Page 15 of Rage

“There was a girl.” Wiping her eyes, Leona makes a sound that’s part sob, part exasperation. “Samuel got tangled up with her. She was a bad egg, that one. Knew it the first time I saw her. Druvvel-machah.” Troublemaker.

My cop’s radar perks up. “What’s her name?”

“Cass or some such,” Leona says. “Don’t know if that’s even her real name.”

“What can you tell me about her?” I ask.

“Not much. She wasn’t real big on conversation.” Leona tightens her lips. “But he was spending a lot of time with her.” She shakes her head. “My goodness, she had that painted-up face and all those tattoos. Woman parts hanging out all over the place. Smoking cigarettes out by the barn and thinking we couldn’t smell it.”

“We just couldn’t have her here,” Orlah adds. “Not with the kids gawking at her the way they did.”

I pull my notebook from my pocket, flip it open. “Is she Amish or English?”

The couple look at each other, their expressions puzzled.

“Neither one of them said,” Orlah replies.

“She looked English,” Leona tells me. “Sounded Amish, though.”

“Didn’t look like any Amish girl I ever seen,” Orlah mutters. “Whatever the case, she’s headed down the wrong road.”

“Is she from Painters Mill?” I ask.

Leona shakes her head. “I think she lives down to the New Philly area.”

“Address?”

“Don’t know.”

“Can you tell me what she looked like?” I ask.

“Oh, she’s a pretty thing,” Leona adds. “Bluest eyes I ever seen. Almost as tall as Samuel. Kind of thin. Hair dyed black and ugly as a rag.”

Orlah heaves a sigh. “She got her hooks into Sammy quick.”

“Does she have a family?” I ask. “Parents or siblings? Or a best friend? Is there anyone I can talk to about her?”

Orlah shakes his head. “We don’t know.”

“Does this young woman work?” I ask.

An odd silence ensues. I look from Orlah to Leona and a tiny red flag begins to flap. The sense that this heartbroken couple aren’t being forthright sits in my stomach like a rock. Being formerly Amish myself, I understand the need to keep certain things private. When a young Amish person makes a mistake or takes a wrong turn, you don’t talk about it. Not to a non-Amish person. And never to a cop.

“She never really said,” Orlah replies.

Something there, I think, so I keep pushing. “How many times did you meet her?”

“Just that one time.”

“Once was enough,” Leona puts in. “He brought her over for dinner.” The corners of her mouth turn down. “It wasn’t a very nice evening.”

“Do you have any idea how I might find this woman?” I ask.

“I just don’t know,” Leona says.

But Orlah’s brows furrow. “Samuel’s been running with some English fellow. Some fancy guy from out of town.”

“What’s his name?”