Hallowed Ground

Begin ReadingTable of ContentsAbout the AuthorCopyright Page Thank you for buying thisSt. Martin’s Publishing Group ebook. To receive special offers, bonus content,and info on new releases and other great reads,sign up for our newsletters. Or visit us online atus.macmillan.com/newslettersignup For email updates on the author, click here. The author and publisher have provided this ebook to you for your personal use only. You may not make this ebook publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this ebook you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy. Eddie Chupp slashed the vine with his harvest knife and rolled the pumpkin from beneath its canopy. It was another beauty—big, bright orange, and heavy as a rock. Slash. Roll. Repeat. He’d been at it since dawn and reaped sixty-two prizewinners so far. God had blessed him with a perfect fall day, a sharp knife, and a strong back to see him through. He’d hoped to finish before dark, but from the looks of the clouds roiling to the northwest the storm wasn’t going to wait.Slash. Roll. Repeat.Eddie couldn’t complain. It was a good crop this year. The pumpkins down by the creek were the size of buggy wheels and would likely weigh in at two hundred pounds. If he could get today’s harvest loaded in the wagon, he might be able to finish tomorrow and haul everything to the Pumpkin Festival, which started this weekend.He’d just cut another stem when a sharp bark from his dog interrupted his musings. Straightening, Eddie looked out across the field to see the lumbering Great Pyrenees digging frantically, dirt flying. The silly beast made for such a funny picture, Eddie laughed outright. The dog knew better than to dig in the field, but then Honeybear had always had a mind of his own.“Shtobba!” he called out to the dog. Stop!Eddie didn’t expect the animal to obey and, of course, he didn’t.Grumbling, he slid the knife into the sheath at his belt and started that way. He could use a break, anyway. Maybe sit for a spell and have a cup of the coffee his wife had put in the thermos.Ten yards away, the dog tore into the ground with the fervor of a motorized tiller tine. Watching, Eddie shook his head. The animal was fat as a summer sow, and a lot better at eating table scraps than he was at protecting the baby goats. Eddie adored him nonetheless. He’d never admit it, but he enjoyed Honeybear’s company more than he did some people’s.It wasn’t until he reached the dog that he realized the big boy had something in his mouth. “Was der schinner du dich havva datt, fett boo?” What in the world do you have there, fat boy?The dog looked up at him, tail wagging.Puzzled, Eddie slid the object from the animal’s mouth and looked down at it. It was an old bone, yellowed and covered with dirt. A jawbone if he wasn’t mistaken. Judging by the shape and size, a sheep’s, maybe. Several of the teeth were still intact.He was about to toss the thing aside when he noticed the spark of silver in one of the molars. A chill crept up his spine and he felt the tingle of it all the way down to his toes. Eddie didn’t believe in ghosts, but when he looked toward the trees, he half expected to see some shadowy figure emerge.“Mein Gott,” he whispered. “Mensh.” My God. Human.A rumble of thunder vibrated the ground beneath his feet. The bone slipped from his hand. He stumbled back. Turning, the Amish man launched himself into a run, the frightened dog hot on his heels.Some days are custom-made for small towns. I’m sitting at a bistro table on the sidewalk outside Mocha Joe’s coffeehouse on Main Street. The pumpkin spice dark roast is good. The breeze is humid and warm. Traffic flows easily along Main Street, where the merchants have decorated their storefronts with harvest wreaths, wicker baskets filled with gourds, and jack-o’-lanterns, all of it in anticipation of the Pumpkin Festival parade. My name is Kate Burkholder and I’m the police chief of Painters Mill, a little gem of a town nestled in the heart of Ohio’s Amish country.It’s afternoon and I’m on my lunch break. I’ve been on duty since seven A.M. and I’ve yet to take a single call. Across from me, my significant other, John Tomasetti, sips a double espresso and watches the bank manager across the street arrange pumpkins and pots of mums atop a bale of straw.“You’re pretty calm for a woman who’s getting married in a few weeks.”A familiar flutter that’s part excitement, part terror quivers in my gut. “In case you’re wondering, I’m also a decent poker player.”“I’ve no doubt.” Watching me, he lifts his cup and sips. “Have you decided on a venue?”He’s referring to our wedding, of course. For weeks, we’ve been waffling on whether to have it at our farm, where we’ve built our new life together, or my brother’s farm, the place where I grew up. I’d been hoping Jacob would offer his farm for the ceremony and the wedding meal afterward; so far, he hasn’t, and now we’re down to the wire.I’d wanted to keep it simple, but my being formerly Amish adds a myriad of complications to an already complex set of dynamics. My family is Amish. While I remain of the Anabaptist faith, the bishop will not officiate the wedding. Though I’ve remained friends with some of my former brethren—and rekindled a relationship with my family—a few in the Amish community will not attend.The crack of my radio interrupts my reverie, saving me from having to answer a question I should have been able to answer weeks ago. Eyeing Tomasetti, I tilt my head to my lapel mike. “Burkholder.”“Chief,” comes the voice of my first-shift dispatcher, Lois Monroe. “I just took a call from a guy out at the