druff!” he called out. Come on there!
The clinking of the harnesses mingled with the rapid patter-patter of the sickle and lulled him into the state of peace he always felt when he worked the fields.
He’d just reached the far end and was in the process of side-passing the mules to turn around and cut the final swatch when the sickle bar clanked against a rock.
“Whoa.” Doyle stopped the mules. “Was der schinner is letz?” he growled. What in the world is wrong?
This wasn’t a particularly rocky area, but he’d run across a few in the course of plowing and seeding. Rocks in a hayfield spelled trouble, and the last thing he needed before lunch was a broken blade.
Leaning, he looked down at the spot where the sickle hovered above the ground and spotted the culprit. A big rock. Limestone, judging from the color. Muttering beneath his breath, he tied off the lines, set the brake, and climbed down. He went to the sickle bar and knelt. He reached for the rock, intent on chucking it over the fence and into the woods, but his hand froze mid-reach. The hairs at his nape prickled when his fingers made contact.
Doyle picked up the object and knew immediately it wasn’t a rock. It was too light, hollow-feeling, and the surface was too smooth. He brushed away the dirt, turned it over in his hands. A creeping sensation skittered across his shoulders when he saw the jut of teeth. The eye sockets. The black hole of a nose. Doyle was an avid hunter; he butchered his own stock. He knew perfectly well what an animal skull looked like. This did not belong to an animal.
Lurching to his feet, Doyle dropped the skull and stepped back, nearly tripped over the sickle bar. He was suddenly aware of his proximity to the woods, the shadows within, the stories he’d heard as a kid about this place. Gooseflesh rose on his arms, despite the heat of the day. The sensation of eyes on his back was so strong he turned and looked to the place where the old barn had once stood. But there was no one there.
Schnell geiste, he thought. Ghosts.
His legs shook as he backed away. He couldn’t take his eyes off the skull. He climbed onto the mower, settled onto the steel seat. His hands shook as he pulled the lever to lift the cutting blade.
He picked up the lines. “Kumma druff!” he called out to the jennies. “Ya!”
Hay forgotten, he urged the mules into a lope.
CHAPTER 2
There is a vibrancy in downtown Painters Mill on Saturday mornings. A pulse that beats a little faster. An energy that beckons motorists to roll down their windows as they idle down Main Street and drink in the sights of small-town USA. Or if they have time, plunk twenty-five cents into one of the vintage parking meters and spend the afternoon shopping.
My name is Kate Burkholder and I’m the chief of police of this charming little hamlet. I was born here and raised Amish, but left the fold when I was eighteen. I spent several years in nearby Columbus, Ohio, where I emerged from the mess I’d made of my life to earn my GED and a degree in criminal justice, and I eventually found my way into law enforcement. I spent years learning how to not be Amish. And though it was a time of profound personal and professional growth, it didn’t take long for me to realize I missed home.
When the position of chief became available, I came back. Though I’ve remained Anabaptist, I’ve never returned to my Amish roots. For a lot of reasons, some of which I still haven’t reconciled. I’m working on mending fences with my family. Some members of the Amish community still won’t speak to me, but I don’t let it get to me. Painters Mill is home, and like most relationships, it’s a work in progress.
As chief of police, I’m off duty the majority of weekends, unless there’s an emergency or I’m filling in for one of my officers. The only reason I’m in town this morning is to pick up a birdhouse for my significant other, John Tomasetti. He’s an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation, the best friend I’ve ever had, and the love of my life. His birthday is next week. I ordered the birdhouse from an Amish cabinetmaker who runs a workshop just off the main drag. He promised to have it ready this morning and I can’t wait to get it home.
I’m in the Explorer, inching down Main Street, when a call on my police radio snags my attention.
“Ten-six-A,” comes my weekend dispatcher’s voice, using the ten code for “parking obstruction.”
I reach for my mike. “What’s the twenty on that, Margaret?”
“Main Street, Chief. I just took a call from Joe Neely. Some kind of disturbance outside his shop.”