Page 10 of Disappeared

“Little Joe is sick?” I ask.

She shrugs. “That’s what I heard. Believe me, they don’t talk to me. If you want details, you’ll have to ask them.”

I thank her and head toward the door.

Last I heard that baby was sick, and that girl’s parents wouldn’t let her take him to the doctor. How’s that for good parenting?

The words dog me as I drive to the body shop owned and operated by Thomas McKee. The majority of Amish have no problem with the use of modern medicine. Some prefer to take a more holistic approach initially, but generally speaking most church district rules do not forbid doctor visits or medication. Is Shirley McKee badmouthing the Klines because Bonnie spurned her son? Or is there something else afoot that may or may not be related to the baby’s disappearance?

It’s seven A.M. when I pull into the parking lot of McKee Auto Body Shop. Two unoccupied vehicles sit near the front door. Through the slant of rain, I see the glow of a light in the window. I park as close as I can and hightail it inside. A buzzer sounds when I enter. The reception lights are off, but I hear music coming from someplace ahead, so I start that way.

At the end of a corridor, a door stands open a couple of feet. I go through it and find myself in a large, well-equipped garage. Two men in insulated coveralls stand next to a vintage Chevy. The hood is up and they’re looking at the engine with the intensity of a surgical team about to perform brain surgery. From speakers on the workbench a few feet away, the guitar of Jimi Hendrix wails a mournful refrain.

“That’s a nice-looking Camaro,” I say as I approach.

One of the men looks up, turns toward me, and flicks a cigarette to the floor as if he’s been caught with contraband. He’s in his early twenties with a barely-there beard, a sweat-stained cap, and well-worn coveralls smeared with grease. He does a double take when he recognizes my uniform jacket and looks around as if he’s worried I might see something I shouldn’t.

“We don’t open until seven thirty,” he calls out.

I continue walking toward him. “Nineteen sixty-eight?” I ask.

“Sixty-nine,” he mutters, eyeing me as if I’m here to arrest him for something he may or may not be guilty of.

“Looks brand new.” I reach the car and run my hand over the fender. “I like the metal flake.”

A reluctant grin curves his mouth. “She’s only got fifty thousand original miles on her. Had to replace the quarter panel. Painted her yesterday. Engine damn near purrs.”

I nod, keeping my eyes on the vehicle. “I’m looking for Thomas McKee. Is he here?”

“Ain’t seen him yet,” he tells me.

Just to keep things on the up-and-up, I remove my badge and hold it out for him to see. “Any idea where he is this morning?”

“No, ma’am.”

I turn my attention to the other man only to realize the person standing on the other side of the car isn’t a male at all, but female. I guess her to be in her late teens. She’s lanky and tall and dressed much the same as her male counterpart right down to the coveralls and cap, but any similarities end there. Her long brown hair is pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail. She’s pretty despite the lack of makeup and surly expression. Her big green eyes are familiar, though I don’t recall ever meeting her.

Stepping away from the vehicle, she gives me a dismissive once-over and follows it up with a scowl. “So what did my brother do now?” she asks.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I just need to talk to him,” I tell her. “It’s important.”

“Ain’t it always?” She slants a look at her coworker and sighs. “In case you’re not up to speed on all the latest gossip, according to the Painters Mill PD, Thomas is the next Al Capone.” She tosses some of that insolence at me. “Isn’t that right? He’s either speeding or drinking beer or, God forbid, leaving a little rubber on the road.”

“Aw, come on, Colleen.” The man next to her pats her arm. Not to comfort, but to rein her in, and I realize not only is she the spitting image of her brother, but she shares his less than stellar attitude.

I sigh. “Little Joe Kline is missing.”

Her expression falters. “Little—” She cuts off the word, swallows, and presses her hand against her chest. “Oh.”

While this girl is hotheaded and ballsy, she’s not callous. I don’t give her time to shore up. “What do you know about that?” I ask.

The rise of tension is palpable. For nearly a minute, the only sound comes from the patter of rain against the tin roof.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says.

But Colleen McKee isn’t a very good liar. While she may not know where her brother is, she does, indeed, know something. But what?

“Is Little Joe with Thomas?” I ask.