I watch the men shuffle out of my office, aware that I’ve broken a sweat beneath my shirt and there’s a weight in my gut that wasn’t there when they entered.
CHAPTER 3
My earliest memory of Jonas Bowman was an ice-skating outing on a cold and windy day on the farm where I lived with my family. I was eleven years old and I’d sneaked out of the house to join my brother and some other Amish boys for a game of hockey. They were older than me and when I arrived with my stick—borrowed from my brother, Jacob—and my ice skates, the other boys promptly excluded me from the game.
Undeterred, while two boys shoveled snow from the ice, I sat alone on the stump next to the bonfire and laced up, hoping they’d change their minds once they realized how good I was. When there was a good-size patch of ice cleared, I took my stick and skated out to warm up. I whizzed across bumpy ice, swatting at a make-believe puck, concentrating on my form, keeping an eye on the boys, hoping someone would notice me. At the far end of the pond, Marvin Beachy, whom I went to school with and was only a year older than me, was skating toward me, slapping his puck from side to side. I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but I stole the puck right out from under him. I zipped across the ice fast, skates digging in and spraying ice, looking for an ally to pass it to. I was midway across the pond when someone whistled. I heard a cheer, and my heart surged. I heard Marvin yelling, too, but I was so busy stealing his puck I couldn’t look.
“Hey! Look at her go!”
“She’s faster than Marvin!”
My chest swelled with pride. I heard myself laugh. Twenty feet from shore, Eddie Weaver stuck out his foot and tripped me. No chance to break my fall. I tumbled headlong into a pile of crushed ice and snow, cutting my palms right through my mittens and my knees despite two pair of tights.
“That’s what you get for stealing my puck!” Marvin yelled.
I extricated myself from the snow, rolled off the pile, and turned to see Marvin retake his puck. Next to him, Eddie Weaver leered, pleased he’d been the one to stop the female interloper. “Girls don’t play hockey,” he said.
“I do!” I shot back as I got to my feet.
Marvin pointed at me. “Yeah, look at those scrawny legs!”
Eddie snickered. “Bet her arms are just as scrawny.”
“Probably got a flat top, too,” muttered another boy, one I didn’t recognize.
The boys cracked up as if it was the funniest joke they’d ever heard.
My knees hurt, almost as much as my pride, but I wouldn’t have cried even if my leg was hanging by a thread of skin. Not in front of them. No, I was just stubborn enough to wait for the walk home.
I looked past them for my brother, but he was standing on the other side of the pond, leaning on the shovel he’d been using, watching. I’d hoped he would come to my defense; he knew I could play as well as these boys, at least the ones my age. And yet he said nothing.
As I stood on the frozen bank and watched them warm up, my knees aching, my eleven-year-old heart burning with outrage, Jonas skated over, frowning, his eyes on my knees. “Not bad for a half-pint,” he said.
Rolling my eyes, I brushed snow from my dress. “I’m not a half-pint.”
We watched the boys play for a moment; then he motioned at my knees. “You’re bleeding.”
I wanted to see the carnage, but I didn’t look. “Doesn’t hurt.”
“You’re pretty tough, aren’t you?”
“I’m a good hockey player is what I am.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a kerchief. “Here. Tie it on.”
“I don’t need it.”
“Yeah, you do.” His face split into a grin. Bringing his fingers to his mouth, he whistled. “I want Half-Pint on my team!” he called out.
I became the girl who could play hockey that winter. The one who—despite my size and gender—was never last when it came time to choose teams.
Jonas made one hell of an impression on my nonconformist psyche that day. The part of me that was still a child was dazzled that an older boy would stand up for me. The part of me that was edging into my preteen years had her breath taken away. I had no way of knowing I’d been swept off my feet and the breathlessness that made my chest swell was only a sampling of what lay ahead.
I’m thinking about that day on the ice when I pull into the lane of the farm Tomasetti and I share. After the three Amish elders left the station, I called the Mifflin County Sheriff’s Department, which is the law enforcement agency for Belleville, Pennsylvania. The deputy I spoke to didn’t know much about the case, but was able to confirm most of what the three men told me. Eighteen years ago, Bishop Ananias Stoltzfus and Jonas Bowman were involved in some type of dispute. Two months later, Stoltzfus disappeared. Jonas was questioned by the police, but there wasn’t enough evidence to arrest him and the DA refused to pursue a case based on circumstantial evidence alone.
The skeletal remains were discovered two months ago in a farmer’s field. The sheriff’s department searched the area and unearthed an old muzzleloader and a .50 caliber ball at the scene. Because the gun was an antique, it didn’t have a serial number. But when they took it to Jonas Bowman, he admitted the rifle was his and the arrest was made without incident.
Jonas was formally charged with second-degree murder and is being held at the Mifflin County Correctional Facility in Lewistown. Bail was set at five hundred thousand dollars. No trial date has been set. So far, he hasn’t posted bail. A quick internet search revealed that in the commonwealth of Pennsylvania, second-degree murder carries with it the possibility of life in prison.
I also called the Mifflin County Correctional Facility, only to learn they don’t allow incoming calls to inmates unless the call is from an attorney or an official involved in the case. I was able to locate Jonas’s attorney, but today is Saturday and, evidently, he doesn’t return calls on the weekend.
I park behind Tomasetti’s Tahoe, snatch the birdhouse from the rear of the Explorer, and head toward the house. I’m nearly to the back door when I hear music coming from the barn. One of the front sliding doors stands open a few feet. Hefting the shopping bag, I head that way.
Our barn is an old German-style bank barn that shows every one of its hundred or so years. I take the earthen ramp to the door and walk inside. I find Tomasetti standing next to a beat-up solid wood door that’s propped against the wall. He’s built a wood frame against that wall. It’s the height of a kitchen counter, and he’s clipped a work light to a shelf he added at some point. I haven’t seen any of the improvements he’s spent the last week or so making, and I’m reminded that I work too much.
I set the bag on the ground and take a moment to simply watch. He’s wearing faded jeans with scuffed work boots. There’s a tape measure in his right hand. Worn leather gloves. A box cutter sticking out of his back pocket. His shirtsleeves are rolled halfway up his forearms. His elbow peeks through a small hole in the fabric.
“Looks like an interesting project,” I say.
He glances at me over his shoulder. He doesn’t quite smile, but I see pleasure in his eyes. I grin because he’s happy to see me and he can’t quite hide it.