Page 14 of Disappeared

I glance over at him, liking the way the light from the dash plays on his features. “Our main objective, of course, is to make sure the baby is safe. That Bonnie Kline is there of her own accord.”

He scowls. “Are you expecting trouble from him?”

The question has been knocking at the back of my brain since I learned about his possible involvement. The part of me that is a cop first and foremost reminds me that I’d be naive—and foolish—to write off the risk that McKee will resist in some way. The part of me that has spoken to both of these young people—the part of me that understands the courage it would take for Bonnie to choose Thomas over her Amish way of life—urges me to at least give him a chance to explain.

When I don’t answer quickly enough, Tomasetti sighs. “You don’t think this is a case of parental abduction.” It’s not a question.

“I think they’re together,” I admit. “With Little Joe.”

“Even so, McKee has some explaining to do,” he growls.

“As does Bonnie,” I add. “We’ve got a dozen law enforcement officers and another dozen or so volunteers out looking for that toddler.”

“Which begs the question: How much did she know and not tell us?”

I consider the question a moment before responding. “I don’t believe she knew early on. She was genuinely terrified. But at some point, I think she got in touch with Thomas or vice versa.”

“And flew the coop,” Tomasetti says. “Not exactly a case study of responsible behavior.”

“True. But in her defense, she likely wasn’t keeping the information from us as much as she was her parents and the Amish community as a whole.”

“Ah. Now this is starting to make sense.” He slants me a sideways look. “This isn’t about the custody of a child, but a case of Amish versus English.”

I smile. “Or more specifically young love versus all those Amish rules.”

His expression softens. “Whatever the case, if McKee took the kid without permission, he might have a few loose legal ends to tie up.”

Tomasetti glances down at his cell and motions right. “There’s the lane.”

I hit the brakes and pull in. The branches of saplings and trees scrape the roof and doors of the Explorer as I start down the narrow track.

He points. “We’ve got tire ruts.”

Sure enough, the headlights reveal tire tracks in mud that are slowly being eaten away by the rain. “Someone has been here.” I punch off the headlights.

“Probably within the last couple of hours.”

The lane curves left. The trees thin and open to a clearing. A dozen yards away, a pretty log cabin sits beneath a massive eastern hemlock, white smoke puffing from a stone chimney. Parked near the front porch, an old Ford truck gleams as if it was just driven off the showroom floor.

“That’s Thomas McKee’s truck.” I stop the Explorer a good distance from the cabin so that it’s hidden behind the cover of underbrush.

I’m about to reach for the door, but Tomasetti stops me. “Keep in mind, Kate, that we’re out of our jurisdiction here.”

“I know.”

He grimaces. “We don’t know what we’re walking into. People get emotional when it comes to their kids.”

I nod, silently acknowledging that it’s situations like this one when some rookie cop underestimates the probability of trouble and gets his ass handed to him. “Okay.”

We exit the vehicle simultaneously. I barely notice the rain creeping down the collar of my jacket as I follow Tomasetti to the cabin. Yellow light glimmers in the front window. The smells of woodsmoke and pine needles lace the air. In the distance, I hear the forlorn call of a common loon, telling me we’re not far from the lake.

Tomasetti ascends the steps to the porch, his feet silent. He’s pulled his weapon and holds the pistol muzzle-down at his side. I take the steps, reach the top, make eye contact with him. At his nod, I go to the door, stand slightly to one side, and knock.

“Thomas McKee!” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder with the Painters Mill Police Department! I need you to come out here and talk to me!”

Every nerve in my body jerks taut when the door swings open. A quick punch of relief courses through me at the sight of Bonnie Kline. She’s wearing an Amish dress. No apron. No kapp. A chubby toddler squirms in her arms. I see shock on her face. A flicker of fear.

Her eyes sweep from me to Tomasetti and go wide. She opens her mouth, manages a single “Oh.”