Page 8 of The Hidden One

“Probably got a flat top, too,” muttered another boy, one I didn’t recognize.

The boys cracked up as if it was the funniest joke they’d ever heard.

My knees hurt, almost as much as my pride, but I wouldn’t have cried even if my leg was hanging by a thread of skin. Not in front of them. No, I was just stubborn enough to wait for the walk home.

I looked past them for my brother, but he was standing on the other side of the pond, leaning on the shovel he’d been using, watching. I’d hoped he would come to my defense; he knew I could play as well as these boys, at least the ones my age. And yet he said nothing.

As I stood on the frozen bank and watched them warm up, my knees aching, my eleven-year-old heart burning with outrage, Jonas skated over, frowning, his eyes on my knees. “Not bad for a half-pint,” he said.

Rolling my eyes, I brushed snow from my dress. “I’m not a half-pint.”

We watched the boys play for a moment; then he motioned at my knees. “You’re bleeding.”

I wanted to see the carnage, but I didn’t look. “Doesn’t hurt.”

“You’re pretty tough, aren’t you?”

“I’m a good hockey player is what I am.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a kerchief. “Here. Tie it on.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Yeah, you do.” His face split into a grin. Bringing his fingers to his mouth, he whistled. “I want Half-Pint on my team!” he called out.

I became the girl who could play hockey that winter. The one who—despite my size and gender—was never last when it came time to choose teams.

Jonas made one hell of an impression on my nonconformist psyche that day. The part of me that was still a child was dazzled that an older boy would stand up for me. The part of me that was edging into my preteen years had her breath taken away. I had no way of knowing I’d been swept off my feet and the breathlessness that made my chest swell was only a sampling of what lay ahead.

I’m thinking about that day on the ice when I pull into the lane of the farm Tomasetti and I share. After the three Amish elders left the station, I called the Mifflin County Sheriff’s Department, which is the law enforcement agency for Belleville, Pennsylvania. The deputy I spoke to didn’t know much about the case, but was able to confirm most of what the three men told me. Eighteen years ago, Bishop Ananias Stoltzfus and Jonas Bowman were involved in some type of dispute. Two months later, Stoltzfus disappeared. Jonas was questioned by the police, but there wasn’t enough evidence to arrest him and the DA refused to pursue a case based on circumstantial evidence alone.

The skeletal remains were discovered two months ago in a farmer’s field. The sheriff’s department searched the area and unearthed an old muzzleloader and a .50 caliber ball at the scene. Because the gun was an antique, it didn’t have a serial number. But when they took it to Jonas Bowman, he admitted the rifle was his and the arrest was made without incident.

Jonas was formally charged with second-degree murder and is being held at the Mifflin County Correctional Facility in Lewistown. Bail was set at five hundred thousand dollars. No trial date has been set. So far, he hasn’t posted bail. A quick internet search revealed that in the commonwealth of Pennsylvania, second-degree murder carries with it the possibility of life in prison.

I also called the Mifflin County Correctional Facility, only to learn they don’t allow incoming calls to inmates unless the call is from an attorney or an official involved in the case. I was able to locate Jonas’s attorney, but today is Saturday and, evidently, he doesn’t return calls on the weekend.

I park behind Tomasetti’s Tahoe, snatch the birdhouse from the rear of the Explorer, and head toward the house. I’m nearly to the back door when I hear music coming from the barn. One of the front sliding doors stands open a few feet. Hefting the shopping bag, I head that way.

Our barn is an old German-style bank barn that shows every one of its hundred or so years. I take the earthen ramp to the door and walk inside. I find Tomasetti standing next to a beat-up solid wood door that’s propped against the wall. He’s built a wood frame against that wall. It’s the height of a kitchen counter, and he’s clipped a work light to a shelf he added at some point. I haven’t seen any of the improvements he’s spent the last week or so making, and I’m reminded that I work too much.

I set the bag on the ground and take a moment to simply watch. He’s wearing faded jeans with scuffed work boots. There’s a tape measure in his right hand. Worn leather gloves. A box cutter sticking out of his back pocket. His shirtsleeves are rolled halfway up his forearms. His elbow peeks through a small hole in the fabric.

“Looks like an interesting project,” I say.

He glances at me over his shoulder. He doesn’t quite smile, but I see pleasure in his eyes. I grin because he’s happy to see me and he can’t quite hide it.

“You’re just in time,” he says smoothly.

“For what?”

He tosses me a pair of gloves, which I catch; then he moves around to the top portion of the door. “Meet my new workbench.”

“Looks solid.” I go to the opposite end of the door.

“Found it at the junk shop out by the feed store.”

“One man’s junk is another man’s treasure.”