Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

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. “Fucks 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 township road, the headlights washing 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 Goddard on the horn and get an address.”
    I call Goddard 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 Township Road 5 and heads south. “What was the arrest for?”
    “Trespassing.”
    “That’s interesting.”
    “Goddard remembered the incident. Apparently, a local Amish man discovered Stoltzfus in his barn at four o’clock in the morning, having sex 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-shirt 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 micro wave 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