Page 2 of Disappeared

“That’s what all the female chiefs of police tell me.”

I roll my eyes as I grab my jacket and slicker from the closet. “Enjoy your meeting.”

“Uh-huh.” His eyes follow me as I stride past him. “Be careful out there, will you, Chief? Weather service just issued flash-flood warnings for every county in northeastern Ohio.”

Groaning, I shrug into my jacket. “Thanks for the coffee,” I tell him, and rush through the door.

Early spring in northeastern Ohio is a fickle season, one day promising that anxiously awaited first breath of summer only to laugh at our naiveté the next with a final blast of cold. The one constant you can always count on is rain. On this particular day, the skies have opened full bore along with a light show befitting a Fourth of July fireworks finale.

The Kline farm is just north of Painters Mill, the township where I’ve been the chief of police for about eight years. Twice I have to make a detour to avoid flooding on the road. When I cross the covered bridge that spans Painters Creek, I’m astounded to see that the usually meandering stream has tripled in size and transformed into a raging torrent. With the Kline farm just half a mile down the road, this is a worst-case scenario for a missing toddler.

Calling upon law enforcement for help is usually a last resort for many of the Amish. Most prefer to handle problems on their own without involving outsiders. On the rare occasion when they do ask for help, it’s not the Holmes County Sheriff’s Office they call, but me, jurisdiction be damned. Not because I’m better at what I do, but because of my Amish roots. I’m familiar with the traditions and religion; I’m fluent in Deitsch. Though I left the fold at the age of eighteen—and a few of the elders still won’t speak to me because of it—my connection to them, however questionable in the eyes of some, make me and my department the lesser affront.

The Klines are Swartzentruber Amish, one of the most traditional sects in Holmes County. Like the majority of their brethren, they live without the use of electricity and motorized vehicles. The Swartzentrubers take certain tenets a step farther. Many eschew indoor plumbing, forbid the use of bicycles, and forgo the utilization of gravel in their lanes. Even their attire is heavier and darker, especially for the women.

The absence of gravel makes itself evident as I turn in to the lane. My headlights illuminate an ocean of potholes and mud. I jam the Explorer into four-wheel drive and plow through. Half a mile in, the old farmhouse looms into view, plain, white, and unadorned with shutters or landscaping. Every window glows with lantern light. Behind the house, a boy on horseback, his hat dripping, coat soaked, glances at me over his shoulder as his mount trots through a gate to the back field. Yellow light slants through the open door of the bank barn, telling me this family has already enlisted the help of their Amish neighbors.

I park behind a buggy, the horse hunkered against the onslaught of rain, and I hightail it to the house. The back door swings open as I step onto the porch and Erma Kline ushers me inside.

“Katie! My goodness, I’m glad you’re here. Kumma inseid.” Come inside. “Dumla.” Hurry.

I enter a dimly lit mudroom that smells of lye soap and woodsmoke. An old-fashioned wringer washer sits in the corner. A lantern flickers atop an antique-looking dry sink. Water from my slicker drips unceremoniously onto the floor, but the Amish woman pays it no heed.

“Did you find him?” I ask.

Erma Kline is in her early forties. She’s wearing a black dress that falls nearly to her ankles. A matching cape. A black bonnet over her prayer kapp. All of it punctuated by an expression suffused with worry.

“No,” she tells me. “We’ve searched the house and barn. He’s such a little thing. Just two years old. I don’t know where he could have gone.”

Movement in the doorway to the kitchen draws my attention. I see two preteen girls peeking out at me, their faces drawn and uncertain.

“We checked the attic again,” one of them says in Deitsch. “He’s not there.”

The Amish woman closes her eyes, presses a hand to her stomach. “Mein Gott.” My God. “Check the cellar again,” she tells them. “Take a lantern so you can see.”

“Ja.” Both girls dart away, their feet pounding as they run to the cellar door.

Nodding, I speak into my shoulder mike. “Ten twenty-three,” I say, letting my dispatcher know I’ve arrived on scene. “Ten thirty-one,” I add, using the ten code for missing juvenile. “Two-year-old Amish male. I need County out here. Lights and siren. Expedite. Who’s on duty this morning?”

“Glock,” Margaret tells me, referring to Rupert “Glock” Maddox, one of my most experienced officers.

“Tell him to get out here.” I think about the weather conditions, the swollen creek, and another layer of worry settles over the first. “Call the fire department, too. See if you can round up some volunteers.”

“You got it.”

“We could use some dogs, too. I think the sheriff knows a guy with bloodhounds.”

“Roger that.”

In the beat of silence that follows, the battery of rain on the tin roof is deafening, and I can’t help but think of a two-year-old frightened and alone in such horrendous conditions. I’m anxious to join the search, hoping we’ll find a wet and crying toddler straightaway. I’m about to ask for a description, his clothing and height and weight, when the door behind me whooshes open.

“Mamm! Any sign of him?”

I turn to see a young Amish woman burst inside. She’s wearing a black coat over her dress, black bonnet, and soaked to the skin. She’s shaking violently beneath her coat. Whether it’s from cold or fear or both, I don’t know, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Water and tears stream down a face permeated with panic.

She blinks at me and then turns her attention to her mother and chokes out a sob. “He’s not in the barn!” she cries. “I don’t understand. Where could he have gone in such a short period of time?”

Up until now, I’d assumed the missing boy was Erma’s son. But there is a terror unique to a mother. I know even before asking that this young woman is the one who’s lost her son.