Kate Burkholder: Gone Missing Part 12

"What kind of trouble?" I ask.

"The drinking, you know. The listening to music. And he liked ... the girls."

"He confessed his sins before the bishop," Irene adds.

In the eyes of the Amish, confessing your sins is the equivalent of a "Get out of jail free" card. No matter how heinous the offense, if you confess, you are forgiven.

"The English police say Noah wanted to leave the plain life," Perry says after a moment. "I don't know who told them that. We don't believe it. We never did."

"Noah loved being Amish." Emotion flashes in Irene's eyes. "He was a humble boy with a kind and generous heart."

"What do you think happened to him?" Tomasetti asks.

Perry shakes his head. "We don't know. The things the Englischers say..." His voice trails off, as if he's long since tired of saying the words.

I skimmed the file that had been ama.s.sed on Noah before leaving the sheriff's office. A missing-person report was filed. People were interviewed, searches conducted. The cops-and most of the Amish, too-believed the boy ran away.

"What did the Englischers say?" I ask gently.

The Masts exchange a look, and an uncomfortable silence falls. We let it ride, giving them some time.

"There were rumors." Perry grimaces. "And not just among the English. Some of the Amish young people ... knew things."

"Idle gossip." His wife sends him a sharp look. "All of it."

Tomasetti trains his attention on Perry. "Like what?"

The Amish man stares into his coffee. "There is a man. Gideon Stoltzfus. He used to be plain, but he could not abide by the Ordnung and was put under the bann. I've heard he helps young Amish men leave the plain life."

"He is a Mennischt." Irene spits the word for Mennonite as if it has a bad taste.

"After Noah disappeared, we found out he'd been in touch with Stoltzfus." Perry blows on his coffee and slurps. I see blood under his fingernails, cookie crumbs in his beard, and I look away. "We believe Gideon may have filled Noah's young mind with untruths about the Amish."

"The Mennonites recruit," Irene says.

Being formerly Amish myself, I know men like Stoltzfus exist. There's a man in Painters Mill who helps young Amish leave the lifestyle. He runs a sort of Underground Railroad, giving them a place to stay while they transition. Contrary to what the Masts believe, these men are not the brainwas.h.i.+ng monsters they're made out to be, but a bridge to an alternative lifestyle. But if Noah met with Stoltzfus, it wasn't in the file.

"Do you think Stoltzfus helped Noah leave?" I ask.

"I don't know what to believe." Taking a final sip of his coffee, Perry gets to his feet. "I need to get back to work."

Tomasetti and I rise simultaneously. Neither of us touched the cookies or coffee.

"Thank you both for your time," I say.

Without speaking, Perry, Tomasetti, and I start toward the door. I'm keenly aware of the silence in the house, broken only by the clink of dishes as Irene clears the table and the hollow thud of our boots on the floor, and I can't help but think that this is a very lonely house.

We're midway through the mudroom when Irene calls out, "If you find our Noah, you'll bring him back to us, ja?"

Perry continues toward the door, not even acknowledging her. Tomasetti and I stop and turn. "If we learn anything new, you'll be the first to know," I tell her, and we step into the night.

Tomasetti and I are midway down the lane before speaking. "What do you think?" he asks as he turns onto the highway that will take us to Buck Creek.

"Kid's been gone nine years and they still set the table for him." I sigh. "That's one sad, lonely couple."

"Losing a kid..." He grimaces. "f.u.c.ks up your life."

There are a lot of themes running through this case, threads that hit a little too close to home for both of us. I think about the parallels, the jagged lines that connect us in so many unexpected ways. "It's interesting that Noah Mast and Annie King had talked about leaving the Amish way of life," I tell him.

"Do you think it's relevant?" He turns onto a towns.h.i.+p road, the headlights was.h.i.+ng over tall rows of corn. "Some kind of pattern?"

"I don't know. But it's unusual. Most Amish kids are content to remain Amish. They're happy and well adjusted. Tomasetti, something like eighty percent of kids go on to be baptized."

"Maybe it's a connection."

I glance at the dash clock. Another hour has flown by. It's already nine o'clock. "Let's go talk to talk to Stoltzfus."

Tomasetti cuts me a look, and in the dim glow of the dash lights, I see him smile. "Get G.o.ddard on the horn and get an address."

I call G.o.ddard for the address while Tomasetti pumps gas. According to the sheriff, the formerly Amish man lives a quiet life and keeps his nose relatively clean. I relay the highlights to Tomasetti as we enter the corporation limits of Buck Creek.

"Thirty-two-year-old white male. One arrest. No convictions. He's worked at the Martin-Bask Lumberyard for six years. Unmarried. No known children."

"Sounds like a pretty boring guy."

"Except he runs an Underground Railroad for young Amish people trying to leave the lifestyle and was known to speak to at least one Amish teen who is now missing."

"Guess that excludes him from the boring category." Tomasetti turns onto Towns.h.i.+p Road 5 and heads south. "What was the arrest for?"

"Trespa.s.sing."

"That's interesting."

"G.o.ddard remembered the incident. Apparently, a local Amish man discovered Stoltzfus in his barn at four o'clock in the morning, having s.e.x with his son."

"Bet that was a shocker. Son over eighteen?"

I nod. "It was consensual. The Amish guy got in contact with the cops. They arrested Stoltzfus, filed a report. But once the complainant had a chance to think about the consequences-mainly, outing his son-he decided not to press charges."

We zip past a mailbox at the mouth of a gravel lane, and Tomasetti hits the brakes. "That was it." Throwing the Tahoe into reverse, he backs up and pulls in. A minute later, we park next to a white Ford F-150. A single porch light illuminates a two-car garage with a door in need of paint. A cord of split logs is stacked neatly against the west side. The house is a small white frame structure with green shutters and a deck in the back.

We exit the vehicle and take the sidewalk to the porch. Tomasetti knocks and we wait, watching each other, not speaking. Then the door swings open and I find myself staring at a baby-faced young man with brown hair and matching eyes. He wears a Metallica T-s.h.i.+rt with faded jeans and dirty white socks. His hair is sticking up on one side, and I suspect we roused him from a nap.

"Can I help you?"

I can tell by his inflection that he grew up Amish. He's got that distinctive accent I recognize immediately.

"Gideon Stoltzfus?" Tomasetti presents his identification.

"Yeah." He blinks at the ID. "What's this about?"

"We're working on a case and we'd like to ask you a few questions," I say. "Can we come in?"

"Uh ... sure." He opens the door cautiously, as if expecting us to pounce on him and wrestle him to the ground.

We follow him to a small kitchen that smells of burned popcorn. The place is comfortable and relatively clean, but I can tell it's a bachelor pad. Knotty-pine cabinets line robin's egg blue walls. I see faux granite countertops. An obese dachshund lies on a grimy throw rug by the sink, probably deaf, because it didn't bark when we entered. There's a high-tech coffeemaker with a built-in grinder and timer. A tiny microwave sets on the counter, its door standing open. Cheap art hangs on the wall. Country music rumbles in another part of the house. I hear the yappy bark of a second dog, which has apparently been barred access to visitors.

At the counter, Stoltzfus turns to us and shoves his hands into his pockets. "You want some coffee or something?" He motions to a small table that's not quite large enough for three people.

"We're fine." Tomasetti's smile looks like a snarl.

Stoltzfus is an una.s.suming man with a quiet demeanor. He's wondering why we're here. His eyes s.h.i.+ft from Tomasetti to me and he begins to fidget. I wonder why he's so nervous.

Tomasetti lets him sweat for a minute before asking his first question. "I understand you run an Underground Railroad for young people wanting to leave the Amish way."

"Underground Railroad?" Stoltzfus laughs, but it's a tight, tense sound.

Tomasetti glowers. "What's so funny?"

Stoltzfus's Adam's apple bobs twice. "I've never heard it put like that. It sounds kind of dramatic."

"Why don't you clear things up for us and just tell us what you do," I say.

His eyes flick again from Tomasetti to me. "Am I in some kind of trouble?"

"We just want to know how you work." I offer my best girl-next-door smile. "Why don't you start by telling us how you find the young people who need help."

My rea.s.surance seems to bolster him and he calms down. "Word of mouth, mostly. Buck Creek is a small town. People talk, and that includes the Amish. I usually hear about it when one of these kids wants to leave."

"How do you make contact?"

"Usually, they contact me."

"You used to be Amish?" I ask.

He looks down, and I realize whether he recognizes it or not, he's still conflicted. "I've been gone ten years now."

"Do you mind if I ask why you left?" I ask.

"I couldn't abide by the rules. I mean, living without electricity and a car was bad enough. But I wanted to go to college." He shrugs. "I didn't want to be a farmer. I didn't want that kind of future."

"Any regrets?"

His eyes lock onto mine. "I miss my family. I have four younger sisters. They looked up to me." He gives a self-deprecating laugh. "h.e.l.l, I still drive by the place. How pathetic is that?"

I find myself liking him despite my resolve to remain neutral. "You see your siblings?"

He breaks eye contact, looks down at his stocking feet. "Parents don't want me seeing them. They think I'm a bad influence, I guess."

I nod, understanding more than he could know. "What happens after a young person makes contact with you?"

"I offer him a place to stay. Lend him money if he needs it. Counsel him." Stoltzfus likes to talk, I realize, and he's warming to us. "It's harder than most people think. Leaving, I mean. You see, when you're Amish, your family is everything to you. It's like they're your whole universe. A lot of young people want to leave but don't because of their families. So I give them a neutral place, without judging them, and without the pressure of their families or the elders."

"You're Mennonite now?"

He nods. "The religious beliefs are similar, but you don't have to live your life as if it's the eighteenth century."

I pause to give Tomasetti an opening. "What can you tell us about Noah Mast?" he asks.

All semblance of tranquillity leaves Stoltzfus. His left eyelid begins to flutter. "I didn't really know him. Noah was a few years younger than me, but I'd see him around. After I left, he got in touch with me and told me he wanted to leave. Asked me how to do it."

"Did you help him?"

"I would have, but I never heard from him again."

"At the time, had you been actively helping other Amish youths leave the lifestyle?"

"Well, I wasn't organized about it, not like I am now. But yeah. I helped a couple kids back in those early days. I mean, it had been so hard for me." Another nervous laugh. "I felt ... compelled to help others."

"What else can you tell us about Noah?" Tomasetti says the words amicably, but his stare is intense.

"Alls I remember is he told me he wanted out. I gathered he wasn't getting along with his folks. I offered to help him." Stoltzfus shrugs. "Next thing I know, he's missing.

"Were you surprised?"

"Not really. I figured he'd just done it on his own."

"Do you know Annie King?" Tomasetti asks.

His eyes go wide, and he begins blinking. He looks at us as if realizing he's wandered into a lion's den and his only escape is now blocked. "You guys don't think I had anything to do with that, do you?"

"Did you know her?" Tomasetti repeats.

"No."

"Did you have any contact with her?"

"No!"

"She didn't approach you? Ask you to help her?"

"Lookit, I never met her. Never talked to her. And that's the truth."