Page 96 of The Hidden One

I turn to see Deputy Kris Vance stride toward me. The wariness is gone from his expression. Now that the case has been solved, he isn’t concerned about associating with me or my pressing him with questions he shouldn’t be answering.

“You need a ride back to your vehicle?” he asks.

We shake hands. “I’m parked at the Hershberger place just through the trees,” I tell him.

“It’s on my way. Save you a walk up that hill.” He motions to his vehicle and we start down the steps. “It’ll give me a chance to apologize.”

“Your superiors didn’t exactly make it easy for you to share information,” I say.

“There is that. But I was a jackass. I’m sorry I wasn’t more helpful. You were right. We were wrong.” His smile is contrite. “Lesson learned.”

I smile at him over the top of his cruiser as we get in. “I won’t hold my breath waiting for a call from the sheriff.”

“Just between us, he’s a bigger jackass than me.” Grinning, he puts the vehicle in gear and starts down the muddy lane. “I thought you’d want to know: The state police will be sending the remains to the forensic lab for DNA testing.”

“Positive ID would go a long way toward tying up a lot of loose ends.”

“No one figured Henry Stoltzfus for the crime,” he says. “All these years and he was right under our noses. Nice guy. Family man. Spotless record. He was never on the radar.”

“At some point, Henry must have figured out who or what his father was.” I shrug, trying to work through the logistics of it, coming up short. “He didn’t like what he found and just … lost it.”

“I suppose even the Amish have their limit.” He makes the turn into the Hershberger place and parks behind my Explorer.

“In any case, Chief Burkholder, I mainly wanted to apologize for shutting you out of the investigation. You’re a damn good cop and with your knowledge of the Amish, you would have been a good resource had we given you the chance.”

I open the door, get out, and bend to look at him. “Keep me posted on that DNA?”

“You bet.”

I slam the door, give a wave, and then he’s gone.

I stand in the driveway, vaguely troubled, and watch him pull out. I fish the fob out of my pocket, walk to the Explorer, and open the door. But I don’t get in.

I expect the Amish will be arriving shortly, to support Mary Elizabeth and her husband in their time of grief, to keep the farm up and running, and the household chores done. I’m probably the last person she wants to see, but I’d like to keep a line of communication open between us. In the coming weeks, much more information about her father will be forthcoming. At the very least, I can offer my condolences—and leave the rest to her.

I close the door of the Explorer and walk to the house, take the steps to the door, and knock. I wait, getting my words in order, but no one comes. I’m on my way back to the Explorer when I notice the barn door standing ajar, so I head that way.

I pause at the doorway, stare into the dimly lit interior. The smell of smoke lingers. I hear the cattle bawling at the rear. Dim light filters in through the windows ahead. To my right, stairs lead up to the hayloft. Gardening tools hang on the wall—a shovel, pitchfork, and hoe. Livestock stalls line the aisle on my left. I keep going, stop a few yards in, give my eyes a chance to adjust to the murky light.

“Mary Elizabeth?” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder.”

“What are you doing here?”

I glance left, see Mary Elizabeth in silhouette against the window behind her. Long dress and apron. The strings of her kapp hanging down. Black oxfords. Even with her face in shadow, I can see that she’s been crying.

“I didn’t want to leave without telling you how sorry I am about your brother,” I say.

She winces at the mention of her brother, hangs her head. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”

“Matthew,” I say.

That I’m familiar with the Bible passage seems to please her. She raises her gaze to mine, scrubs her hands over her cheeks to wipe away the tears. “The deputy I talked to said you were there. When it happened.”

I nod.

“Did he say anything?” she asks. “Did he say why?”

I search my memory for something that will answer her question and yet won’t add to her misery. “He said he didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” I tell her. “That he was sorry.”