Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

eight kids now, with Annie being the oldest. Anyway, they came into my office about eight this morning and told me she didn’t come home last night.
    “Evidently, they spent the night looking for her. Got the neighbors involved. Finally, they got so worried, they decided to involve the police.” He swats a fly off his forehead. “I wish they’d come to me right away, so we could have gotten a jump on this.”
    “You have a description of the girl?”
    “They didn’t have a photo.” He pulls a note pad from his back pocket, flips it open. “Fifteen years old. Brown hair. Brown eyes. A hundred and fifteen pounds. Five feet five inches.” He grimaces. “I seen her a time or two. Pretty little thing.”
    A picture of her forms in my mind. I see a plain, slender girl with work-rough hands. Trusting. At 115 pounds, she would be easy to overpower. Easy to control. I pull out my own pad and jot down the information. “Do you know what she was wearing?”
    “Blue dress with a white apron. Black shoes. One of them bonnet things on her head.”
    “Prayer kapp, ” I tell him.
    He gives me a “Yeah, what ever” look.
    “Does she have a boyfriend?”
    “To tell you the truth, Chief Burkholder, the parents weren’t very forthcoming about the girl’s personal business. They kind of clammed up when I asked, and I got the impression they were uncomfortable talking to me.” He grimaces. “I was thinking we could run out there so you could have a go at them.”
    “Sure,” I tell him.
    “CSU is on the way.”
    We turn at the sound of Tomasetti’s voice. He’s striding toward us. “Should be here in an hour or so.”
    “I think we need to speak with the parents,” I tell him.
    “Sounds like a good place to start.” He glances at Goddard. “Do you have the manpower to protect the scene?”
    “I’ll tell my deputy to stay put until your crime-scene guy gets here.” He starts toward the young officer.
    Tomasetti and I head toward the Tahoe. “What do you think?” I ask as we climb in.
    He grimaces. “I think that blood is a bad fucking sign.”
    I agree, but I don’t say the words.
    Ten minutes later, we turn onto a winding gravel lane bounded on both sides by cornfields, the shoulder-high stalks shimmering like some massive green mirage in the afternoon sun. A tangle of raspberry bushes grows along the wire fence on the north side. White dust billows from the tires of Sheriff Goddard’s cruiser in front of us, tiny stones pinging against the grille of the Tahoe.
    A quarter mile in, the track opens to a large gravel area. Two hulking red barns trimmed in white loom into view. Ahead, I see several smaller outbuildings, an old outhouse, and a rusty metal shed. On my left, a white farmhouse with tall, narrow windows and a green tin roof looks out over the land. I wonder about all the things the house has witnessed over the years and I know this place, like so many others in this part of the country, has stories to tell.
    Beyond, several huge maple trees shade a manicured yard teeming with blooming peonies and tufts of pampas grass with spires as tall as a man. A scarecrow wearing a straw hat and suspenders stands guard over a garden abundant with strawberries and green beans. An Amish girl in a tan dress stops hoeing to watch us.
    I recall reading, when I was in college, that sense memories can be a powerful trigger of flashbacks. The sight of this farm, combined with the smell of cattle and horses and that of summer foliage, elicits an intense sense of déjà vu. This farm is uncannily similar to the one I grew up on, and for the span of several seconds I’m transported back to the past. I see my mamm, a clothespin between her teeth, hanging trousers and dresses on the clothesline. Looking at the field behind the barn, I imagine my brother Jacob driving our team of Percheron geldings while my datt and the neighbor boy cut and bundle hay. I remember the frustration of being stuck in the house, scrubbing floors, when I desperately wanted to be outside on the back of one of those horses.
    They were happy, innocent times, and though that part of my life was far from perfect, the memories evoke an uneasy sense of longing. It’s not that I want to be Amish again or that I want to recapture my youth or a past I know is forever gone. But invariably when I remember those days, I can’t help but think of all the things I left unfinished. Mostly my childhood, which was cut short long before its time. So many