“So… the patient is dehydrated and possibly malnourished. Also badly sunburned. Her blood-alcohol had to be through the roof because it’s still only down to point-zero-seven. She has no recent injuries that we can tell. However, both her left arm and her left cheekbone have been broken in the past. Her wrists and forearms show clear indications that in the past she has been cutting herself, a sign of severe psychological stress. My most acute concern”—Dr. Patel glanced at the girl, who watched them with a scowl—“is that before we washed her, we found blood on her vagina and her thighs. We documented this. If it turns out to be a criminal case, let us know.”

“Thank you.”

“We’re ready to do X-rays now, and after that, if you want to do a rape kit, we need to get working on consent right away. When that’s done, we need to keep her calm and restful through the night. Do you happen to know how old she is?”

“No idea. But maybe I can find out. Can I have five minutes?”

Dr. Patel smiled wearily. “The nurse will be waiting outside the door. I’ll get the SAFE kit.”

Sheriff Kick smiled at Patience Goodgolly and moved slowly into the sullen atmosphere the girl projected. The Tri-County reporter had discovered her unconscious on the floor with her hands bound to the frame of Derp Hubbard’s bed. In short order, after Maggie Smithback’s 911 call, Denise had established that Hubbard drove a 1966 International Harvester deep-bed pickup, white, not unlike the picture Father McCartney had shown her, and matching the BOLO they had put out after Patience had disappeared from the Goodgolly farm.

When the sheriff’s notebook and pen were ready, she called Interim Chief Deputy Bender at the Ezekiel Lapp farm and put her phone on speaker with the volume all the way up.

“Are we ready?”

“Funny question when half of us have been waiting thirty minutes.”

“I’m sorry about that, Dick.”

He snapped, “No images. Voice only.”

“I understand. We’re just on speakerphone. Hello, Mrs. Lapp, and thank you.”

“I’m glad to help.” The Amish schoolteacher added softly, “Wie bischt du, mein Schat?”

The sheriff kept her eyes on the girl, who clearly understood the disembodied pleasantry—How are you, my darling?—and still scowled.

“First some questions for you, Mrs. Lapp. Do you know the Goodgollys?”

“We know of them, yes. A father and a daughter. We see them at the market now and again.”

“Are they… are the Goodgollys Amish?”

“No, ma’am.”

“But, the lifestyle…”

“They are English who tried to join the Amish. But they have wrong ways. Our bishop has instructed us to shun them.”

“Where did they come from?”

Mrs. Lapp remained quiet for several seconds. The phone speaker crackled faintly.