not the boy and his father can be found. If they can be found, we are supposed to decide, without approaching the father, whether or not we think the boy can be returned to the family. I have also given the bishop my word that we will not attempt to take the boy from his father. We’re simply to locate the two of them, find out the boy’s condition, and advise the bishop. Nothing more.”
Caroline and Cal glanced curiously at each other and then at Branden, waiting for an explanation.
“For some reason,” Branden said, “the bishop is afraid to force the return of his grandson. If we can’t turn something up in the next few weeks, he’ll wait out the summer until harvest, rather than cause a ruckus now.”
“I don’t get it,” Caroline said. “Does he want the boy back or not?”
“His restrictions, for now, are quite specific,” Branden said. “We can look for the boy diligently, but we are not to make it appear that Miller is seeking to force the return of his grandson. He was very clear on this. Said something like, ‘For now, Professor, we must be very cautious. Just see if you can find him, and then let me know.’”
“To what end?” Caroline asked.
“I don’t know, exactly,” Branden said. “Maybe he just wants to make sure that the boy will be safe until harvest. And that’s all we can do. Maybe once he knows where the boy is, he’ll bring him home, himself. Keep it in the family. You know how clannish they can be. Secretive, even. That’s why I promised to abide by his restrictions. They’ll not accept our help on any other terms, and they’ll certainly never go to the police with the matter. So finding the boy is something we’ll have to do on our own, and even that, as little as it is, is an amazing and unusual thing for a bishop to have asked an Englisher to do.”
“Working through the sheriff’s office would be the best way to find them quickly,” Caroline said.
“We can’t tell the law, any law, about Jeremiah’s being gone.”
Cal said, “You’d expect that sort of resistance from Old Order Amish.”
“I think the bishop is being a little foolish,” Caroline said.
Branden reiterated, “They won’t take our help unless it’s on their terms, Caroline.”
Cal said, “But Caroline’s right, of course. The sheriff could do this faster.”
“Believe me, I agree,” Branden said. “That’s not the issue. It’s the bishop. He’s setting the rules, and I promised I’d do things his way, so that’s the way it has to be. He was very specific about that. Said that if the law got tangled up in the matter, he’d deny ever having a problem in the first place.”
6
Friday, June 19
10:30 A.M.
BRANDEN stood looking down at the legs of Jeff Hostettler, jutting from under the front bumper of an old pickup. Hostettler wore black boots and a dirty pair of blue mechanic’s coveralls. From under the engine, Hostettler said, “What makes you think I care about Jonah Miller?”
Branden answered, “I’ve been looking for him precisely one day, Mr. Hostettler, and that’s today. First place I went was social services, and the first thing I learned was that you fought the Millers in a custody battle over your nephew.”
“So what?” Hostettler said and pushed out on his roller pad from under the truck. He stood, walked over to the workbench in his garage, took down a wrench, lay down again on the creeper, and slid back under the truck.
“So, you’d have good reason to know where I could find Jonah Miller.”
“If I knew where Jonah Miller was, I’d do more than just open that custody hearing again,” Hostettler said indignantly. “But I don’t know where he’s at, and I don’t care anymore.” He rolled out again, looked up at Branden, and added, “I’ve had all I can stand from that Miller bunch, as it is.”
“We’ve reason to believe that Jonah has returned to the area,” Branden said.
Hostettler lay still and thought for a moment, then rolled back under the truck. Branden heard the wrench clinking into place and saw Hostettler’s legs lift at the knees as he grunted with the exertion. There was a slip, a thud, and the clanging of the wrench on the concrete floor. Hostettler pushed out from under the truck, holding bloody knuckles in his hand. He hauled himself upright, cursing, and stepped to the workbench. He took a clean towel from a drawer and began patting it on his black and greasy knuckles, where blood and pink skin showed through the grime.
Hostettler wrapped his hand in the towel and spoke in an angry tone. “The Millers have been nothing but trouble to me since my sister took up with Jonah. I hate them, and I don’t mind telling you so. First, they as much as killed my sister, and then they took the boy. I’ve got nobody left now, Professor. Got any idea how that feels? Nobody except that little boy, and him I never get to see. They’re raising him Amish, too, as if taking him from me wasn’t enough. Amish! He’s gonna grow up to be one of those dirty little buggy brats, and I can’t do a thing about it.”
Branden said, “There’s worse things than growing up Amish.”
Hostettler took an impulsive step toward Branden, fist raised. He fumed instantly to a bitter hatred and shouted, “Not the way I see it!”
Branden let Hostettler cool off a moment. “Look, Hostettler. I’m sorry. I didn’t know about Jeremiah. I didn’t even know about you until this morning.”
Hostettler held his knuckles in the towel and grumbled, somewhat cooler now.
Branden added, “I’d just like to find Jonah, and I thought maybe you’d know something. That’s all.”
“Why should I help you?” Hostettler asked.
Branden stuffed his hands into his front pockets. “If we were to find Jonah, and that’s all we want to do, but if we were to find him, what difference would that make for you?”
“None at all,” Hostettler said. “The guy’s a doped-up alcoholic, wherever he is, anyways.”
“So what harm could he do you, if we were to bring him home?” Branden asked.
“He’ll never come home,” Hostettler said.
“Why not help us find him?”
“I don’t know where he is.”
Branden thought there was hesitation in Hostettler’s answer. “But you do have some idea where we might look.”
Hostettler stood for a long time with his fingers wrapped in the towel. His hands were blackened from his struggles with the engine of his truck. His coveralls showed more dirt than blue. His boots were old and worn. He wiped at his brow and smudged his forehead with black grease. He leaned back against the workbench and began to talk.
“It’s only me now, Professor. When my sister died, Jeremiah’s mother, I lost the last one there was. Then Jeremiah, too. Those were rough and wild times for me, and just like Jonah Miller, I did my share of drinking. We were good people, and I lost the family home snortin’ cocaine. It’s no wonder the courts put Jeremiah with the Millers. Now, all I’ve got is this little house, a couple of beat-up cars and trucks, and a job I’ve been able to hold onto for the last seven years. It pays the bills, nothing more.
“So when you came at me with Jonah Miller, it threw me. There isn’t another name in all the world that could have thrown me like that. Now, you want to know where he’s at, and there’s nothing I’d like less than to see his sorry face back around here.
“I’m going to tell you one thing, though, and then I want you all to leave me alone. Somebody mentioned him to me last spring. I won’t say who, and I won’t tell you why. But, I got a call in early May saying that this certain someone had run onto Miller up in Cleveland.
“That’s