The EMT kneels next to the woman, placing the mask over her face. I hear the whoosh of air as he compresses the bag, forcing oxygen into her lungs. A few feet away, two respirator-clad firefighters lower rescue equipment into the pit.
I look down at my hands. They’re slick with a rancid mix of water, blood, manure, and mud. It’s sticky on my skin, gritty between my fingers. I see rope burns on the insides of my knuckles and realize the blood is mine, but I don’t feel the sting. At the moment, I don’t even smell the manure. All I can do is stand there and watch the paramedics work frantically to resuscitate the motionless woman.
A few feet away, the four Amish children huddle, their eyes filled with hope that the Englischers and all their high-tech rescue equipment will save their mamm and datt. I see faith on their young faces, and my heart breaks, because I know faith often goes unrewarded.
“You look like you could use some air.”
I turn, to see Officer Rupert “Glock” Maddox standing a few feet away, looking at me as if I’m a dog that’s just been hit by a car—a badly injured dog that might bite if touched. I have no idea how he got here so quickly; he doesn’t come on duty until 8:00 A.M. It doesn’t matter; I’m just glad he’s here.
“She’s gone,” I say.
“You did your best.”
“Tell those kids that.”
Grimacing, he crosses to me. “Let’s get some air.”
Glock isn’t a touchy-feely kind of guy. I’ve worked with him for two and a half years now, and I can count on two fingers the number of intimate conversations we’ve had. It surprises me when he takes my arm.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter.
“Yeah.” It’s all he says, but it’s enough. He gets it. He gets me. It’s enough.
He ushers me through the main part of the barn. It’s not until I step outside that I realize I’m woozy. Though the barn doors and windows have been thrown open wide, there’s not much of a cross breeze, and the air inside is polluted with an unpleasant mix of ammonia and stink. Not to mention all those nasty gases. I’ve been inside only for ten minutes or so, but I can already feel the effects. A headache taps at my forehead from inside my skull.
For a full minute, I do nothing but stand in the rain and snow and breathe in the clean, cold air. It feels good, like cool water on heated skin. After a minute or so, I look at Glock. “I’m okay.”
“I know you are.” Sighing, he shoots a glance in the direction of the barn. “Tough scene.”
I think of the kids, and a lead weight of dread drops into my stomach. “Worst is yet to come.”
“You want me to give you a hand with their statements?”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“We going to do it here?”
I look around. We’re standing twenty feet from the barn. Around us, emergency workers—paramedics and firefighters—move in and out of the big door. The strobe lights of a fire truck and two ambulances from Pomerene Hospital glare off the facade. To my right, the pretty white farmhouse looks cold and empty. The windows are dark, as if some internal light has been permanently extinguished.
“We’ll do it in the house. The kids’ll be more comfortable there. They’ll need to eat something.” I know it seems mundane, but even in the face of death, people need to eat. “I’ll call Bishop Troyer to be here with them.”
If Glock is surprised by my response, he doesn’t show it. I don’t have a maternal bone in my body, but I’m feeling protective of these kids. All children are innocent, but Amish youngsters possess a certain kind of innocence. They have further to fall when that innocence is shattered. I was fourteen years old when fate introduced me to tragedy. I know what it feels like to be abruptly plunged into a world that is so far removed from the only one you’ve ever known.
I glance toward the barn and see Pickles and the four kids standing outside the big door. Firefighters and EMTs pass by them without notice. The last thing I want to do is question them about the horrors they witnessed, but as is the case with most of the curveballs life throws at us with indiscriminate glee, I don’t have a choice.
CHAPTER 3
Ten minutes later, I’m standing in the big Amish kitchen with Glock and Pickles. The four children sit at the heavy wood table, their pale faces lit by the flickering kerosene lamp. The house is warm inside and smells of hot lard and lamp oil.
I take a few minutes to light a second lantern on the counter next to the sink. A lifetime ago, the dim lighting wouldn’t have bothered me. Up until I was in my late teens, it was all I’d ever known. This morning, the lack of fluorescent bulbs makes me feel half-blind.