Page 44 of Rage

I reach for the rope and climb.

For a community that largely rejects the use of cell phones and social media, news—especially of the dreadful variety—travels at the speed of wildfire. I know the instant I pull into the lane of the Shetler farm that word is out about the death of their son. A buggy I don’t recognize is parked at the side of the house. Three Amish women and two men stand next to it. I park behind the buggy and recognize Mr. Shetler as I get out. He’s standing alone, head down, his arms crossed. He is the picture of anguish.

As I’m getting out of the Explorer, I see the back door of the house swing open. Mrs. Shetler rushes onto the porch. Her right hand is over her mouth. Left arm flailing as she takes the steps at a too fast rate of speed. Her eyes are riveted to me as she leaves the porch, but she doesn’t seem to see me. She hits the sidewalk at a run.

Mr. Shetler tries to intercept her, but he’s not fast enough. I hear her sobbing a second before she reaches me.

“Where’s my son?” she cries. “Where’s Aaron? We’ve heard terrible things. What’s happened to him?”

“Mrs. Shetler.” I reach out to take her hands, partly to comfort her, partly because she’s not steady on her feet, but she jerks away and steps back.

“Why didn’t you tell us he was in danger?” she cries. “We would’ve stepped in. Done something.”

When it comes to high emotion—whether it’s grief or happiness or fear—the Amish are generally more stoic than their English counterparts. But there is some pain that’s so unbearable that it cannot be contained. The death of a child is a prime example.

“You were just here.” She sways beneath my hands. “Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you warn us? Why didn’t you save him?”

They’re irrational questions and I hate it that I don’t have an answer for her. Even if I did, I don’t think she would hear me. Or even care what I said.

“Is it true?”

I look over my shoulder and see Doyle striding toward us. His expression is impassive, but his jaws are clamped tight and I see tears on his cheeks.

“Answer me,” he says. “Is it true?”

I look at him, nod, and I feel a small piece of his pain pierce the center of me. “I’m sorry,” I say.

The words fall excruciatingly short, even to my own ears. All of the sorry and regret in the world isn’t going to bring back a young life that has been lost.

“Let’s get her inside and talk,” I say.

And we leave their Amish neighbors looking after us, their heads bowed, their hearts heavy.

Doyle leads his wife and me to the kitchen. He helps her into a chair and then lowers himself into the one next to her. “How did it happen?” he asks.

I take the chair across from them, the weight of the question, of their grief, pressing down with crushing force. “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “His body was discovered in a ravine off the township road. That’s all I know at this point.”

“How on earth did he get into a ravine?” he asks. “Was it a fall? A car wreck? What?”

The last thing I want to do is get into the details about their son’s death. I don’t know much; what little I do know is so unspeakable, it will do nothing but cause them even more grief and horror. The one thing I must do is tell them the truth.

“I think your son was murdered,” I tell him.

Ellen gasps, her face crumpling. “Oh, dear Lord.”

“Murdered?” Doyle chokes out a sound that’s part exhale, part sob. “I don’t understand. Someone killed our boy?”

“I believe so,” I say.

“But … who?” Ellen asks. “Why would they do such a thing?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” I say. “All I can tell you at this point is that I’m going to do everything in my power to find the person responsible and bring them to justice. Right now, I need information. Anything you can tell me that might help me figure out who did this.”

We spend twenty minutes going over many of the same points we’ve already covered or that I’ve learned elsewhere. I’m all too aware that questioning parents mere minutes after they’ve been notified of the death of their child is a far cry from an ideal circumstance. It’s painful. Cruel even. I don’t let that stop me because right or wrong, pain be damned, the responsibility to find the killer falls on my shoulders.

“The last time I talked to you,” I say, “you mentioned that Aaron had tried to give you some cash. Is there anyone you can think of who might know where that cash came from? Or know where Aaron was getting it?”

“I don’t know.” Doyle shakes his head. “I wish to God I’d asked. Warned him away from whatever he was doing. I might’ve been able to stop this and we might still have our boy.”