The grapevine is a powerful means of communication in the Amish community. It’s general knowledge that Gideon Stoltzfus helped young people leave the plain life. He’s built that reputation by taking in troubled teens, gaining their trust, and helping them start new lives. He lends them money, gives them food and a place to stay. He counsels them and helps them find jobs. What if all of those things are a front for a more sinister agenda? What if Gideon Stoltzfus has discovered the ultimate stratagem for hunting prey?

The question sends a scatter of gooseflesh down my arms. The scenario fits—and neither Tomasetti nor I saw it until now. What I haven’t been able to figure, however, is motive. As far as we know, there is no sexual element to the kidnappings. To complicate matters, Stoltzfus, whose reputation is above reproach, has indeed helped a handful of teens leave the Amish way without a single complaint that we know of. Are there other victims who’ve never come forward? Is it possible he helps some and simply does away with others? How does he decide which teens to help and which ones to eliminate?

In the Amish community, when someone does something deemed immoral, he or she is expected to confess before the congregation and ask for forgiveness. If the accused follows that protocol, despite the seriousness of the mistake, that person is redeemed in the eyes of the community.

What if this is about redemption? What if, using some twisted logic, Gideon Stoltzfus takes it upon himself to cull the “bad Amish” from the community? In a perverse, fanatical way, it makes sense. Deliver the salvageable. Expunge the unredeemable.

I park behind a black four-wheeled buggy and kill the engine. The stench of the hogs washes over me like a wave of stagnant water when I get out. The afternoon has grown hot; humidity presses down like a wet blanket. The wind has gone still and a row of black clouds roil above the treetops to the west, telling me I’ll probably be driving to Buck Creek in the rain.

“Terrific,” I mutter as I look around. The farm is so quiet, I can hear the hogs grunting and milling about in the pen on the other side of the barn. A lone blue jay scolds me from the branches of a maple tree in the side yard as I start toward the house. I ascend the steps to the porch and knock.