A Prayer for the Night (11 page)

“They see the glitter, those young ones. Sparkle and shine. But it’s false. I know what’s on those TVs, Cal. Glitter to snare the eye, and it’s the eyes that are the windows to the souls of the boys. They want what they see, and nowadays, they see it all.

“So, how do we keep them home, Cal? How do we keep them safe? If they have to see the world, then we must prepare them to see the truth. To see the rust beneath the glitter, before it is too late.

“So, I preach the Word, Cal, let me tell you. They all know what the Good Book says. We preach commitment to the only real thing there is—community. The church as the community of believers. We say to them, Stay! In the name of God, Stay! Forsake the world of golden streamers and glitter stars, where all is false and shallow. Stay, we say. Build a plain and simple life of commitment and community. Serve the Lord where you live. Live the life of sacrifice, devoted to the higher purposes. Live in the light, for God is light. Live in truth, for God is truth.

“And still they have to see the world for themselves, Cal. They don’t know what my words signify until they’ve gotten themselves locked away for a drunken brawl or a stolen car. Alone is where the heart first cries out for touch, for communion, for belonging.

“I tell you the world has a ripping wind, Cal. It tears our children from our arms. They don’t know the danger. We can’t hold them. If they are ripped away, who can save them? If they falter alone, who is to mourn? And it’s the Rumschpringe that lures them into the world. It has been a tradition for as long as any of us can remember, but I rue the day we ever allowed this Rumschpringe among us.

“But, without the Rumschpringe, who can know? Without the going, who can return? How will they know the truth of what we preach? Tell me it’s not wrong, Cal, to let them go out into the world. Oh, if I could only know peace in this.

“Without the training of the church, how can they see the difference between good and evil? I tell you that they can’t, Cal. They can’t see. They have no sight at that age. And what can I do? I am only a bishop. What could I possibly know about the world? I, who have never tasted it, seen it, lived it. In my day, the Rumschpringe was a mild thing. A mere dalliance. ‘How can I know?’ they will say. I was called to be bishop when I was only forty-six. What did I know then? How can a man prepare for such a burden? The children come to me for answers. They want to know what the things mean that they see on television. What they mean, the things that they read in magazines. But what can I know of these choices? What answers can I give? All I can do is uphold the Word and pray that it still has the power to preserve. To guide them when they are away from home. What else can I do?

“And what is happiness? How can a child of eighteen or twenty know what sorrows come streaming in on the winds? How can they see the glitter for what it really is? We say, ‘Marry and raise a family.’ The world says girls, girls, girls, and boys, boys, boys, on every street corner. Free love. Free sex. No commitments. And then it drops them into a lonely hole from which they can never escape. A loneliness that has no balm. Chasing the glitter stars from town to town. When all along they could have lived with real beauty, with God’s family.

“These young ones don’t know what terrible storms there are when they set out in their Rumschpringes. They only know temptation, mistaking it for love. Or thrills, mistaking them for security.

“So, that’s why we’ve had a good Amish boy living here by himself, in a trailer. Surrounded by gadgets. Unspeakably alone. Dead.

“And a gang of kids running wild. Shot and killed. Laid up in the hospital. Young girls pulled into cars by ruffians. Parents with unspeakable grief.

“They need answers, too, these parents. It makes me want to cry out. They see their children drive off, and all I can tell them is to pray. Love them every minute you have, and pray without ceasing. Pray that the world won’t drag them away. Pray that the children turn back and see the truth. Pray, sometimes, that they’ll just make it home tonight, Lord. Pray that the sheriff never comes to your door in the middle of the night with the kind of news that rends your very heart from your chest. Like the news the Schlabaughs got this morning.”

Raber took his hands away from his eyes and found that he had been weeping. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets and moaned. Cal had a handkerchief laid out on the table, and Raber took it gratefully and dried his eyes and blew his nose. He looked up at the professor and shrugged an apology. Shaking his head, he whispered, “I don’t think I can bear the pain, if we don’t find Sara Yoder in time.”

Friday, July 23
4:00 P.M.

 

 

BRANDEN met Ricky Niell in the long hall on the first floor of Millersburg’s cubical red brick jail, and they poked their heads into Interview A and Interview B. In each room, Robertson had set out a pitcher of water and a stack of paper cups. Placards on the gray metal tables admonished NO SMOKING. Each room held precisely four chairs, three at one end of the rectangular tables, and one by itself, at the other end.

In the sheriff’s office, Robertson skipped pleasantries and said, “Look, it’s critical that we get a line on where Sara Yoder is. The rest can wait. We know they’re into drugs, and we can always come back to that later, if we really want an investigation. We don’t know who shot John Schlabaugh, but if it was one of them, they won’t be likely to own up to it today.”

“It could just as likely be Spits Wallace who shot Abe and John, both,” Branden said.

“Or Abe Yoder shot Schlabaugh,” Niell suggested.

Branden shook his head and said, “Not Amish, Ricky. It’s just not possible. Besides, who shot Abe, then? He was shot in the back. It would seem more likely to me that Spits shot one or even both of them.”

Robertson punched his intercom button and said, “Ellie, where’s Deputy Carter?”

“He’s out with Captain Newell,” Ellie answered. “They’re checking bars in Wooster.”

“Did he ever finish watching those videotapes?”

“Yes, and he marked one for you to see. Said it looked like a drug buy, involving John Schlabaugh and a big redheaded guy. Handing over a briefcase.”

Robertson switched off and said, “If that’s true, then the DEA can probably tell us who the redheaded guy is.”

Again, Robertson punched the intercom. “Ellie, who’ve we got in the house right now?”

“Captain Wilsher should be in the squad room, suiting up. Everyone else is out on patrol, or working the cell blocks.”

Robertson stepped down the hall to the squad room, brought Wilsher back, and asked, “What’d you get from Abe Yoder’s phone, Dan?”

Wilsher sat to finish tying a shoe and said, “It’s all just regular calls, I think. Regular text messages. You know, ‘Party tonight,’ that sort of thing, with GPS coordinates.”

“Nothing we can use?” Robertson asked, standing behind his desk.

Wilsher stood up and said, “Maybe one thing. Abe Yoder got a message from John Schlabaugh, using those number codes. It gives a time, 4:30 p.m., almost three weeks ago, now, and a GPS location down east of Columbus.”

“We ought to get that location pinned down,” Branden said.

“I’ve got Stan Armbruster working on that now,” Wilsher said.

“OK, then we’ve got these interviews,” Branden said. “If Ricky and I work in Interview A, then who’ll be in Interview B?”

“That’s Ellie and me,” Robertson said. “I want her to take notes and also record the sessions. I’ve got the night shift dispatcher, Ed Hollings, coming in on overtime to handle the front desk for Ellie. We’ll see each of the kids first, and play it serious and formal. Sheriff ’s investigation. Official capacity. That sort of thing. Then I want to send them in, one at a time, to see you and Ricky.”

“And we operate casually,” Ricky said.

“Right,” said Robertson. “I want them to feel like they can open up to you. So, get them talking. Maybe they’ll think the official interview is over, and relax.”

“What are you going to ask them?” Branden asked.

“Official-sounding questions,” Robertson said. “‘Are you now using, or have you ever used, illegal drugs?’ ‘Do you know of anyone who has used illegal drugs?’ ‘Are you now involved, or have you ever been involved, in an illegal enterprise to grow, make, distribute, or sell illegal drugs?’ Like that.”

Branden grimaced. He studied the sheriff’s stern expression and said, “By the time they get to us, they’ll be too scared to talk.”

“About drugs, yes,” Robertson said. “But I want you to ‘good cop’ them into talking about what we really want.”

“We’re after a location,” Branden said.

Robertson nodded. “Like I said, the other matters can wait. What we need, and I mean right now, is somewhere to look for Sara Yoder.”

“You don’t think the Amber Alert is going to produce any usable results, do you?” Ricky said.

“It’s too soon to tell, but probably not,” Robertson said. “DEA is a better bet for us, because if English took her, it’s likely to be Columbus guys who did it. Because of the drug connection. Once we get something out of these kids, we’ll push DEA for an action. Information. Something.”

Ellie buzzed through on the intercom and said, “They’re here, Sheriff.”

“OK, gentlemen,” Robertson said, and installed Branden and Niell in Interview A.

 

ROBERTSON stepped down the hall to Ellie’s reception counter. He came out through the swinging gate into the vestibule and shook Bishop Raber’s hand. Then he counted heads and said, “You’re short one, Bishop.”

Raber replied evenly, “One of the lads is not in my district. He said he would be here, but . . . ,” and he shrugged.

Robertson looked at the kids, each one in turn, and then said, “Who’s to be first?”

Raber got all of the kids settled on benches in the vestibule and said, “Mary Troyer wants to be first.”

A girl at the end of one of the benches stood up. She was dressed in her Sunday best, with black hose and new black shoes. Her aqua dress was long and pleated, and her bodice was gray. The strings of her black prayer cap fell untied over her shoulders. When she took a hesitant step forward, Robertson told her, using an officious tone, to write her name in a ledger on Ellie’s counter. Nervously, the girl followed Robertson down to Interview B, and Ellie came last, with a steno pad.

In Interview B, down the hall on the left, across from the squad room, Robertson asked Mary Troyer his questions. That done, Ellie showed her into Interview A.

 

WHEN Mary Troyer came into Interview A, she looked at her choice of chairs, and chose, without hesitating, to sit in the near chair, next to Branden and Niell. She sat with straight posture, hands folded in her lap, waiting for Branden or Niell to speak.

Branden said, “I am Professor Michael Branden, and this is Ricky Niell.”

Niell was in street clothes, blue slacks and a white shirt and dark blue tie. His sport coat was hung casually over the back of his chair.

Mary said, “I am Mary Troyer,” and did not question either man’s credentials.

Branden said, “How’d it go with the sheriff, Mary?”

“I don’t know,” Mary said. “OK, I guess. I don’t use drugs anymore. That’s what I told the sheriff.”

“Do you have any questions for us?” Niell asked.

“No. I guess not. We’re trying to find Sara Yoder, aren’t we? I told Mr. Robertson what I could, which isn’t much, really, but I did what I could. Bishop Raber wants me to tell you everything.”

“Have you known Sara long?” Branden asked.

“All my life. She lives near me.”

“Out by Saltillo?” Branden asked casually.

“Just over the hill from there. My house is on 68, out past Gypsy Springs School.”

“I guess you know her pretty well, then,” Branden said. “Do you know all the kids out that way, or just the ones you pal around with?”

“We all go to school together. Or we did. Some of us are out of school now.”

“Sara told us that there are nine kids in John Schlabaugh’s group,” Branden said.

“I wouldn’t say I am part of anyone’s special group,” Mary told Branden.

“No,” Branden said. “You’re right. But some of the kids who live out your way use cell phones now, and Sara told me those are the nine kids who run with Schlabaugh.”

“Well, if that’s what you mean, then yes. But I don’t like drugs. John Schlabaugh wants everybody to like drugs.”

“Well, he did, anyway,” Branden said.

Mary looked at her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry he’s dead. You can believe that, for sure. But, I didn’t mix in with his drugs.”

“Was it just marijuana?” Branden asked.

“At first,” Mary said. “One of the guys got some seeds. Grew some pot. We tried it. I don’t like it. We’re all different, Mr. Branden. I make my own decisions.”

Branden nodded, smiled. “I like the way you said that, Mary.”

“I’m not trying to be square. I just don’t like the way pot makes me feel.”

“Was Sara that way, too?”

“She smoked enough, I guess. Everybody does a little, one time or another, don’t they? Then, John got something new. X or something. I just never got to the point where I liked it.”

“That’s probably Ecstasy, Mary. Did Sara like it?”

“I guess. She likes one of the boys, and he does some Ecstasy. She does, too, I guess. She went to Columbus once with John Schlabaugh. To see about getting some more.”

Ricky sat up straighter and asked, “Do you know where in Columbus?”

“No,” Mary said. “Sara never said. But she seemed worried after that. Like something in Columbus scared her pretty badly. That’s when she started pulling back. Fewer parties. Seemed kind of distracted.”

Branden asked, “Was Sara going to quit the Rumschpringe, Mary?”

“I don’t know. She just seemed more standoffish. Like she was having doubts. But she likes one of the boys, so that probably kept her in it some.”