Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

complaining about not having a car. She, like, wants wheels bad.”
    “Why does she want a car?”
    “She mainly just wants to cruise around.”
    “Did she ever talk about leaving Painters Mill?”
    “We’re always talking about getting out. But it’s like something we’re going to do in the future, you know? She’s got all these big plans to move to New York and design clothes.”
    “Has she mentioned New York recently?”
    She shakes her head adamantly. “She wouldn’t go without me.”
    “Has she had any problems at home?”
    She nods. “Her parents totally don’t get her.”
    “Did she have an argument with them?”
    “They don’t argue, exactly. But her parents have pretty much laid down the law about Sadie’s art. It’s like they don’t understand that it’s part of her, you know?” She frowns. “They think it’s worldly or something.”
    I recall the needlework in Sadie’s bedroom, and I feel a pang in my gut, because I know her art isn’t condoned by her Amish peers. Like so many other things, her art is something she’ll be forced to give up when she’s baptized.
    “What about the rest of the Amish community?” I ask. “Any problems she’s mentioned?”
    “No.” Lori gives me a knowing look. “But she’s always talking about leaving. She’s tired of the way they live. And she’s struggling with the whole getting baptized thing.”
    “Did she tell you that?”
    “All the time. She says the Amish are always whispering behind her back, judging her. If she gets baptized, she’ll have to give up everything. Her cell phone. Any dream of owning a car or going to New York. She’ll have to give up her art. That sucks, you know?”
    Rumspringa is the time when Amish teens are allowed to experience life without all the constraints of the Ordnung, while the adults look the other way. It’s an exciting time of personal discovery and growth before a young person commits to the church. Was Sadie so conflicted, the pressure so intense, that she fled?
    “Did she ever talk about running away?” I ask.
    The girl hesitates. “Sometimes.”
    “Do you think that’s what happened?”
    She bites her lip. “She would have told me.”
    I mentally shift gears, move on to my next question. “Does Sadie have a boyfriend?”
    She shakes her head. “She thinks the guys our age are jerks.”
    “Let’s go back to the bridge for a moment, Lori. Have you seen any vehicles or buggies you don’t recognize? Any strangers hanging out?”
    “Just the usual crowd. You know, from school.”
    I push the legal pad and pen at her. “I want you to write down the names of everyone you’ve seen there over the last couple of weeks.”
    She picks up the pen. “That’s a lot of names.”
    “I’ve got a lot of paper.” I smile at her.
    She smiles back. Putting her tongue between her teeth, she starts writing.
    “So what do you and Sadie do when you’re at the bridge, anyway?” I ask conversationally.
    “We drink beer and smoke.” She glances over her shoulder at Rasmussen and hastily adds, “Cigarettes, I mean.” Her gaze lands on me. “You’re not going to tell my mom, are you?”
    “We’ll deal with that after we find Sadie, okay?”
    The girl stares at me, as if the gravity of the situation is starting to sink in. “Do you think something bad happened to her?” she asks.
    “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
    Ten minutes later, Angi McClanahan slides into the visitor chair adjacent to my desk. Rasmussen drags in an extra chair for her mother and then takes his place at the door.
    I turn on the tape recorder, recite all the obligatory information, and turn my attention to Angi. “When did you last see or hear from Sadie?”
    “I guess it was the day I beat the shit out of her.” The girl’s mother snickers, but I don’t look away from Angi. She’s pleased with herself. Pleased with the temerity of her answer and the fact that she has an audience.
    “Why were you fighting?” I ask.
    “Because she put her hands on my boyfriend.”
    “What’s his name?”
    She raises her hand to look at her nails and begins to peel polish off her thumb. “I don’t remember.”
    The urge to reach across the table, grab her by the collar, and slap that “I don’t give a shit” attitude off her face is powerful. Of course I don’t, since I’m pretty sure it would be considered unbecoming behavior for the chief of police.
    I turn my attention to Kathleen McClanahan. “I