An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(33)

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, her kapp askew. 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 your mamm and datt?”

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?”

“You … scared me. I … didn’t know who you were or what you wanted.”

“Do you have anything you shouldn’t have in your pockets?” I ask.

“No.”

I check her kapp for anything hidden, straighten it for her, and then, as quickly and impersonally as possible, I run my hands over her dress. I squeeze the pockets of her apron and my hand stops. I reach inside and pull out a red marker. The same kind of marker that was used to draw the crude arrow on the image of Aden Karn.

I hold up the marker. “What are you doing with this?”

The girl looks down at the ground, thinks better of it, and meets my gaze. “My little brother. He … he must have put it in my pocket.”

“You know you’re not a very good liar, right?”

She shakes her head as if I’ve annoyed her and drops her gaze to the ground.

“That’s a compliment,” I add.

She doesn’t respond.

I sigh. “Christina, if I take off those handcuffs, will you behave yourself?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Taking her arm, I turn her around, and then fish the key out of its compartment and unlock the cuffs. While she’s rubbing her wrists, I pull the photo from my pocket and show it to her. “Did you use that marker to draw on this photo?”

She looks at it and her expression crumples. Pressing her hands against her face, she begins to cry. “Please. Don’t tell.”

I wait for her to expound, but she continues to cry, her shoulders shaking. After a full minute, I motion toward the deer trail in the direction from which we came. “Let’s go back to my vehicle.”

Hands shaking, she wipes tears from her eyes. “Please don’t take me to jail.”

“No one’s going to jail.” I motion again. “Walk.”

Neither of us speaks as we retrace our steps back to Hansbarger Road. It’s nearly dark now, and as we get closer to the road, I speak into my radio. “Ten-twenty-two,” I say, canceling my earlier call for assistance.

“Copy that,” comes my dispatcher’s voice.

We reach the fence, and I wait while the girl climbs over. She stands patiently while I do the same. I spot her lost shoe just off the path, and point. I wait while she puts it on and laces up.