Page 38 of An Evil Heart
I lunge, plow my shoulder into the small of his back, wrap my arms around his hips, and take him down in a flying tackle. A high-pitched scream rends the air as we fall. Only then do I realize the perpetrator isn’t a kid at all, but female. Smaller than me. Young. An Amish girl.
She breaks her fall with her arms, but I come down on top of her. Her elbows buckle from our combined weight and she slams into the dirt. I hear the breath rush from her lungs. My forehead strikes her shoulder blade. Setting both hands against her shoulders, I scramble up, set my knee against the small of her back.
“Do not move!” I reach for the cuffs on my belt, fumble the snap. My hands are shaking from adrenaline and exertion.
“Let go of me!” the girl screams. “Help!”
“I’m not going to hurt you.” I snap out the cuffs, reach for her left hand, and pull it behind her back. “I’m a police officer. Calm down.”
“You’re hurting me! Please! Stop it!”
She’s starting to panic, so I reach for her right hand, bring it back. After a couple of attempts, I get the second cuff into place and snap it closed.
I get to my feet, too winded to speak. I leave her on the ground, facedown, her body heaving. I lean forward, set my hands on my knees, and concentrate on catching my breath. A few seconds and I straighten, speak into my shoulder mike. “Ten-ninety-five,” I pant. Suspect in custody.
“You hurt my knee,” the girl tells me. “Why did you do that?”
I glance down at her and cringe inwardly. Her dress is tangled around her legs, herkappaskew. She lost a sneaker at some point. Her head is turned to one side, a smear of dirt on her cheek, tears beneath her eyes. I guess her to be sixteen or seventeen years old. She looks pitiful and harmless and I can’t help but feel a tinge of guilt.
“Why didn’t you stop when I asked you to?” I ask. “Why did you run from me?”
“You scared me!” she cries. “Please, let me up.”
“Just calm down,” I tell her. “I’ll help you.”
Bending, I reach for her forearm. “Come on. Up and at ’em.”
She gets her knees beneath her and rises. I can feel her shaking. Tears stream down her cheeks, but there’s no sobbing. She’s an inch away from hyperventilating.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask.
A too-long pause and then, “Nothing. I was… just… taking a walk.”
“In the woods? In the dark? With no flashlight?”
She doesn’t respond.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
A brief hesitation and then she says, “Christina Weaver.”
“Do you have any ID on you?”
She looks down at the ground and shakes her head.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Sixteen.”
“Where do you live?”
She motions with her eyes in the direction we were traveling. “A couple miles thataway. Township Road 42.”
“You live with yourmammanddatt?”
She looks at me from beneath her lashes, curious about my Amish pronunciation. “Ja.”
She’s small in stature. Five feet. Barely a hundred pounds. “Why did you run away from me?”
