Separate from the World by P. L. Gaus

puppies.”
    “And they’re not supposed to do that?” Branden asked.
    “Oh, no. Not at all, Professor. Israel is an Anti. He put a stop to those two playing together when Enos declared himself for the Moderns.”
    “But you let them sneak over here?”
    “What’s to let, Professor? They’re only four and five, and it’s a free country, last I checked.”
    It didn’t make sense, Branden thought. Bishop Miller was Old Order Amish and extremely autocratic, but even the Schwartzentrubers would have talked to him, if he had showed up and knocked on their door. Amish people weren’t dug in like the Branch Davidians. They participated in society. They went to town markets. They stopped to talk with strangers. Israel should have come to the door. Enos should at least have turned around to speak with him.
    But it had been the same at Israel’s farm as it was at Enos’s. These two families were barricaded in their houses, not even answering the door. And the store Israel ran? That was locked, contrary to Willa Banks’s intuition.
    So the split in Andy Miller’s district wasn’t the crisis that had caused Enos to rebuff him on the porch. The new bishop wasn’t just telling his people to withdraw from the world. There was something else behind this silence.
    Willa watched him think it through and said, “If you want to know what’s going on out here, you need to talk to some of the kids.”
    Branden asked, “Are Mattie and Albert over here, now?”
    Willa finished her beer, crushed it flat on the coffee table, and said, “Naw. They’re probably back home by now.”
    The professor eased out of Willa’s disgusting chair and said, “Willa, can you show me? Show me where they play?”
     
     
    They skirted the south edge of the strawberry patch and entered the woods on a little trail. The path was difficult to see, so Branden allowed Banks to lead and followed her deeper into the trees. As soon as they were out of sight of her trailer, they found a little shoe.
    Farther down the winding trail they found a boy’s denim waistcoat. Willa gave it a puzzled look.
    The trail crested a ridge and dropped at an angle down to a stream. There a knit skull cap was floating in a pool, and Branden charged ahead.
    On the other side of the stream, the trail rose again, and halfway up the other side, Branden, leading by twenty yards now, found more boy’s clothes scattered on the ground, next to a tangle of black hair.
    Near the hair lay battery-powered hair clippers, half buried in the leaves. Banks bent over to pick up the clippers, but Branden said, “No, Willa. Better leave that.”
    And then they heard a muffled whimper.
    On the other side of an oak tree the size of a house, he found a small Amish girl, bound and gagged. Fully clothed but dirty, she lay prone, struggling against her bindings. Her brow was streaked with blood, some of it having run into her eyes, and her hands were stained with a terrifying crimson.
    When she saw Branden, the little girl froze her eyes on him and watched him fearfully as he knelt beside her. Though the panic in her eyes was apparent, the professor did not speak; her need was too urgent. Instead, he wiped the drying blood out of her eyes and worked to loosen the duct tape over her mouth. She fought him at first, but when she saw Willa Banks coming up the trail, she held herself motionless for the professor. Her eyes were locked on Branden, and they spoke terror.
    Once Branden had her mouth free of the tape, she asked, “Am I safe now?” in a scarcely audible whisper.
    Branden nodded and took a moment to smooth her hair with a gentle palm. He motioned for Banks to work her bindings free as he flipped his cell phone open.
    Banks started fumbling at the girl’s bindings, muttering, “Mattie, Mattie. What have they done to you?”
    Mattie popped her hands free as soon as Banks had her bindings loose. She threw her arms around Banks’s neck and clung to her as if Willa were her last hope to