Three days later Jonas was gone, and I never saw him again.
CHAPTER 30
Some nights are a bottomless pit of darkness filled with nightmares and the kinds of monsters your parents assured you didn’t exist. I’m almost surprised when I see the eastern horizon lighten with the first vestiges of dawn, and not for the first time I’m reminded that light always transcends the dark.
I’m standing on the loading dock at the rear of the old mill, smelling of pond water and mud, trying in vain not to shiver. My forearm aches with every beat of my heart. My clothes and hair are damp, cold, and uncomfortable. Despite all of it, I’m damn glad to be alive.
The occasional bark of a police radio emanates from the front of the building. Voices echo inside as the sheriff’s department wraps up their investigation. Upon their arrival, I spent two hours in the back seat of a departmental SUV, being pelted with questions by a short-tempered lieutenant and an investigator with the Pennsylvania State Police. In light of the circumstances—namely my admittance that I’d fired my weapon in self-defense—both men were particularly interested in locating my .38. I explained to them I likely dropped it in the creek when I fell. Though I’m a peace officer from a neighboring state, and I maintain a concealed-carry license in Ohio, which has a reciprocity agreement with Pennsylvania, they weren’t happy with me.
After I gave my statement, a young EMT wrapped my forearm and set me up with a sling to tide me over until I can get to the clinic in Lewistown for X-rays. He didn’t think it was broken, but thought I might have a hairline fracture. Six hundred milligrams of ibuprofen and I was on my way.
Henry Stoltzfus’s body was recovered a short while ago, half a mile downstream. The deputy I spoke with said the cause of death wasn’t evident. Much to my relief, there was no sign of a gunshot wound. He may have drowned or sustained an injury in the fall. The official cause and manner of death will be determined only after an autopsy.
Lambent sunlight, heavy with morning dew, slants down through the treetops to play on the surface of the creek. The water has receded, but the telltale debris is still piled against the spillway, as if in testament to the violence of the night. I can’t stop thinking about those last minutes I spent with Henry Stoltzfus. The desperation etched into his features. The hopelessness and despair. I’ve gone over every detail a thousand times. Let the scene play out a dozen different ways. I’ve analyzed my every move, critiqued my every response, my every word. Could I have done something differently that might’ve saved his life?
“Katie?”
I turn to see Jonas coming up the steps leading to the loading dock. Shirt untucked. Hat missing. Clothes muddy and damp.
“Tell me I don’t look as bedraggled as you,” I say.
A smile whispers across his features as he crosses to me. “The bishop sees me without my hat and I could be in trouble.”
“You were a little busy pulling me out of the creek.”
“You’re okay?”
“Thanks to you.”
His eyes fall to the sling, but he doesn’t point out the obvious. “The deputy said Henry Stoltzfus is gone.”
“They found him downstream.” I’m too raw to say anything more.
To his credit, he doesn’t press.
For the span of a full minute, we stand there, looking out across the water. On the other side of the stream, a turtle crawls onto a log to catch a ray of sun. Once again, I’m stunned by the lush beauty of this place. And I’m shocked all over again that so much violence could play out in such a pretty spot.
“I think Henry murdered Ananias,” I say.
He cocks his head as the repercussions sink in. “He admitted it?”
I did what I had to do.
I weigh my response and nod. “In a roundabout way.”
“Did he say why?”
I hit the highlights of our exchange. “At some point, he must have figured out what his father was. Who he was. A charlatan. A liar. Maybe a killer.” I shrug. “He saw it as a betrayal. And he snapped.”
My datt was not a good man.
Henry’s voice comes to me as clearly as if he’s standing next to me. For an instant, I’m transported back in time. The sight of him charging. The discharge of my weapon. The seconds I spent beneath the surface of the water, not knowing if I’d make it out.
“To be raised Amish,” Jonas says. “And find out that your parents lied about who they are. That they are not Amish. To learn that your father may have done terrible things.” He shrugs. “Those are big lies to live with. To forgive.”
“It must have thrown his entire existence into question. Everything he believed in.”
“He would have let me go to jail for something I didn’t do.”
“He didn’t approve of you or father’s ideals,” I tell him. “He thought you were bad for the Amish community and he wanted you out of the picture. He knew the history between you and Ananias. That there was bad blood, and he put that to work.”
“But he was Amisch.” Of all the things Henry Stoltzfus did, that he betrayed the Amish doctrine seems to bother him the most. “I can’t understand that.”
“I’ve been doing this a long time, Jonas. People rationalize what they do. They make excuses. Lie to themselves. It’s a protective mechanism, I think. That’s a powerful thing, especially when someone is desperate.” I shrug. “Maybe Henry justified what he did by convincing himself that getting you out of the picture would somehow heal or unite the church district.”
He nods, but I can tell by his expression he still can’t fathom how an Amish man could purposefully hurt—or kill—another human being. “And the rifle?” he asks.
“I suspect he’d seen it at some point in the mudroom. Had he ever been in your house?”
“We were never close … but we’re Amish.” He shrugs. “We’ve had worship at our place a time or two. It’s possible.”
“So he knew it was there. He either went into your house when no one was home, or at night, while everyone was sleeping. He used it to kill Ananias and left it at the scene, so it would be tied back to you.”
His brows knit. “What about the hand bones?”
“He was afraid fingerprints would identify his father, not as the Amish man he claimed to be, but a German soldier with a shady past—or worse.” I give another shrug. “We’ll never know the whole story.”
Jonas shoves his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know how you did what you did, but I’m a thankful man. You went through a lot and even though you were hurt, you didn’t stop.” He slants a look at me and smiles. “You still play to win, no?”
“I’ve been accused of being persistent.”
“A time or two.” Thoughtful, he looks out across the water. “You’ll be going back to Painters Mill. To that man you’re going to marry. Your life as a police chief.”
I offer my best smile. “All of the above.”
His gaze shifts back to me and the space between us charges, like the air in the seconds before a lightning strike. For a fleeting instant, I’m that fifteen-year-old Amish girl again. The one who’d loved him with all my woman’s heart and missed him so much I wanted to die.