Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

CHAPTER 8

Irene and Perry Mast live on a mile-wide swath of farmland cut into national forest fifty miles north of Buck Creek. According to Goddard, the farm is over two hundred years old. During the Civil War, the house was part of the Underground Railroad, a stopping point for African slaves escaping to Canada. Now the Masts run a large hog operation and farm corn and soybeans.

Dusk has fallen by the time Tomasetti and I turn into the narrow gravel lane. It’s bordered on both sides by vast fields of corn as high as a man’s head. I catch the telltale whiff of hog manure as we speed toward the house. Most Amish farms are neat and well managed, the kinds of idyllic places photographers like to capture for postcards or coffee-table books. That’s not the case with the Mast farm.

The lane curves right and a sprawling brick house with peeling white paint and a rusty tin roof looms into view. Ahead, a massive barn with red paint weathered to brown greets us like a grizzled old friend. Looking through the fence rails, I see a dozen or so Hampshire hogs rooting around in mud so deep, their bellies scrape the surface.

The farm has a depressed, overused look to it, as if the people who own it no longer have the will to maintain it. I wonder if the loss of their son nine years earlier has anything to do with it.

Tomasetti steers the Tahoe around deep ruts and parks adjacent to the fence. “Damn place stinks,” he says as he slides out.

“Pigs,” I tell him as I start toward the house. “Poorly managed manure pit.”

“Great.” We share a look, and I know he’s thinking about the case we worked last winter, when three family members perished in the cesspit on their farm.

“There’s a light in the metal building over there.”

His voice jerks me back to the present, and I follow his finger as he points. Set back a short distance from the barn, a large windowless steel building looks out of place among the older wood structures. The sliding door stands open about three feet and dim yellow light slants through the opening.

A narrow dirt path cut into knee-high grass takes us toward the shed. We’re fifteen feet from the door when I notice several objects the size of soccer balls in the grass. At first, I think they’re decorative rocks. I’m nearly upon them before I realize they’re severed hog heads.

Tomasetti actually takes a step back, sends me a “What the fuck?” look.

“They’re probably slaughtering hogs,” I explain.

“Well, if the smell of shit isn’t bad enough, let’s just throw in a couple of severed heads.”

“You want to wait out here?”

He stares down at the heads in disgust. “This is going to ruin the whole baby back rib thing for me.”

Grinning, I go through the door. “Man up, Tomasetti.”

I grew up on a farm where the slaughter of livestock was a routine part of life. I bore witness to the process a dozen times before I was old enough to realize how much I hated it. Sense memories, I think, and I’m surprised at how vividly those days come rushing back.

The smell of dirt and manure and the salty copper stench of blood assaults my senses when I enter the building. A lantern hangs from a wire strung between two rafters and casts yellow light in all directions. A buggy with a missing wheel is parked a few feet away, its dual shafts angling down to the floor. Steel livestock panels lean against the wall. Next to them, an aluminum trough is tipped onto its side. A dozen or more burlap bags filled with some type of grain are stacked neatly atop a flatbed wagon, a good bit of yellow corn spilling onto the floor. Beyond, a shadowy hall leads toward the rear of the building.

“Hello?” I call out as I scan the shadows. I notice the stairs to my right, which lead up to some type of loft. I’m about to call out a second time, when the unmistakable sound of a gunshot explodes.

Next to me, Tomasetti drops down slightly and draws his sidearm. “Where did it come from?”

I pull my .38. “I don’t know. The hall, maybe.”

A guffaw of laughter draws our attention. I glance toward the hall, where I see a short Amish man with bowed legs emerge from the shadows. He wears a light blue work shirt with dark suspenders and a straw hat. A black rubber bib is tied at his waist, and he’s laughing his ass off—at us.

“Can I help you?” He barely gets the words out before breaking into laughter again, bending at the waist and slapping his knees. When he straightens, I see tears on his cheeks.

I holster my .38 and try not to feel like an idiot. “Mr. Mast?”

Tomasetti isn’t amused, and he doesn’t relinquish his pistol.

“I’m Benjamin Yoder.” Chuckling, wiping at the tears with his sleeve, the man hobbles over to us. “My wife and I live next door. I’m helping Perry butcher the hogs.” He looks at Tomasetti, his eyes twinkling. “You thought the hogs were shooting back, eh?”

Tomasetti holsters his weapon. “For Chrissake.”

I can’t help it; I laugh—a big belly laugh that feels good coming out. Yoder joins me, and I swear I hear Tomasetti chuckle.

After a moment, I extend my hand to Yoder. “I’m Kate Burkholder.”

Wiping his eyes with his left hand, he pumps my hand with the other. “Hello, Kate Burkholder. That’s a good strong name.” He turns his attention to Tomasetti and the men shake.

“We’re with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation,” Tomasetti tells him. “Are the Masts home?”

Yoder’s expression falls somber. “You have news of Noah?”

“Just a few routine questions,” Tomasetti tells him.

We both know none of this is routine for the families of the missing.

“Come this way.” Yoder limps toward the hall. “I’ll take over so he can talk to you.”

I don’t miss the revulsion on Tomasetti’s face as we pass by a stainless-steel bin filled with severed hog hooves, and I know the slaughter room is the last place he wants to be. Of course he won’t admit it, and he falls in next to me. But I suspect it might be a while before he indulges in those baby back ribs.

Yoder leads us down a short hall. Ahead, lantern light spills through a wide door. The stink of fresh manure and blood is stronger here. I can hear the pigs grunting and moving around in the chutes to my right, and I wonder if the animals know their fate. I’m aware of our footsteps on the concrete floor, my heartbeat thudding in my ears. I’ve never been squeamish, but my stomach seesaws when we reach the room.

Yoder enters first. Tomasetti and I stop at the doorway. The room is about twenty feet square. The air is overly warm and unpleasantly humid. But it’s the smell that unsettles me. Corrugated steel panels comprise the walls. In the center of the room, a dead hog hangs suspended by a single rear leg, a chain wrapped around the area between the hoof and hock. The chain is attached to a pulley affixed to a massive steel beam overhead. A second Amish man, presumably Perry Mast, stands next to the dead animal with a large knife—the sticking knife—in hand. There’s a drain cut into the concrete floor and blood still drips from the hog’s snout.

“Fuck me,” Tomasetti mutters.

“Maybe we can do this outside,” I hear myself say.

Yoder looks at the hog approvingly. “That’s a good bleed, Perry,” he says.

The other man doesn’t even look up. With gloved hands, he shoves the giant carcass toward a massive steaming vat. I don’t want to watch what comes next, but I can’t look away. I remember my datt and brother doing the same thing. They called it “the scalding tank.” Not bothering with gloves, Yoder jumps in to help guide the carcass toward the vat. He quickly checks an industrial-size thermometer and nods. Using the pulley and chain, they lower the carcass into the hot water.

“Mir hen Englischer bsuch ghadde,” Yoder says when the carcass is lowered. We have non Amish visitors.

Mast finally glances at us. “Es waarken maulvoll gat.” There’s nothing good about that.

Yoder lowers his voice and, speaking in Pennsylvania Dutch, tells him about us drawing our sidearms. Yoder breaks into laughter again, unabashedly amused. Mast’s reaction is more subtle. If I hadn’t been watching him, I would have missed the whisper of a smile on his lips.

He motions toward the hog. “When the hair slips easily, pull it out. I won’t be long.”

Without looking at us, he peels off his gloves and removes his blood-spattered apron. He tosses both on the scraping table and starts toward us. Perry Mast is a tall, thin man with sagging jowls and hound-dog eyes. He wears black work trousers with a dark blue shirt, black suspenders, a black vest, and a flat-brimmed straw hat.

“I am Perry Mast,” he says by way of greeting.

Tomasetti and I introduce ourselves, letting him know we’re with BCI. Neither of us offers our hand.

“Is this about my son?” he asks.

The question is clearly devoid of hope. And I wonder how many times during the last nine years he asked other law-enforcement officials the same question. I wonder how many times their answers tore the last remnants of hope from his heart.

“I’m sorry, no. There’s a girl who’s missing,” I tell him. “An Amish girl. Annie King.”

“Ja.” He closes his eyes briefly. “I heard.”

Tomasetti motions toward the door. “Is your wife home, Mr. Mast? We’d like to speak with her, as well.”

Mast looks as if he’s going to refuse; then his shoulders slump and he seems to resign himself to unavoidable unpleasantness. “This way,” he says, and leads us through the door.

A few minutes later, Perry Mast, Tomasetti, and I are sitting at the table in their small, cluttered kitchen. The interior of the house isn’t much neater than the exterior. Dozens of jars of canned fruits and vegetables cover every available surface on the avocado green countertops. A hand-painted bread box—perhaps from the Branch Creek Joinery—encloses a crusty loaf of bread. A well-seasoned cast-iron skillet sits atop the big potbellied stove. The open cabinets expose stacks of mismatched dishes—blue Melmac and chipped pieces of stoneware—and sealed jars of honey with chunks of honeycomb inside. Homemade window treatments dash the final vestiges of daylight, giving the kitchen a cavelike countenance. A kerosene-powered refrigerator wheezes and groans. The lingering sulfur stink of manure has me thinking twice about coffee.

Irene Mast stands at the counter, running water into an old-fashioned percolator. She’s a substantial woman, barely over five feet tall, with thinning silver hair and a bald spot at her crown. She wears a light blue dress with a white apron and low-heeled, practical shoes. The ties of her kapp dangle down her back. She hasn’t said a word since we were introduced a few minutes ago, but she immediately set about making coffee and bringing out a tin of peanut-butter cookies.

“I understand you’re a deacon, Mr. Mast,” I say.

The man looks down at the plate in front of him, gives a single, solemn nod.

“It is a heavy burden,” Irene tells me.

“We’d like to talk to you about your son, Noah,” Tomasetti begins.

The woman’s back stiffens at the mention of her son, but when she turns to us, her expression is serene. “It’s been nine years now.” She doesn’t look at us as she pours coffee into cups.

That’s when I notice the fourth place setting: a plate and silverware, a cup for coffee, a plastic tumbler for milk.

“Nine years is a long time,” I say.

Irene sets a plate with two cookies on it in front of me. “At first, we hoped, you know. We prayed a lot. But after so much time . . . we’ve come to believe he is with God.”

“Do you believe he left of his own accord?” I ask. “Or do you think something bad happened to him?”

The Amish man looks down at the plate in front of him. He’s got blood spatter on his shirt, a red smear on the back of his neck. He didn’t wash his hands when he came in.

“Noah got into some trouble,” Perry says. “The way young men do sometimes.”

“What kind of trouble?” I ask.

“The drinking, you know. The listening to music. And he liked . . . the girls.”

“He confessed his sins before the bishop,” Irene adds.

In the eyes of the Amish, confessing your sins is the equivalent of a “Get out of jail free” card. No matter how heinous the offense, if you confess, you are forgiven.

“The English police say Noah wanted to leave the plain life,” Perry says after a moment. “I don’t know who told them that. We don’t believe it. We never did.”

“Noah loved being Amish.” Emotion flashes in Irene’s eyes. “He was a humble boy with a kind and generous heart.”

“What do you think happened to him?” Tomasetti asks.

Perry shakes his head. “We don’t know. The things the Englischers say . . .” His voice trails off, as if he’s long since tired of saying the words.

I skimmed the file that had been amassed on Noah before leaving the sheriff’s office. A missing-person report was filed. People were interviewed, searches conducted. The cops—and most of the Amish, too—believed the boy ran away.

“What did the Englischers say?” I ask gently.

The Masts exchange a look, and an uncomfortable silence falls. We let it ride, giving them some time.

“There were rumors.” Perry grimaces. “And not just among the English. Some of the Amish young people . . . knew things.”

“Idle gossip.” His wife sends him a sharp look. “All of it.”

Tomasetti trains his attention on Perry. “Like what?”

The Amish man stares into his coffee. “There is a man. Gideon Stoltzfus. He used to be plain, but he could not abide by the Ordnung and was put under the bann. I’ve heard he helps young Amish men leave the plain life.”

“He is a Mennischt.” Irene spits the word for Mennonite as if it has a bad taste.

“After Noah disappeared, we found out he’d been in touch with Stoltzfus.” Perry blows on his coffee and slurps. I see blood under his fingernails, cookie crumbs in his beard, and I look away. “We believe Gideon may have filled Noah’s young mind with untruths about the Amish.”

“The Mennonites recruit,” Irene says.

Being formerly Amish myself, I know men like Stoltzfus exist. There’s a man in Painters Mill who helps young Amish leave the lifestyle. He runs a sort of Underground Railroad, giving them a place to stay while they transition. Contrary to what the Masts believe, these men are not the brainwashing monsters they’re made out to be, but a bridge to an alternative lifestyle. But if Noah met with Stoltzfus, it wasn’t in the file.

“Do you think Stoltzfus helped Noah leave?” I ask.

“I don’t know what to believe.” Taking a final sip of his coffee, Perry gets to his feet. “I need to get back to work.”

Tomasetti and I rise simultaneously. Neither of us touched the cookies or coffee.

“Thank you both for your time,” I say.

Without speaking, Perry, Tomasetti, and I start toward the door. I’m keenly aware of the silence in the house, broken only by the clink of dishes as Irene clears the table and the hollow thud of our boots on the floor, and I can’t help but think that this is a very lonely house.

We’re midway through the mudroom when Irene calls out, “If you find our Noah, you’ll bring him back to us, ja?”

Perry continues toward the door, not even acknowledging her. Tomasetti and I stop and turn. “If we learn anything new, you’ll be the first to know,” I tell her, and we step into the night.

Tomasetti and I are midway down the lane before speaking. “What do you think?” he asks as he turns onto the highway that will take us to Buck Creek.

“Kid’s been gone nine years and they still set the table for him.” I sigh. “That’s one sad, lonely couple.”

“Losing a kid . . .” He grimaces. “Fucks up your life.”

There are a lot of themes running through this case, threads that hit a little too close to home for both of us. I think about the parallels, the jagged lines that connect us in so many unexpected ways. “It’s interesting that Noah Mast and Annie King had talked about leaving the Amish way of life,” I tell him.

“Do you think it’s relevant?” He turns onto a township road, the headlights washing over tall rows of corn. “Some kind of pattern?”

“I don’t know. But it’s unusual. Most Amish kids are content to remain Amish. They’re happy and well adjusted. Tomasetti, something like eighty percent of kids go on to be baptized.”

“Maybe it’s a connection.”

I glance at the dash clock. Another hour has flown by. It’s already nine o’clock. “Let’s go talk to talk to Stoltzfus.”

Tomasetti cuts me a look, and in the dim glow of the dash lights, I see him smile. “Get Goddard on the horn and get an address.”

I call Goddard for the address while Tomasetti pumps gas. According to the sheriff, the formerly Amish man lives a quiet life and keeps his nose relatively clean. I relay the highlights to Tomasetti as we enter the corporation limits of Buck Creek.

“Thirty-two-year-old white male. One arrest. No convictions. He’s worked at the Martin-Bask Lumberyard for six years. Unmarried. No known children.”

“Sounds like a pretty boring guy.”

“Except he runs an Underground Railroad for young Amish people trying to leave the lifestyle and was known to speak to at least one Amish teen who is now missing.”

“Guess that excludes him from the boring category.” Tomasetti turns onto Township Road 5 and heads south. “What was the arrest for?”

“Trespassing.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Goddard remembered the incident. Apparently, a local Amish man discovered Stoltzfus in his barn at four o’clock in the morning, having sex with his son.”

“Bet that was a shocker. Son over eighteen?”

I nod. “It was consensual. The Amish guy got in contact with the cops. They arrested Stoltzfus, filed a report. But once the complainant had a chance to think about the consequences—mainly, outing his son—he decided not to press charges.”

We zip past a mailbox at the mouth of a gravel lane, and Tomasetti hits the brakes. “That was it.” Throwing the Tahoe into reverse, he backs up and pulls in. A minute later, we park next to a white Ford F-150. A single porch light illuminates a two-car garage with a door in need of paint. A cord of split logs is stacked neatly against the west side. The house is a small white frame structure with green shutters and a deck in the back.

We exit the vehicle and take the sidewalk to the porch. Tomasetti knocks and we wait, watching each other, not speaking. Then the door swings open and I find myself staring at a baby-faced young man with brown hair and matching eyes. He wears a Metallica T-shirt with faded jeans and dirty white socks. His hair is sticking up on one side, and I suspect we roused him from a nap.

“Can I help you?”

I can tell by his inflection that he grew up Amish. He’s got that distinctive accent I recognize immediately.

“Gideon Stoltzfus?” Tomasetti presents his identification.

“Yeah.” He blinks at the ID. “What’s this about?”

“We’re working on a case and we’d like to ask you a few questions,” I say. “Can we come in?”

“Uh . . . sure.” He opens the door cautiously, as if expecting us to pounce on him and wrestle him to the ground.

We follow him to a small kitchen that smells of burned popcorn. The place is comfortable and relatively clean, but I can tell it’s a bachelor pad. Knotty-pine cabinets line robin’s egg blue walls. I see faux granite countertops. An obese dachshund lies on a grimy throw rug by the sink, probably deaf, because it didn’t bark when we entered. There’s a high-tech coffeemaker with a built-in grinder and timer. A tiny micro wave sets on the counter, its door standing open. Cheap art hangs on the wall. Country music rumbles in another part of the house. I hear the yappy bark of a second dog, which has apparently been barred access to visitors.

At the counter, Stoltzfus turns to us and shoves his hands into his pockets. “You want some coffee or something?” He motions to a small table that’s not quite large enough for three people.

“We’re fine.” Tomasetti’s smile looks like a snarl.

Stoltzfus is an unassuming man with a quiet demeanor. He’s wondering why we’re here. His eyes shift from Tomasetti to me and he begins to fidget. I wonder why he’s so nervous.

Tomasetti lets him sweat for a minute before asking his first question. “I understand you run an Underground Railroad for young people wanting to leave the Amish way.”

“Underground Railroad?” Stoltzfus laughs, but it’s a tight, tense sound.

Tomasetti glowers. “What’s so funny?”

Stoltzfus’s Adam’s apple bobs twice. “I’ve never heard it put like that. It sounds kind of dramatic.”

“Why don’t you clear things up for us and just tell us what you do,” I say.

His eyes flick again from Tomasetti to me. “Am I in some kind of trouble?”

“We just want to know how you work.” I offer my best girl-next-door smile. “Why don’t you start by telling us how you find the young people who need help.”

My reassurance seems to bolster him and he calms down. “Word of mouth, mostly. Buck Creek is a small town. People talk, and that includes the Amish. I usually hear about it when one of these kids wants to leave.”

“How do you make contact?”

“Usually, they contact me.”

“You used to be Amish?” I ask.

He looks down, and I realize whether he recognizes it or not, he’s still conflicted. “I’ve been gone ten years now.”

“Do you mind if I ask why you left?” I ask.

“I couldn’t abide by the rules. I mean, living without electricity and a car was bad enough. But I wanted to go to college.” He shrugs. “I didn’t want to be a farmer. I didn’t want that kind of future.”

“Any regrets?”

His eyes lock onto mine. “I miss my family. I have four younger sisters. They looked up to me.” He gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Hell, I still drive by the place. How pathetic is that?”

I find myself liking him despite my resolve to remain neutral. “You see your siblings?”

He breaks eye contact, looks down at his stocking feet. “Parents don’t want me seeing them. They think I’m a bad influence, I guess.”

I nod, understanding more than he could know. “What happens after a young person makes contact with you?”

“I offer him a place to stay. Lend him money if he needs it. Counsel him.” Stoltzfus likes to talk, I realize, and he’s warming to us. “It’s harder than most people think. Leaving, I mean. You see, when you’re Amish, your family is everything to you. It’s like they’re your whole universe. A lot of young people want to leave but don’t because of their families. So I give them a neutral place, without judging them, and without the pressure of their families or the elders.”

“You’re Mennonite now?”

He nods. “The religious beliefs are similar, but you don’t have to live your life as if it’s the eighteenth century.”

I pause to give Tomasetti an opening. “What can you tell us about Noah Mast?” he asks.

All semblance of tranquillity leaves Stoltzfus. His left eyelid begins to flutter. “I didn’t really know him. Noah was a few years younger than me, but I’d see him around. After I left, he got in touch with me and told me he wanted to leave. Asked me how to do it.”

“Did you help him?”

“I would have, but I never heard from him again.”

“At the time, had you been actively helping other Amish youths leave the lifestyle?”

“Well, I wasn’t organized about it, not like I am now. But yeah. I helped a couple kids back in those early days. I mean, it had been so hard for me.” Another nervous laugh. “I felt . . . compelled to help others.”

“What else can you tell us about Noah?” Tomasetti says the words amicably, but his stare is intense.

“Alls I remember is he told me he wanted out. I gathered he wasn’t getting along with his folks. I offered to help him.” Stoltzfus shrugs. “Next thing I know, he’s missing.

“Were you surprised?”

“Not really. I figured he’d just done it on his own.”

“Do you know Annie King?” Tomasetti asks.

His eyes go wide, and he begins blinking. He looks at us as if realizing he’s wandered into a lion’s den and his only escape is now blocked. “You guys don’t think I had anything to do with that, do you?”

“Did you know her?” Tomasetti repeats.

“No.”

“Did you have any contact with her?”

“No!”

“She didn’t approach you? Ask you to help her?”

“Lookit, I never met her. Never talked to her. And that’s the truth.”