An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(59)

Aden Karn was laid to rest this morning. The funeral was held at the Byler farm, mainly because the barn is big enough to accommodate a large group. I didn’t attend; a funeral is a time that belongs to loved ones and family and I gave them that because they are due. I did, however, park on the shoulder at the end of the lane and watch the procession of buggies pull in. The Amish turned out by the hundreds.

While I eschewed the funeral, I did attend the burial service at the graabhof, or cemetery. I stuck to the periphery of the gathering, doing my best not to intrude. I observed the mourners from afar, looking for any unusual behavior—excessive crying or someone making a scene—conspicuous absences, or the presence of a stranger. But there was nothing unusual. Angela and Lester Karn stood graveside, their expressions downcast and stoic. Emily Byler, clad in black and fighting tears, stood with her parents. Wayne Graber was one of the pallbearers. Even the young men from the gas station showed, dressed in their best Amish attire. I’m loath to approach the Karns on the day they laid their son to rest, but the questions burning inside me will not wait.

It’s afternoon when I pull into the parking slot outside The Gentle Cobbler. I’m not surprised to find them working. Some seek the sense of normalcy that comes with the mundane. The comfort of ritual. The foundation of work that is such a big part of Amish life.

A CLOSED sign hangs on the window, but the lights are on. As I cross the sidewalk to the door, I see someone moving around inside. I knock on the glass and wait. Sure enough, Lester Karn comes to the door. His face is grim, his eyes hard when he opens it. He seems to have aged ten years in the last few days. His shoulders are hunched. His chest sunken. His cheeks hollowed beneath his beard. He is the picture of grief.

“I know this has been a tough day.” I look past him and see Angela behind the counter, looking at me over the top of the cash register. “I’ll keep it short.”

Bowing his head in acquiescence, Lester ushers me into the store.

The smells of leather, coffee, and shoe polish hang comfortably in the air as I follow him to the counter. Angela’s fingers ting against the keys of the cash register as she prepares it for the day’s sales. “God gives us the strength for any hill we have to climb,” she says to no one in particular.

“I was at the graabhof earlier,” I say quietly in Deitsch. “It was a good service.”

“Er hot en iwwerflissich leve gfaahre,” Angela says. He lived an abundant life.

“The deacon said there were about three hundred Amish there,” Lester says flatly.

“The Amish turn out,” I say. “Always.”

“Everyone loved him so.” Angela moves like a ghost as she comes around the counter. “You have news for us, Kate Burkholder? You know who took him from us?”

“Just a few follow-up questions.” I pull out my notebook and pen. “Do any of Aden’s friends own a crossbow?”

Lester’s brows knit as he seems to consider. “Not that I know of.”

I make eye contact with both of them, keenly aware of their pain, and that they’re not going to like some of the questions I’m about to ask. “I’ve talked to a lot of people in the last few days. People who knew or had dealt with Aden. Some of the things I heard raised some questions.”

He cocks his head, his eyes like razors on mine. “What kind of questions?”

I lock eyes with him. “Mr. and Mrs. Karn, I’m going to ask you some questions that aren’t going to be easy to hear or to answer. I’m going to ask you not to read anything into them. I’m following up on some information that I received. Please bear with me.”

The couple exchange uneasy looks, but I push on. “Did Aden have a temper?”

Angela chokes out a sound that’s akin to a laugh. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

I look at Lester and repeat the question.

The Amish man shakes his head. “No.”

“Did he ever strike anyone? Or get into a fight?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Angela put her hand over her mouth.

“Of course not,” Lester says quickly. “That’s not our way.”

“Did he have any problems or arguments with any of his girlfriends?”

“‘Girlfriends’?” Angela blinks. “You mean Emily?”

“Any female,” I clarify. “Girls or women.”

“No,” Lester says.

“Were you ever concerned about the way he perceived women?” I ask. “Or the way he treated them?”

“I don’t understand these questions,” Angela says, her voice rising. “Aden was a good boy. What exactly are you getting at?”

I ignore the question. “Did Aden get along well with Emily?”

“Of course he did,” the Amish woman tells me. “He was going to marry her.”

“Did he have any other girlfriends?” I ask.

“No!” Angela hisses.

“Did he see any girls before he started going out with Emily? Or while he was on rumspringa?”

The woman stares at me, blinking. “No.”

I pause, give them a moment to digest the direction of my questions. “Did he ever exhibit any problems with impulse control?” The question doesn’t translate well from the English mindset to the Amish way of thinking, but I struggle through. “As a boy or an adult?”