One of the most telling things I look for is motivation. The presence of bones in the well doesn’t make sense on any level. For one thing, Jonas had no reason to remove the hands; he would have known that any body discovered would be assumed to be that of Ananias Stoltzfus. Even if, in a state of panic, he did remove the hands, why would he dispose of them on his own property? And who called in the anonymous tip? The discovery raises a hell of a lot more questions than it answers.
It’s ten P.M. now. I’m sitting at the table in my motel room, my laptop humming, a yellow legal pad open and scribbled upon. I’m tired, but too wired to sleep. The only thing I’ve managed to accomplish so far is a stiff neck.
One of the most troubling questions raised is the source of the anonymous tip. Who called the sheriff’s department? How did the caller know the bones were in the well? And why now? After eighteen years?
I pick up the pen and write: Who knew the bones were there?
The killer.
An accomplice?
“Why cut off the hands?” I whisper.
The killer would have known that removing the hands would do nothing to slow the identification process. Any human remains would be assumed to be that of a missing person. Furthermore, if Jonas had murdered Ananias Stoltzfus, why would he bury the body in a shallow grave in one location and then transport the victim’s hands to his own property and toss them in a well?
The short answer is, he wouldn’t.
Knowing I’m not going to figure it out tonight, I swivel to my laptop and type “MIA STOLTZFUS SUICIDE” into the search engine. Her death doesn’t produce many hits. I click on the first link—a newspaper out of Lewistown—and read.
WIFE OF AMISH BISHOP COMMITS SUICIDE IN LOCAL CHURCH
A spokesman with the Mifflin County Sheriff’s Department said the woman whose body was found at Big Valley Lutheran Church appears to be the victim of a suicide. Pastor Russell Zimmerman stumbled across the woman sprawled on the floor a few feet from the altar at 6 this morning.
The sheriff’s department spokesman said the death appears to be suicide, but left the final determination up to the county coroner.
Repeated calls for comment were not returned from the coroner’s office.
The woman, said to be Amish and in her 70s, was not named pending notification of family.
“Nothing like this has ever happened in Big Valley Lutheran Church before,” the pastor said. “Whatever problems she suffered with, she is now in the loving arms of our Lord and Savior.”
I go back to my search engine, but there’s no mention of the official cause or manner of death or if there was an investigation. Normally, a seemingly unrelated story wouldn’t be important in terms of the case I’m working on. But the suicide of Mia Stoltzfus is an anomaly in a growing list of anomalies. Not just her suicide, but that she did it in a Lutheran church and she was married to an Amish bishop who was later murdered. I’ve been around long enough to know that when those kinds of irregularities begin to stack up, it’s time to dig deeper.
I write down the address of the church and jot the name of the minister on my legal pad.
It’s midnight when I close my laptop. As I climb into bed and pull up the blankets, I decide to swing by the church in the morning, on my way to Lewistown. As Tomasetti likes to tell me: Sometimes it’s those seemingly random pieces of information that lead to something usable.
* * *
I sit bolt upright, disoriented, a gasp in my throat. For an instant, I’m not sure where I am. I reach for Tomasetti, find the place next to me vacant and cool. Then my mind clicks into place. I’m in Belleville. The motel.
What woke me so abruptly?
I stare into the darkness, listening. I’m aware of the symphony of crickets outside. The rumble of thunder from a distant storm. Sweat damp on the back of my neck. My heart beating too fast. That’s when I realize the room is humid and hot, despite the air conditioner rattling beneath the window. I glance at the door, see the dim column of light, and realize it’s standing open about a foot. I’d locked it before turning in.…
Adrenaline zips through me. I roll, reach for my .38 on the night table. I sense movement scant feet away. The rustle of clothes. The thud of feet against carpet. Someone rushing toward me …
Before I can grab the gun, a fist slams down on my arm. I swivel toward my attacker, sit up. Using the heel of my hand, I cuff him hard, make contact with a hard body, heavy clothing.
“I’m a cop!” I shout. “I’m armed! Stop!”
In the strobe of lightning that follows, I see the silhouette of a man. Tall and broad. Too close. Coming at me. My training kicks in. Leaning back, I raise both legs and kick him in the chest. He grunts, reels backward. His back strikes the wall.
I twist, lunge for my weapon, slap my hand down on it, fingers grappling. Not enough time to find my grip before his fist crashes down on my biceps. Electric pain zings up my arm. He sweeps my gun off the table. I hear it clatter to the floor. My .22 mini Mag is on the table, out of reach. I grab the lamp with both hands, draw back, swing it. He reaches for me, growling like an animal. A roar tears from my throat with the effort. But my position is bad. My aim is off. The shade crunches against the side of his head.
“Police officer!” I shout. “Get off!”
I barely get the words out when gloved hands snake toward me. I scramble back, but I’m not fast enough. Fingers close around my neck, the clamp of a vise, cutting off my air. I wrap my hands around his forearms, dig in with my fingers, try to pry them off. Simultaneously, he yanks me to my feet as if I weigh nothing. His strength stuns me. He wheels me around, thumbs digging into my throat, and shoves me to the ground. My back strikes the floor hard enough to send the breath from my lungs. He comes down on top of me, the weight of him crushing my chest, pinning me. I release his arms, punch his face with my fists. He doesn’t relent. I slap and claw at his face. Find an eye with my thumb, shove it into the socket.
Howling, he rears back.
“Get off, you son of a bitch!” I snarl.
A sharp slap against my temple sends stars flying in my peripheral vision. He clinches his hand to my throat, cutting off the blood flow to my head.
“Go back where you came from,” whispers a harsh voice.
I see the silhouette of his head against the light slanting in through the door. It’s too dark to make out details. He’s close enough for me to smell wet hair and stale breath and a body that isn’t quite clean.
Stars pinwheel before my eyes. I writhe beneath him, bring up my knees and ram them against his back. I slap and scratch at his arms, his face. My hand tangles in his shirt and I yank hard, tearing fabric. I seek his eyes with my thumbs. My efforts are futile. He’s stronger than me with the benefit of weight. I wonder if he’s going to kill me. If I pass out, will he keep squeezing? I think of Tomasetti and panic leaps in my chest.
I pry at his fingers as they dig into my throat, peel one off, bend it back hard, try to break it. Snarling, he straightens, pulls my head and shoulders off the floor, then bangs me down hard. Once. Twice. The back of my head thumps against the carpet, jarring my brain, scattering my thoughts. My vision blurs, dims.
“Leave town,” he growls.
Let go of me.
I open my mouth, try to speak, but nothing comes.