“What happened?” I ask as I start toward her.
The Amish woman is disheveled, hair sticking out from beneath her kapp. Sockless feet jammed into plain white sneakers. All of it telling me she was roused from sleep with no time to dress properly.
“They just came pounding on the door.” She brandishes the warrant, the papers rattling because her hand is shaking. “Gave me this. Said they were going to search that old well out back.”
“A water well?” Even as I say the words, I take the warrant and skim. Executed in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. The warrant application was approved by the district attorney. In the description of the premises to be searched is the address of the home, but neither the house nor the workshop is listed. Instead, the area to be searched is listed as a nonoperational water well.
Farther down, I come to the place on the page where the specific evidence to be obtained is listed.
Firearms, ammunitions, biological evidence, multimedia devices, and any other physical evidence related to the crime in question.
Puzzled, I look at Dorothy. “Do you have any idea what they’re looking for?”
“I can’t imagine.” She shakes her head. “That well’s an old thing that was here when we bought the property. I’ve asked Jonas a dozen times to fill it in to make sure no one fell in.”
“Mamm!”
The three of us spin to see Junior burst through the front door. “They’re beating up Reuben!”
“Oh, Lord.”
“Stay put,” I tell them. Then I’m through the door, the living room and kitchen. I hit the back door with both hands. I spot lights through the trees as I take the steps two at a time to the walkway. I hear raised voices, but I’m too far away to make out what’s being said. The one thing that’s clear is that there’s some kind of scuffle taking place, and if I don’t get there quickly to deescalate the situation, Reuben might end up in jail with his father.
I yank my mini Maglite from my pocket as I jog across the grass. I enter the trees, see a deputy sheriff.
Flashlight in hand, he strides toward me. “Ma’am!”
“I’m a cop,” I tell him. “What happened?”
“You can’t be out here,” he says.
“I know, but there’s a minor child over there.” I slow down, keep moving toward the lights and the sounds of a heated confrontation. “Can you give me a hand?”
I’m aware of the deputy following me, keeping pace though I’m moving fast.
Another ten yards and I catch a glimpse of two deputies kneeling over someone on the ground. Reuben. Facedown. Arms behind his back. Shit. Shit.
“Reuben.” I slow, take a moment to crank it down a notch, calm myself. “He’s a minor child,” I say to the cops. “I can help.”
“Get her out of here!” a deputy shouts.
A second starts toward me. Face grim. Mouth taut. “Ma’am.”
“I’m a cop.” I point at Reuben. “A family friend. Let me get him out of your hair.”
The deputy stops a few feet away. In his eyes, I see a reluctant acknowledgment of the connection I’d been hoping for. The blue brotherhood. Right or wrong or somewhere in between, he’s recognized that I’m one of them. However tenuous the connection, I seize it, hold it tight.
“I’m the chief of police in Painters Mill, Ohio,” I tell them. “I need someone to tell me what the hell is going on.”
One of the deputies that had been kneeling next to Reuben gets to his feet. He’s sweating and disheveled. Pissed off. Leaves and dirt stuck to sweat-slicked arms. “If you want to keep this little shit out of jail, I suggest you take him to the house. Right now.”
“No problem.” I reach them as both men haul Reuben to his feet. The Amish boy’s shirt isn’t buttoned. His skinny, white chest is heaving and covered with dirt and dried grass. Hands cuffed behind his back. Single suspender dangles at his hip. He’s not wearing a hat. Head hanging down. Eyes not meeting mine.
“Bleiva roowich,” I say to Reuben. Stay calm.
The boy raises his eyes to mine, but he quickly looks back down at the ground.
“I can take it from here, guys,” I say to both deputies. “Thank you.” I turn my attention to the pissed-off deputy. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he says nastily.
I jab a thumb at Reuben. “He won’t cause any more problems.”
The boy looks at me as if I’ve betrayed him and chokes out a sound of anger and frustration, his eyes sweeping to the deputy. “Eah sheeva mei mamm!” He pushed my mamm!
I point my finger at his face. “Don’t say another word.” I address him in English, my harsh tone leveled as much at the cops as at the boy.
Reuben hangs his head.
“Chief Burkholder.”
My heart sinks when I spot Rick Gainer approaching, the sergeant I spoke with at the sheriff’s department yesterday.
“Temper must run in the family.” He smiles, but his expression isn’t friendly.
“Teenagers aren’t exactly known for restraint,” I tell him.
He looks from the boy to me and frowns. “I’m an inch away from taking him down to juvie.”
I hold his gaze. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t. This family has been through a lot.”
In the too-long pause that follows, sweat breaks out on my back, at my nape. I feel my own temper rise, but I force it back. Finally, Gainer nods at the deputy holding Reuben. “Cut him loose.”
While the deputy unlocks the cuffs, I look past him at the well. “What are you guys looking for?” I ask Gainer.
“It’s all in the warrant.” It’s the standard-issue response when you don’t want to answer. I’ve uttered those very same words myself dozens of times.
“Timing is interesting,” I say. “You get some new information?”
He offers up a wouldn’t-you-like-to-know smirk.
I smile. “I guess you’re not going to cut me any slack, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
Keeping my expression neutral, I focus on the well. The stone wall surrounding the pit is about two feet high, some of which has collapsed. There’s no cover or bucket. The crime scene unit investigator has set up a work light on a scaffolding. A second investigator is in the process of lowering something into the well. A light? A camera? Both?
When the cuffs are off, Reuben looks at the deputy, awkward and sheepish, then at me.
“Let’s go,” I say firmly.
Reuben gapes at me, incredulity flaring in his eyes. “But they can’t—”
“Yes, they can.” I set my hand on his shoulder and squeeze. “They have a warrant.”
A sound of resignation and disappointment hisses between his lips. “I thought you knew how to stand up to people.”
I stop and face him. “There’s a difference between standing up for what’s right and getting yourself thrown into some juvenile detention center for no good reason. You should take a few minutes and think about that.”
He looks at me, nostrils flaring, mouth taut. At that moment, he looks so much like Jacob when he was that age that my chest aches.
“Go inside,” I tell him. “Ask your mamm to make coffee. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”