Page 62 of Rage

Her eyes land on the photo and she sucks in an involuntary breath. “That’s my daughter. Wilma Ann. Is everything okay with her? Is she hurt? Why are you asking me about her?”

“Everything’s okay as far as I know,” I say. “I just want to talk to her. Do you have any idea where I can find her?”

“Well…” She looks everywhere except at me. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to talk about her daughter. While I may have Amish roots, it’s not enough to bridge the cultural gap between Amish and English.

Lucky for me, she’s too well-mannered to refuse the question. “Last time I talked to her she was renting a house up to Painters Mill.”

“Do you have an address?”

“Only been there once. It’s on Lost Creek Road out there by the lake. Hired a driver to take me.” She sighs. “It’s a trashy old place. Don’t know why she wants to live like that.”

I’m vaguely familiar with the area; there aren’t many homes, so I don’t get out that way often. “Mrs. Borntrager, do you have a phone number for her?”

The Amish woman shakes her head. “Seems like that girl gets a new phone every week. Last time I tried to call her I got a recording.”

The vast majority of Amish do not have cell phones. That said, most church districts do allow phones inside businesses for business use only.

“Do you have a cell phone?” I ask, hoping Wilma’s number is in her contacts or call history.

“I use the one here or down to the phone shanty off of the county road.”

I pull out my notebook. “What’s your daughter’s birth date?”

“July 19. She just turned eighteen.”

Eighteen. She’s too young not only to be serving liquor, but to be working as an exotic dancer. “Does she live alone?” I ask. “Have a roommate?”

“I don’t know. And I sure don’t know how she could afford to rent a house, trashy or not, all by herself.” She heaves another unhappy sigh. “Some of the Amish turned away from her when she left. Not sure how I feel about that, but there you have it.”

I pull out the photos of Samuel Yutzy and Aaron Shetler. I show her the picture of Samuel first. “Do you know this young man?”

“He’s the one got killed up there in Painters Mill.” She slaps her hand over her mouth, looks at me over the tops of her fingers. For the first time I see distress in her eyes—and fear. “Why are you asking me about a dead man? What does he have to do with my daughter?”

“I’m not sure, but from what I’m hearing, they were involved,” I say. “Did you ever meet him? See them together?”

“No, but I don’t see her very often.” She closes her eyes, her expression the picture of distress. “Mein Gott.” My God. “Now you’ve got me worried.”

I show her the photo of Aaron Shetler. “What about him?”

She opens her eyes, studies the photo. “Never seen that one.” She turns her eyes to mine. “I always knew nothing good would come of all that running around.” She fights tears for a moment. “Chief Burkholder, is my girl in trouble?”

The urge to reassure her is strong. But I learned a long time ago empty promises never help. “All I can tell you is that I’m going to do my best to find her and talk to her.”

She nods. “When you do, will you tell her to come see her mamm?”

“Of course I will.” Reaching out, I set my hand on her shoulder. “Thank you for your time.”

I hail Dispatch as I climb into the Explorer. “Get me everything you can find on Wilma Ann Borntrager.” I spell the last name. “White female. Eighteen years old. Last known address Painters Mill. Check for warrants. Run her through LEADS. See if you can come up with any known associates.”

“Roger that,” comes Lois’s voice, and I hear the click of computer keys.

“I’m ten-seventy-six her residence for a welfare check,” I say. “She lives out on Lost Creek Road. See if you can come up with a street number. Find out who owns the property.”

“Got it.”

“Who’s on duty?”

“Everyone,” she says.