Page 98 of An Evil Heart
“Not a chance.” I lay my head against his shoulder, loving the feel of him, the smell of him, the warmth of his body against mine. The knowledge that we are one.
“You don’t think we’re going to screw this up, do you?” I whisper.
“We got this,” he says. “Piece of cake.”
It’s difficult to focus on life—even momentous once-in-a-lifetime events—when someone else’s life has been taken. But for the living, life goes on. I spent the night caught in a fitful slumber, trying to reconcile my misgivings about the arrest of Vernon Fisher. First thing this morning, the BCI lab confirmed that the duct tape found at Fisher’s residence was from the same roll of tape used to bind Paige Rossberger’s body. By all appearances, Fisher murdered her during a night of sex and drugs. Whether someone else was involved remains to be determined.
When it comes to the motive for Karn’s murder, I can only speculate. Once Fisher crossed the indelible line into homicide, did a switch flip in his head? Did anger over the truck and his obsession with Emily Byler send him to Hansbarger Road, where he ended the life of the man standing in the way of everything he wanted?
There’s no doubt Fisher is a viable suspect. He had motive, means, and opportunity. We have indisputable circumstantial and physical evidence against him. The duct tape. The crossbow bolts found at his residence. In the coming days, the lab will likely link the DNA inside Page Rossberger’s body to Fisher, proving he either raped her or had sexual relations with her. All of it combined is a virtual arsenal of evidence any prosecutor would give his right arm for.
So why do I feel as if we got it all wrong?
“Because you’re getting married in two days and you’re a nervous wreck,” I mutter as I make the turn into the lane of my brother’s farm.
Thoughts of the case melt into the background as I enter the world of my youth. Memories press into me, old friends who haven’t always been fair or easy to like. Thoughts of my childhood recur, deep enough to hurt, and not for the first time I’m swept away by a sense of nostalgia. The remembrance of what it was like to be an Amish girl, innocent and carefree. The knowledge that I was part of something larger than me. That my family would always be the foundation of my world. Back then, I was comforted by the parameters set forth by the community. I didn’t see those rules as something to be fought against, but to be followed without question.
The leaves of the apple trees in the orchard flutter like burnished copper. The maple tree in the side yard—the one I helped mydattplant—ushers me to my childhood home as I make the final turn and curve around to the back of the house. Though it’s barely nineA.M., four buggies areparked in the gravel area adjacent to the chicken coop. I recognize one of the buggies as belonging to my sister, and only then does it strike me that the Amish are already preparing for the wedding.My wedding.
Holy cow.
A hard blow of anxiety punches me in the chest, and I can’t help but wonder: How did this day arrive so quickly? It’s a silly musing, of course. Our wedding has been planned and delayed for over a year now. How is it that I feel so… unprepared?
My sister, Sarah, has left several phone messages for me in the last week—from the Amish phone shanty, of course. I’ve been so tied up in the case, I didn’t make time to stop by the house to see her. This morning, with the case winding down, I’m scrambling to remedy my inattentiveness.
I park behind a buggy and start toward the farmhouse at a brisk clip. I’m midway there when the back door swings open. My brother, Jacob, and another Amish man I don’t recognize wrestle a long wooden bench through the door, shoes scuffing the concrete, the backrest scraping the jamb.
“I’ve got the door.” I rush up the steps to the porch and hold it open while they struggle through. “Guder mariye,” I say. Good morning.
Both men wear blue work shirts, suspenders, and straw summer hats. Jacob makes eye contact with me as he passes. His face is ruddy with exertion and shiny with sweat. “Nau es is veyich zeit.” Now it’s about time. But he softens the words with a grin.
I smile back.
The other man is older, with a long salt-and-pepper beard, his smile revealing two missing eyeteeth. “Die broodah is die faasnacht kummt hinnerno,” he says between grunts. Your brother is slow as molasses in January.
Jacob grumbles a good-natured response and they continue toward the barn. I stand there a moment and watch until they disappear inside, and I realize they’re adding seating to the barn for the ceremony. Preparations for which I’ve been AWOL and they started without me. Ignoring the flutter of unease in my gut, I go through the door. I hear the women before I see them. The chatter of female conversation inDeitsch.A murmured joke. The occasional laugh. The rattle and tap of kitchen work executed by deft, capable hands.
The kitchen is a study in controlled chaos. My sister-in-law, Irene, stands at the counter, rolling dough quickly and efficiently, her back straightening and bending as she works. My sister, Sarah, stands next to her, pressing dough into a glass pie pan. A few feet away, a woman I went to school with slices apples with a paring knife. A large older woman mans the counter, peeling McIntosh apples at high speed.
“If you didn’t talk so much,” she drawls inDeitsch,“you might just get those apples sliced before they turn brown.”
The good-natured scolding is followed by a chorus of laughter.
I’m so dumbfounded by this early show of support that for a moment I can’t find my voice. Instead, I stand in the doorway, taking in the scene, trying to figure out exactly how I fit into it.
A dozen boxes of mason jars are stacked against the wall. A bushel basket of apples sits on the floor at the feet of the woman peeling. Another bushel basket of celery has been shoved against the cabinet.
Amish weddings are a huge affair, as social as they are religious and steeped in tradition. Even in a town as small as Painters Mill, most weddings are attended by three or four hundred. Growing up, I attended dozens. As a girl, it was all about the pie and volleyball and playing with my peers. As I grew older, I was awed by the mystery and wonder of what itmeant. Later, as a teen, I felt certain that part of being Amish would never be for me.
Of course, my wedding will be a far cry from a typical Amish wedding. There will be no service beforehand; Bishop Troyer will not perform the ceremony. Some Amish will not attend, simply because I’m not a member of the church and they don’t consider me part of the community. But I know that just as many Amish will come. They’ll help with preparations, the men moving furniture and clearing the house for what will likely be a hundred or more attendees. The women will deal with the details and preparing food.
“Katie!”
I startle at the sound of my sister’s voice. I look up to see Sarah looking at me over her shoulder, her hands busy with the dough. And then all eyes are upon me, and suddenly I feel excruciatingly self-conscious and out of place. I’m in uniform this morning, my .38 strapped to my hip, and it’s never been so glaringly obvious that I’m not part of this. I’m not one of them.
“You’re busy,” I say, and immediately wish I could take the words back.
Sarah tilts her head. “We’re making pies is all. Apple.”
