Castillo Linda - Outsider

“I sure would appreciate that.”

Tilting my head, I speak into my lapel mike, trying not to notice when snow sneaks down my collar. “Ten-fifty-one,” I say, requesting a wrecker and giving the general location.

“Ten-four,” comes my first-shift dispatcher’s voice over the radio. Lois Monroe is in her mid-fifties, with a big laugh and a temperament as prickly as her hair. She might be our resident “mom,” but I’ve seen her put more than one tough customer in his place. “Ricky’s Towing is running behind this morning, Chief. Says they’ve been getting calls for a couple of hours now. Gonna be a while.”

“Try Jonny Ray.”

“Roger that.”

This is the fourth fender bender I’ve responded to this morning and it’s not yet nine A.M., a sure sign that the first day of the week is going to live up to its name.

I’m in the process of setting out flares when I hear tires crunch through snow. I look up to see Rupert “Glock” Maddox’s cruiser roll up and stop behind my Explorer, lights flashing. He’s my usual first-shift officer, an experienced cop and former military man, and as always, I’m glad to see him.

“Need a hand, Chief?”

I drop the final flare and look up to see him approach. Not for the first time I wonder how he always manages to show up just when I need him. “If you wait here for the wrecker,” I tell him, “I’ll let Hochstetler know he needs to pen those cows up in the barn until he can get some wire on this fence.”

Glock breaks open an additional flare and drops it on the centerline. “Definitely don’t need cows running around with slick roads and low visibility.”

I’m midway to the Explorer when my cell vibrates against my hip. I glance down to see DISPATCH on the display and pick up. “You’re keeping us busy this morning, Lois.”

“I just took a call from Adam Lengacher, Chief. He says he was out for a sleigh ride with his kids and found a woman lying in the field. Evidently, she wrecked sometime during the night, left her vehicle to find help, and lost her way.”

Squinting against the snow blowing into my face, I reach the Explorer and yank open the door. “How badly is she injured?”

“He isn’t sure.”

“Check to see if ambulances are running. See if they can pick her up and take her to Pomerene Hospital. Do you know where the accident occurred?”

“Township Road 36.”

“Call County,” I say, referring to the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department. “Tell them we’re jammed up here, will you?”

“That’s exactly what I was going to do, Chief, but Adam told me the woman asked for you.”

The statement gives me pause. “Does this mystery woman have a name?”

“He didn’t think to ask.”

I sigh, wondering who she is and why she would ask for me. “All right,” I tell her. “Cancel County. Let me get things tied up here and I’ll head out that way.”

I end the call, think about going back out into the snow, but instead I call Glock. He’s standing on the shoulder with Joe, talking and looking in the general direction of the wayward Mercedes. I see him pluck his cell from a compartment on his belt.

“I’ve got to take a call out at the Lengacher farm,” I tell him. “Can you let Hochstetler know he needs to pen those cows until he can get that fence repaired?”

He looks at me, phone to his ear, and grins. “You got it, Chief. Be careful out there.”

I’ve known Adam Lengacher since I was eight years old. I was friends with his sister for a time. Their datt ran a hog operation, butchered livestock for meat on the side, had a smokehouse for venison, and a reputation for making good German-style sausage. For a couple of summers, while the men cut meat and smoked their pipes, the three of us would coo over the piglets and play hide-and-seek in the cornfield next to their house. Those carefree days didn’t last and we lost touch as we entered our teen years. Adam married and started a family. I fell out of favor with my Amish brethren and eventually left the fold, trading Painters Mill for the big-city lights of Columbus.

I’ve seen him around town a few times since I’ve been chief, just to wave or smile or say hello. The last time I spoke to him was at his wife’s funeral, two years ago, and then it was only to offer my condolences.

He lives with his three children on a lesser-used township road that’s more gravel than asphalt a few miles out of Painters Mill. I pass a snowplow on the way, but I know they won’t be clearing the secondary roads much longer. As I creep along TR 36, my tires bumping over ever-growing drifts, powdered snow blowing in my rearview mirror, the severity of the weather situation hits home. I’ve not received official word that emergency services are grounded, but there’s no way an ambulance is going to venture into rural areas and risk getting stuck.

The road is virtually invisible, not only due to low visibility, but because the roadway and shoulder are obscured by a foot of snow. Worse, the wind has picked up and the drifts are growing exponentially. In a few more hours, the east-west roads will be impassable. If the injured motorist Adam stumbled upon turns out to have a medical emergency and she’s able to travel, I’ll likely have to transport her to Pomerene Hospital myself.

Jamming the Explorer into four-wheel drive, I turn into the lane of the Lengacher farm. Despite the severity of the weather, I can’t help but notice the beauty of the snow against the old farmhouse and the eighty-foot-tall pine trees in the side yard. White four-rail fences line both sides of the long driveway. I climb a low rise, and a big red bank barn looms into view. The barn door stands open. An antique-looking sleigh is parked just inside. Two Amish girls bundled in coats and wearing winter bonnets lead a fat dapple-gray draft horse deeper into the interior.

I park as close to the house as I can manage, kill the engine, and pull my hood over my head. Wind and snow pummel me as I take the walkway around to the front door and knock. The door swings open and I find myself looking at a boy of about eight with yellow-blond hair and eyes the color of a blue jay. He’s wearing a brown coat and a flat-brimmed hat, and he’s in his stocking feet, his big toe sticking out of a hole.

“Hi.” I smile, look past him. “Is your datt home?”

“ Ja. ” The boy cocks his head. “Are you the police?”

“Yes, but you can call me Katie.”

“Datt said to bring you back.” Reaching out, the boy takes my hand. “Come on. We found a girl. An autseidah. ” Outsider. “She’s hurt so we put her on the cot in Mamm’s sewing room.”

His hand is small, roughened with calluses, and cold in mine as he leads me through the door and into a dimly lit living room. The smells of woodsmoke and a house well lived in float on the heated air. I see a ragtag sofa piled with crocheted pillows, a handcrafted coffee table, a macramé wall covering. A propane floor lamp hisses at me from the corner.

“I’m eight, but I’m going to be nine next month.” The boy prattles as he leads me through the living room. “My sisters are putting Jimmy away.”

“Jimmy must be that big plow horse I saw when I pulled in,” I say.

“He’s fat but he still likes to pull the sleigh.” He doesn’t miss a beat as we enter a narrow hall. “Annie likes him because he’s got a pink nose.”

He takes me down the hall and stops outside a doorway. The room beyond is a small area, about ten feet square, with a single window, a workbench set against a wall, and an antique Singer sewing machine that looks like it hasn’t been used in some time.

Adam Lengacher stands just inside, looking at me. He’s tall and blond with a rangy build and the blue eyes he passed down to his son. He still wears his heavy coat, dark trousers that are wet around the hem, and boots that left a trail of watery prints.