Page 4 of A Gathering of Secrets

In the light slanting out from my closet, I see my significant other, John Tomasetti, sit up and squint at the clock. His hair is mussed. Even in the dim light, I can see the overnight stubble on his jaw, concern sharp in his eyes.

“There’s a fire out at the Gingerich farm,” I tell him, shrugging into my shirt. “I got it covered. Go back to sleep.”

“Everyone okay?”

It’s always the first question asked by law enforcement. Property can be replaced. A life cannot. Grabbing my trousers, I walk over to the bed and step into them. “Teenage son is unaccounted for.”

“Well, shit.” He sits up, throws off the covers. “You want some company?”

“Or you could stay here and grab another couple hours of sleep.”

“I don’t have to be at the office until nine.”

Tomasetti is an agent for the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation and works out of the Richfield office, half an hour to the north. Painters Mill falls within his jurisdiction, so it wouldn’t be unusual for him to show up at a barn fire, especially with someone missing. I know one of these days our relationship—our living arrangement—will be discovered. This morning, with a teenage boy’s whereabouts unknown, Tomasetti will be an invaluable resource.

Grabbing my equipment belt and .38 from the drawer, I round the foot of the bed, buckling it as I reach him. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a glutton for punishment?”

“Anyone ever tell you how good you look in that thirty-eight?”

“Just you.”

Rising, he lays a quick kiss on me, his mouth lingering a beat too long, but I like it.

“Do you know the family?” he asks.

“Not well, but I’ve met them. They’re Amish. Well thought of.”

Stepping around me, he goes to the closet, yanks a shirt off a hanger. “Let’s hope Junior shows up before we get there.”

* * *

I turn in to the lane of the Gingerich farm to find one side of their massive bank barn engulfed in flames. The fire is so large, I could see the orange glow above the treetops from half a mile away, and I knew even before seeing it that the structure had sustained major damage.

A tanker from the Holmes County Fire District rattles past as I park out of the way on the grassy shoulder. Tomasetti’s Tahoe pulls up behind me as I’m getting out of my city-issue Explorer. A hundred yards away, yellow flames shoot forty feet into the air, licking at the night sky like a thousand fiery tongues.

Embers and ash swirl like snow all around. The stench of smoke, burning wood, and a myriad of other burning materials mingle with the smells of diesel fuel and exhaust. Four fire trucks from two districts are parked haphazardly in the gravel between the house and barn, engines rumbling. Closer to the structure, several firefighters man hoses, water trained on the flames.

I’m midway to the house when Tomasetti catches up with me. As we cross the side yard, I hear a whoosh! and the crack of breaking timber as part of the roof caves in. Sparks fly into the night sky.

“I hope they got the livestock out,” I say as we take the steps to the porch.

The door flies open before I can knock. An Amish woman rushes out, soot and panic on her face. Her kapp is askew; a cardigan she didn’t bother buttoning is thrown over the shoulders of her dress. She looks at me, her entire body shaking. “We can’t find Danny,” she blurts.

“Is everyone else accounted for?” I ask.

“Yes, but Danny should be here, too. In his room. I can’t find him anywhere.” She turns and goes back inside, leaving the door open.

Tomasetti and I follow. The living room smells of candle wax and a hint of smoke that’s wafted inside through the open windows. A lantern flickers from atop a homemade end table. The Amish woman leads us to the kitchen, where a second lantern casts a dome of yellow light on a big table surrounded by six chairs. The glimmer from the fire outside slants in through the window above the sink.

Without speaking, the woman goes to the back door, which is standing open, and steps onto the porch to stare at the burning barn. Beyond, an ocean of emergency vehicles, flashing lights, and firefighters clad in protective gear fill the space between the house and the barn.

“Danny is your son?” I ask.

“Ja.”

“How old is he?”

“Just turned eighteen.” She turns to me, her arms wrapped tightly around her midsection, her face ravaged.