In the summer of 1995, Amish sisters Iva and Elizabeth Vault hitched their horse to the family’s delivery wagon and vanished from their secluded California valley.
For 9 years, the accepted story was that they had simply run away, seduced by the forbidden freedoms of the modern world.
But in 2004, when state environmental workers were inspecting abandoned mine shafts in the remote foothills, they found something that silenced the whispers forever.
Wedged deep in the earth, far below the surface, was the sister’s delivery wagon.
The discovery was proof of a violent end, not a quiet escape, shattering the runaway theory.
But finding the wagon only deepened the mystery, leaving behind a far more chilling question.
If this is where their journey ended, where were the girls?
Quillout was halfway through the painstaking process of oiling the leather harnesses when the quiet rhythm of her day fractured.
The scent of neatfoot oil and old leather filled the barn, a smell that invariably conjured the memory of her daughters.
Iva and had always handled the tack, their laughter echoing against the rafters, their hands quick and sure.
It had been 9 years since those echoes faded.
9 years since the girls, 19 and 23, had hitched the horse to the delivery wagon and simply dissolved into the California summer.
Methodical and practiced, Quila worked the oil into a dry martingale.
The routine was a bomb, a way to keep the stillness at bay.
The vault farm, nestled in a secluded valley far from the coastal bustle, adhered to the old ways.
Life was governed by the sun, the seasons, and the ordinong.
But the disappearance had introduced a discordant note that never resolved.
The interruption came not as a sound, but a vibration in the earth, a low rumble distinct from the clip-clop of a buggy or the groan of farm equipment.
Quila paused, rag in hand.
Walking to the barn door, she looked out across the dusty yard.
A county sheriff’s vehicle, stark white and jarringly modern, was crawling up the long dirt lane.
It was an alien presence here.
The English authorities rarely came onto the settlement lands unless summoned, and they hadn’t been summoned today.
A knot of apprehension tightened in her stomach.
Wiping her oily hands on her apron, leaving dark streaks on the faded blue fabric, she stepped out into the sunlight to meet the car.
A man climbed out, tall and angular, dressed in a rumpled suit that spoke of long hours.
He removed his sunglasses, squinting against the glare.
“Mrs. Vault, Quill of Vault?”
She nodded, her throat tight.
“I am she.”
“I’m Detective Vance Russo. I’m with the major crimes unit.”
He paused, his expression carefully neutral, professional, yet softened by something that looked like reluctance.
We need to talk about your daughters, Iva and the names hung in the air, heavy and sharp.
Have you found them?
The question was automatic, a reflex honed over nearly a decade.
Russo looked away for a moment toward the foothills that rose sharply in the distance.
Not exactly, ma’am, but we found something.
Something significant.
He explained that state environmental workers had been conducting mandated inspections of abandoned mine shafts in the remote foothills.
A recent scandal involving a leaking chemical cache in an old mine further north had forced a statewide survey of these historical sites.
They were looking for contaminants, rusted equipment, anything that might pose an ecological threat.
Deep in a narrow shaft designated only as site 44B, the survey crew had found something wedged tight far below the surface.
It wasn’t mining equipment.
It’s a buggy, Mrs. Vout, Russo said quietly.
A horsedrawn wagon.
The description we have on file from 1995.
It seems to match.
The world seemed to tilt.
a buggy, the delivery wagon, the last tangible piece of their lives before the silence.
For years, a faction within the community had whispered that the girls had simply run away, that the allure of the English world, the bright lights and forbidden freedoms had seduced them.
Kila had never believed it.
Iva and with their bright blue eyes and steadfast faith, would never have left without a word.
But the absence of evidence had allowed the narrative to fester.
“I must see it,” Quillis said, the words surprising her with their firmness.
“It’s a difficult location,” Mrs. Vout, rough terrain, and the extraction is still in progress.
“I must see it,” she repeated, her gaze unwavering.
“If it is theirs, I will know it.”
The elders would disapprove.
involvement with the outside world, immersion in the violence of the past.
It was contrary to the principles of acceptance and forgiveness.
But this was not about the community.
It was about her children.
Untieing her apron, she let it fall to the dirt.
Take me there now.
The drive was long and jarring.
The smooth asphalt of the county road soon gave way to winding gravel tracks and finally to rutted dirt paths that seemed barely passable.
The air conditioning in the cruiser was a strange cold sensation against Quila’s skin.
They traveled far from the familiar ordered farmland, climbing steadily into the rugged, isolated mining territory.
This was a landscape of scrub oak, dry creek beds, and forgotten history.
a desolate place where secrets could be kept indefinitely.
Russo was quiet, respectful of her silence.
With her hands clasped tightly in her lap, Quila watched the landscape change.
The closer they got, the more the dread solidified into something cold and heavy in her chest.
They arrived at the site, a hive of activity that contrasted sharply with the surrounding wilderness.
Several official vehicles were parked half-hazardly.
A large motorized rigging system had been erected over a gaping hole in the earth.
Men in hard hats and reflective vests moved with purpose.
Russo guided her through the organized chaos toward the edge of the shaft.
The opening was wider than she had imagined, perhaps 15 ft across, the edges crumbling and unstable.
Be careful, ma’am.
Stay behind the tape.
Ignoring him, Quilla moved right up to the boundary and looked down.
The shaft was deep, a cylindrical maw descending into darkness.
The sunlight penetrated only the upper portion, illuminating the rough, uneven walls of rock and earth.
And then she saw it.
It was rising slowly, jerkily, suspended by thick white ropes attached to its undercarriage.
The sight was so grotesque, so profoundly wrong that Quilla felt the breath leave her body.
The buggy was unrecognizable at first glance.
Skeletal and fragile, it was caked in thick layers of dried mud and grime that obscured its original black color.
It looked less like a vehicle and more like the carcass of some strange beast dredged from a primordial swamp.
The wooden wheels were weathered and damaged, spokes broken or missing.
The black vinyl of the seat was torn and shredded.
The back rest tilted at an unnatural angle.
It hung suspended in the center of the shaft, rotating slowly in the abyss.
The ropes strained under the weight, the winch motor whining in protest.
It was a moment that shattered the fragile hope constructed over 9 years.
The whispers, the theories, the agonizing possibility that perhaps somewhere they were alive.
It all collapsed.
This was not the aftermath of an escape.
This was violence.
This was disposal.
The buggy cleared the lip of the shaft.
The rigging swung it over solid ground.
The smell that rose from it was overwhelming.
Damp earth, decay, and the cold scent of the subterranean world.
It settled onto the ground with a sickening crunch of weathered wood.
The forensic team immediately moved in, cameras flashing, but Quila was already moving toward the wreckage, driven by a visceral need to touch it, to confirm the horrifying reality that stood before her.
Detective Russo moved quickly to intercept her.
“Mrs. Vot, please.
This is an active crime scene.
You can’t touch anything.”
“It is my property,” Quillis stated, her voice flat but unyielding.
Pushing past him, her eyes scanned the mudcaked wreckage.
The forensic technicians exchanged uneasy glances, but stepped back, deferring to the detective.
Circling the buggy slowly, Quila absorbed the decay.
9 years of exposure, and the weight of the earth had warped and distorted it, yet the fundamental shape remained.
Looking at the seating area, she imagined Iva and perched there, their blue and purple dresses vibrant against the black vinyl, their white bonnets crisp in the sunlight.
The image was superimposed over the wreckage, a ghostly presence.
Certainty was needed.
The standard design of the buggies made them nearly indistinguishable to outsiders, but each one bore the unique marks of its owner, the small repairs and modifications made over years of use.
Ignoring the damp earth soaking into her dress, she knelt down to peer at the undercarriage the complex network of springs and braces.
The mud was thickest here, hardened like concrete.
“I need this cleaned,” she said, pointing to the rear axle brace.
Ma’am, we have to process the scene exactly as it is, one of the technicians protested gently.
Russo, Quila said, not looking up.
Clean it.
Russo nodded at the technician.
Do it carefully.
Document everything first.
The technician used a fine brush and a spray bottle of water to slowly loosen the hardened mud.
The process was agonizingly slow.
Quilla remained kneeling, motionless, her gaze fixed on the emerging metal.
And then she saw it.
It wasn’t a manufacturer’s mark.
It was a weld, a rough, uneven seam of metal where the brace had fractured and been repaired.
There.
Quiller reached out, her finger hovering just above the weld.
“My husband Ephraim, he did this the summer before.”
Her voice faltered.
“The brace broke when he hit a wash out on the lower road. He was not skilled with the welding torch the English use, but he borrowed one. He was proud of the repair, though it was ugly.”
It was a detail so specific, so intimate that it could not be mistaken.
A detail that had never been included in the original police report because who would have thought to mention an ugly weld?
Russo knelt beside her, examining the mark.
He looked at Quila, his expression grim.
“You’re sure?”
“It is theirs.”
The confirmation brought no relief, only a profound, crushing weight.
The buggy in the mineshaft was a tombstone, even if it held no bodies.
Russo stood, wiping his hands on his trousers.
He turned to his team.
“All right, we have a positive ID. This is officially the VA cold case. Process everything. I want soil samples from the interior, paint analysis, trace evidence, tear this thing apart.”
He spoke quietly with Quila as the team resumed their work.
The initial search of the mineshaft conducted by the specialized team before the buggy was fully extracted had yielded nothing else.
No human remains, no clothing, no personal items.
The buggy was the only thing in the shaft.
The agonizing question remained sharper now than ever.
If the buggy was here, where were Iva and Elizabeth?
The absence of remains felt like a cruel joke, a denial of closure.
The drive back to the settlement was heavier than the journey out.
The reality of the discovery settled over Quila like a shroud.
The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the valley as they approached the Vault farm.
News of the discovery had spread quickly, likely relayed by Russo to the local sheriff, who maintained contact with the community leaders.
The quiet lanes of the settlement were unusually active.
People stopped their work to watch the cruiser pass, their expressions a mixture of shock, grief, and apprehension.
Upon returning home, the dormant sorrow of the past nine years was violently awakened.
The farm felt emptier than before.
Ephraim had passed away three years prior, his heart broken by the uncertainty.
Quilla was alone with the truth.
That evening, the elders came to her home.
Bishop Yodar and two deacons sat stiffly in her living room, the room furnished with simple hand-crafted wooden furniture.
The air was thick with unspoken tension.
“Sister Quilla,” Bishop Yodar began, his voice grave. “This news—it has troubled the community deeply.”
“It is the truth,” Quilla replied, her hands folded in her lap.
“It is a truth that brings pain and disruption,” the bishop countered.
“For nine years, we have prayed for acceptance. We have sought peace in the will of God. This involvement with the English authorities, this reopening of old wounds—it serves no purpose.”
Quilla looked at him, a spark of defiance igniting in her eyes.
“My daughters were taken. Their wagon was thrown into the earth like refuse. This is not God’s will. This is the work of man. Evil work.”
“And what will you do, sister?” one of the deacons asked, leaning forward. “Will you immerse yourself in the darkness? Will you seek vengeance? That is not our way.”
“I seek answers,” Quilla said, her voice rising. “I seek to know what happened to my children, and I will not stop until I know.”
The bishop sighed, a sound heavy with disapproval.
“We urge you to reconsider. Accept the mystery. Find solace in prayer. Further involvement with the outside world will only bring more sorrow. It will distance you from your faith, from your people.”
The meeting ended with a strained prayer, the words feeling hollow in the face of Quilla’s resolve.
The conflict was clear.
A chasm had opened between her commitment to the traditions of her faith and the desperate primal need of a mother seeking justice.
Isolation defined her now—not just by grief, but by determination.
The community sought to absorb the shock, to smooth over the disruption, and return to the familiar rhythms of their lives.
But for Quilla, that was impossible.
The discovery of the buggy was not an ending—it was a beginning.
The silence had been broken, and the echoes from the shaft demanded a response.
A few days passed in a strange suspended state.
The discovery of the buggy had indeed brought the unwanted attention the elders feared.
Local non-Amish news outlets picked up the story, the sensational angle of the Amish sisters and the abandoned mineshaft proving irresistible.
Reporters began to lurk on the edges of the settlement, their cameras and microphones intrusive and disrespectful.
Disrupted by the constant presence of outsiders, the quiet rhythm of the community frayed, the tension palpable in the air.
Quilla tried to maintain a semblance of normalcy, tending to the farm, preparing meals she barely touched, praying for guidance.
But the image of the wrecked buggy haunted her waking moments and invaded her dreams.
Anxiously, she waited for updates from Detective Russo.
But the investigation moved with agonizing slowness.
The forensic analysis of the buggy yielded little new information.
The years of mud and decay had erased most traces of evidence.
The community remained divided.
Some offered quiet support, bringing food and condolences, their eyes reflecting their own fear and uncertainty.
Others kept their distance, their disapproval evident in their averted gazes and hushed conversations.
Increasingly isolated, Quilla felt caught between the world she knew and the dark mystery she was compelled to unravel.
Then the fragile peace shattered.
It was a Tuesday evening, the air still warm from the day’s heat.
Zilla Hostetler, a young woman from a neighboring farm, was walking home from a quilting circle.
Zilla was 19, the same age Eva had been when she vanished.
She was known for her gentle nature and quick laughter, a bright presence in the community.
The path she took was familiar, a narrow dirt road that wound through the dense cornfield separating the farms.
The corn was high, creating a tunnel of green that muffled the sounds of the evening.
The only light came from the rising moon, casting long, eerie shadows across the road.
Zilla was humming softly to herself when the silence was broken by the sound of an engine approaching fast from behind.
She moved to the side of the road, assuming it was one of the local farmers returning late.
But the vehicle was unfamiliar—a dark, heavy utility vehicle, its headlights blindingly bright.
The vehicle pulled up sharply beside her, gravel spitting from beneath the tires.
Before Zilla could react, the driver’s door flew open, and a man jumped out.
He was large, heavyset, his face obscured by shadows and the glare of the headlights.
He moved with a brutal speed that paralyzed her with fear.
Grabbing her arm, his grip like iron, he violently attempted to force her into the vehicle.
The attack was sudden and savage.
Zilla screamed, the sound swallowed by the dense cornfields.
“You think you’re so pure?” the man growled, his voice rough and laced with bitterness that chilled her to the bone.
“You’re nothing but hypocrites. Get in the truck.”
The smell hit her then—a strong pungent odor of yeast and stale beer clinging to his clothes, mixed with the sour scent of sweat.
Zilla fought back with a desperate, unexpected ferocity.
The terror that had paralyzed her transformed into a surge of adrenaline.
Twisting in his grasp, she kicked wildly at his legs.
Biting down hard on his hand, the taste of blood filled her mouth.
The man roared in pain and surprise, momentarily loosening his grip.
Zilla wrenched her arm free and scrambled backward, stumbling on the uneven ground.
She didn’t look back, sprinting into the dense cornfields, the sharp leaves slashing at her face and arms.
She ran blindly, fueled by terror, the sound of the man shouting angrily behind her echoing in the night.
He pursued her for a few moments, crashing through the cornstalks, but the darkness and density of the field made the chase difficult.
He stopped, cursing violently, then retreated to his vehicle.
Zilla heard the engine roar to life, the tires spinning on the gravel as he sped away, leaving her alone in the suffocating darkness of the cornfield.
She remained hidden for a long time, crouched low to the ground, her body trembling uncontrollably, the silence of the night amplifying the pounding of her heart.
When she finally emerged from the field, she ran the rest of the way home.
The familiar path now transformed into a landscape of terror.
She arrived home hysterical, her clothes torn, her arms covered in scratches.
Terrified by her appearance and frantic story, her parents immediately sent for Quilla.
Quila arrived within minutes.
The scene in the Hostettler farmhouse was chaotic.
Zilla was sobbing uncontrollably, her words tumbling out in a torrent of fear and confusion.
Kneeling beside her, Quila felt her own heart pounding with a sickening dread.
She gently took Zilla’s hands, her calm presence helping to quiet the rising panic in the room.
The community was paralyzed.
The discovery of the buggy and this new attack suggested something far more sinister than a random act of violence.
The threat was not historical buried in the past.
It was immediate, active, and targeted.
The fear that had been simmering beneath the surface erupted into a wave of terror that engulfed the settlement.
The sanctuary they had built was no longer safe.
The attack on Zilla Hostettler shattered any remaining illusion of safety within the Amish settlement.
The following morning, Detective Russo arrived, the atmosphere far more charged than his previous visits.
The elders, who had previously urged caution and non-involvement, were now demanding answers and protection.
Quila found herself in a crucial, if uncomfortable, position.
Zilla, traumatized and distrustful of outsiders, refused to speak directly to Russo.
She clung to Quila, the shared experience of trauma, creating a bond between them.
This made Quilla the intermediary, the bridge between the terrified young woman and the determined detective.
They sat in the hostler’s kitchen, the morning light streaming through the windows, illuminating the stark simplicity of the room.
Gently, Quila coaxed the details of the attack from Zilla, translating her fragmented sentences and emotional responses into a coherent narrative for Russo.
The description of the asalent was vague.
He was English, non Amish, heavy set, rough hands, his face obscured by the darkness and the chaotic nature of the struggle.
But the most distinct details were not visual, but sensory.
The smell, Zilla whispered, her voice trembling.
It was strong, like like the mash left over from brewing.
Sour, yeasty.
Quilla felt a chill despite the warmth of the fireplace, the smell of yeast, and stale beer.
It was a distinct detail unusual in their community where alcohol consumption was strictly regulated.
“What did he say to you, Zilla?” Quila asked, squeezing her hand.
Zilla recounted the words, the phrases laced with bitterness and resentment.
He called me a fraud.
He said we thought we were better, safe.
She looked at Quilla, her eyes pleading for understanding.
He hated us.
He hated who we are.
This suggested a familiarity with the Amish lifestyle, a deep-seated animosity that went beyond a random act of violence.
It wasn’t just an attack.
It was a targeted assault on their identity.
Russo noted everything, his expression unreadable.
He assured the host settlers that patrols in the area would be increased, but the isolation of the settlement made constant surveillance impossible.
The interview concluded.
Russo left, promising to return the next day.
The community was left to grapple with the reality that they were being hunted.
Walking home late that evening, Quilla found the darkness feeling oppressive, menacing.
The familiar path seemed fraught with danger.
Every shadow, every rustle of the wind sent a jolt of adrenaline through her.
She reached her own farm, the house dark and silent.
As she approached the front gate post, something caught her eye that hadn’t been there when she left.
It was a splash of white against the dark wood, an envelope nailed aggressively to the post with a large rusted nail.
Quila’s heart pounded against her ribs.
She scanned the darkness, half expecting the attacker to emerge from the shadows.
The yard was empty.
Approaching the gate post cautiously, she saw the envelope was plain, unmarked.
The fear urged her to leave it untouched, to summon the authorities.
But the need to know was stronger.
Carefully, she pulled the envelope from the nail, the paper tearing slightly.
Inside the opened envelope was a single sheet of paper covered in crude handwritten block letters.
The handwriting was erratic, aggressive.
The message was short, but the impact was devastating.
Stop searching.
They are dead anyway.
Leave the past buried or more will follow.
Quill stared at the words, the breath leaving her body.
It was a direct threat, a confirmation that the attack on Zilla was connected to the discovery of the buggy.
The perpetrator knew who she was.
He was watching her, reacting to her involvement.
A chilling certainty settled over her.
The man who attacked Zilla was the same man who took her daughters.
The evil had a shape now, a voice, a smell.
She took the letter to Russo the next morning.
He examined it carefully, his expression darkening.
“He’s escalating,” Russo said. “The discovery of the buggy spooked him. He’s trying to regain control.”
“It says they are dead,” Quila whispered, the words tasting like ash in her mouth.
“It might be an intimidation tactic,” Russo cautioned, “a way to make you stop looking. We can’t assume it’s true.”
The letter was taken for analysis. Fingerprints, DNA, paper analysis. But Quila knew they would find nothing. The perpetrator had been careful, hiding his tracks for 9 years.
The threat galvanized Quila. The fear was still there, a constant companion, but it was overshadowed by a cold, hard anger. This man could not be allowed to terrorize her community. He could not dictate the fate of her daughters.
The police investigation was moving too slowly, constrained by procedures and the lack of concrete evidence. Quila realized passivity was no longer an option. She had to find answers herself. She had to understand what happened 9 years ago. And she had to start at the beginning.
The threat letter changed everything. It transformed the abstract fear into a tangible danger. But it also ignited a proactive drive in Quila. Waiting for the police to find a needle in a haystack was unacceptable. If the attacker was watching her, motivated by her search, then she needed to understand the terrain he operated on, both literally and figuratively.
Early the next morning, before the sun had fully risen, Quila entered the barn. The scent of hay and leather was familiar, comforting. She hitched her horse, a sturdy Morgan named Bess, to her own buggy. It was smaller than the delivery wagon, lighter, but the rhythmic movements of preparing the tack were the same.
Her intention was to retrace the exact delivery route Iva and Elizabeth took on that fateful day in July 1995. It was a route she hadn’t traveled in its entirety since the disappearance. The memory was too painful, the associations too raw. But now it was necessary.
Packing a small lunch and a jug of water, she left a note for the neighbors who were helping with the farm chores, simply stating she would be gone for the day. No one was told where she was going. The elders would disapprove, and the fear in the community was so palpable that any unusual activity would draw unwanted attention. This was a task she had to undertake alone.
The buggy wheels crunched on the gravel lane as she left the farm. The morning air was cool, the valley still shrouded in mist. Quila guided Bess onto the main settlement road, the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves the only sound in the stillness.
The delivery route was extensive, winding through the settlement and extending to the neighboring English farms and small towns that relied on the Amish for produce and handcrafted goods. Iva and Elizabeth had been making these deliveries for years. They were experienced, capable; the route was safe—or so they had believed.
Methodically, Quila followed the route, visualizing her daughters on the road ahead of her. The first stop was the Miller Farm a few miles down the road. Stopping the buggy at the gate, she looked at the familiar farmhouse. The Millers were still there, older now, their children grown. She didn’t go in, just sat there, trying to see what her daughters had seen, to feel what they had felt.
She continued on, the sun climbing higher in the sky. The landscape shifted from the ordered fields of the settlement to the more rugged terrain of the surrounding area. The edge of the settlement was reached, the boundary marked by a simple wooden sign.
The next stops were the English farms, visiting the locations—some still active, others abandoned. She spoke to the people who were there, the last confirmed sightings of Iva and Elizabeth. She stopped at the Henderson Farm, a large ranch that bordered the foothills.
“Mrs. Henderson,” a kind woman who had always been fond of the Vault sisters, met her at the porch. “Quila, what are you doing out here?” Mrs. Henderson asked, her expression concerned. The news of the recent attack had spread beyond the settlement.
“I am retracing their steps,” Quila said simply. “I need to know if there was anything missed, anything unusual that day.”
Mrs. Henderson sighed, the memory clouding her eyes. “I’ve told the police everything I know, Quila. They stopped here around noon. They seemed happy, cheerful. They were talking about the upcoming barn raising. They left heading toward the general store in town.”
“Did you see anyone else on the road?” Quila pressed. “Any unfamiliar vehicles? Strangers?”
Mrs. Henderson shook her head. “It was quiet, just a normal summer day. I watched them go. They waved.” She paused, the memory painful. “It was the last time I saw them.”
Quila thanked her and continued on. The route led toward the small town of Oak Haven a few miles away. The general store was still there under new ownership. The previous owner, Mr. Gable, had retired and moved away. The new owner knew nothing about the disappearance.
The trail went cold after the general store. Iva and Elizabeth had presumably started the return journey toward the settlement, taking the back road that skirted the edge of the foothills. This was the stretch of road where the abduction likely occurred.
Quila guided Bess onto the back road. It was isolated, narrow, bordered by dense woods on one side and the rising slopes of the foothills on the other. This was the territory that led toward the old mining country, the area where the buggy was found.
She scrutinized the route, her eyes scanning the landscape for anything unusual, anything that might explain how a horse and buggy and two young women could disappear without a trace in the middle of the afternoon.
The road was deserted. The silence was heavy. Stopping the buggy several times, Quila got out to examine the surroundings. She looked for signs of a struggle, remnants of the past. But 9 years of weather and neglect had erased any evidence.
It was late afternoon when she noticed it—a break in the dense foliage on the side of the road bordering the foothills. It was subtle, easily missed if you weren’t looking for it. Stopping the buggy, she got out and pushed through the overgrown brush, the branches scratching at her arms.
Behind the screen of foliage was a barely visible track, an old service road likely used for logging or mining access decades ago. It was overgrown, rutted, but still passable for a vehicle with high clearance. Quila followed the track for a short distance. It led directly into the foothills toward the mining territory.
This was a potential abduction point. It offered isolation, a place where an attacker could lie in wait, hidden from the main road, and it provided a direct route to the mines—a way to transport the victims and the buggy away from the populated areas without being seen.
It was the first tangible piece of the puzzle that fit. It explained the logistics of the disappearance, the absence of witnesses.
Returning to the buggy, Quila’s mind raced. The discovery of the service road didn’t tell her who the attacker was, but it told her how he operated. He was organized, calculated. He knew the terrain. He had planned the abduction.
And if he knew the terrain that well, he was likely local, someone who knew the back roads, the abandoned mines—someone who blended in, yet harbored a deep-seated hatred for the Amish.
The clues were starting to align. The smell of yeast, the anti-Amish sentiment, the knowledge of the local geography. Quila realized she needed to look closer at the outsiders who interacted with the community—the people who lived on the fringes, both geographically and culturally.
Quila’s discovery of the overgrown service road solidified her hypothesis. The perpetrator was someone familiar with the remote geography of the foothills. Coupled with Zilla Hostettler’s testimony, the pungent smell of yeast, and the venomous anti-Amish rhetoric, a specific profile began to emerge.
This wasn’t a random stranger passing through. This was someone rooted in the area, perhaps ex-Amish themselves, and likely involved in an industry related to brewing or fermentation.
The realization forced Quila to confront a difficult path. The answers were not within the safe confines of the settlement. They were outside, in the English world she had always kept at arm’s length.
The next day, the journey to Oak Haven, the nearest non-Amish town, began. Guiding her buggy onto the asphalt streets, Quila felt conspicuous and vulnerable. The noise was jarring—the rumble of engines, the blare of horns, the loud conversations of people rushing past. The modern world felt chaotic, aggressive. She kept her gaze lowered, her hands tight on the reins.
Tying Bess to a hitching post near the center of town, a relic of the past that seemed out of place amidst the modern storefronts, she noted the curious glances her Amish attire drew. She ignored them, focusing on her purpose.
Her first stop was the general store, the same one Iva and Elizabeth had visited on the day they vanished. Although the ownership had changed, it remained a central hub for the local community, a place where gossip and information were exchanged freely.
Entering the store, the bell above the door jingled cheerfully. The air was thick with the smell of coffee and spices. She approached the counter, waiting patiently as the clerk, a young woman with bright pink hair, finished ringing up a customer.
“Can I help you?” the clerk asked, her tone friendly but distracted.
“I am looking for information,” Quila began, her voice quiet but firm. “About people who lived in this area around 1995.”
The clerk looked skeptical. “That’s a long time ago.”
“We have records, but I am interested in anyone known to be hostile toward the Amish community,” Quila continued, pressing on. “Or anyone who might have been ex-Amish.”
The clerk’s expression shifted. The mention of the Amish community in light of the recent news caught her attention. “You’re Mrs. Vault, aren’t you?” Quila nodded.
“I’m sorry about your daughters, and about what happened to Zilla Hostettler. It’s terrible.” She paused, thoughtful. “Hostile toward the Amish—that’s specific. I don’t know anyone like that now, but maybe some of the old-timers.”
She directed Quila to the feed market on the edge of town, a place frequented by the local farmers and ranchers who had been in the area for decades.
Quila traveled to the feed market, a large, dusty warehouse filled with sacks of grain and farming equipment. The smell of hay and molasses was familiar, comforting.
She found the owner, an elderly man named Mr. Abernathy, in the back office. He was gruff, suspicious of outsiders, but Quila’s directness and her connection to the recent events persuaded him to talk.
“Ex-Amish?” Mr. Abernathy scratched his chin, leaning back in his chair. “Not many of those around here—the settlement keeps to themselves—but hostile? Yeah, there was one guy.” He paused, searching his memory. “He used to come in here regularly back in the mid-’90s. Volatile fellow, always complaining. Had a chip on his shoulder the size of a redwood.”
“What was he complaining about?” Quila asked, her heart pounding.
“The Amish,” Mr. Abernathy said emphatically. “Hated them. Said they were hypocrites, frauds. Said he had left a community in another state. Good riddance, I say. He was a nasty piece of work.”
A surge of adrenaline rushed through Quila. This matched the profile.
“What did he do for a living?”
“He was trying to start a brewery,” Mr. Abernathy said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “A small operation out in the industrial area near the foothills. Thought he was going to make a fortune. Failed miserably. Went bankrupt a year or two later.”
A brewery—the smell of yeast, the proximity to the foothills. The timeline matched.
“Do you remember his name?” Quila asked, her voice tight with anticipation.
Mr. Abernathy shook his head. “It was a long time ago. Started with a B, maybe Baxter, Ber—something like that. I don’t remember, but I remember the smell.”
“The smell?”
“Yeah. He always smelled strongly of yeast, like he bathed in the stuff. Unpleasant.”
A chill ran through Quila despite the dusty heat of the warehouse. The clues were converging. A bitter ex-Amish man running a failed brewery near the foothills who smelled strongly of yeast. It was too specific to be a coincidence.
Thanking Mr. Abernathy, she returned to her buggy. The name was still missing, but she had a concrete lead, a direction to focus her search. Identifying the failed brewery was the next step.
And to do that, she needed access to public records. The realization brought a new wave of apprehension. The county records office was in the county seat—a larger town further away, even more chaotic and unfamiliar than Oak Haven.
Navigating the bureaucracy of the English world was a daunting prospect, but Quila knew she had no choice. The path forward led directly into the heart of the system she had always avoided.
The lead from the feed market was the most significant breakthrough since the discovery of the buggy. The failed brewery connected the sensory details provided by Zilla with the geographical location of the disappearance and the psychological profile of the perpetrator.
Now a name was needed. The journey to the county seat was a trial in itself. The distance was too great for the buggy. Quila had to hire a driver, a local man who often provided transport for the Amish community when travel to the English world was unavoidable.
The experience was deeply uncomfortable. The speed of the car, the confinement of the cabin, the noise of the traffic—it all grated on her nerves. They arrived at the county records office, an imposing stone building in the center of the bustling town.
