Breaking Silence (22 page)

My phone jangles, startling me. Expecting some pushy young reporter—or the fire marshal’s office—I glance down at the display. I see Tomasetti’s name and snatch it up, hoping for good news. “Yeah.”

“You sound like how I feel.”

“It’s comforting to know someone else is as miserable as I am.”

“Glad I could help.” He pauses. “Ed Hartzler is dead, Kate. One of the firefighters found his body twenty minutes ago.”

I close my eyes, surprised by the hard twist of dread in my gut. “Damn it.”

“Looks like one of the big timbers fell on him. Probably knocked him unconscious.”

Or pinned him,
I think. Images fly at me. A man trapped, screaming, as the flames cook him alive … Rising abruptly, I grab my parka off the back of my chair. “I’m going to go talk to the family.”

“I already did.”

The words stun me. Notifying next of kin is one responsibility I have never delegated, never shirked in any way. That Tomasetti would do that for me brings forth an unwanted rush of emotion so strong that for a moment I can’t speak.

“Kate? You okay?”

I clench my jaws, stave off the tears waiting at the gate. “How’s his wife?”

“You know. Pretty broken up. But her father’s with her. He was going to try to get the bishop out there.”

“Damn it, Tomasetti, I want this son of a bitch. I think I could kill him with my bare hands.”

“You might just get your chance,” he says. “I think we might have our first break.”

“Solid?” I’m almost afraid to get my hopes up.

“CSU found a can of Skoal at the scene. Hasn’t been there long.”

“Amish kids have been known to sneak dipping tobacco.”

“We questioned them separately and away from their parents. None of them claims the can. If we can lift some latents and we get a hit, we might have a name.”

Mentally, I shift gears, grasp hold of the last shred of optimism. “How long will that take?”

“We couriered it to the lab. Maybe late this afternoon if I call in some favors.”

“Do whatever it takes.”

“You know I will.”

“Any prints on the rifle?” I ask.

“Not even a smudge.”

“Someone was being careful.”

“Maybe.” He sighs. “Glock get anything on the dark pickups?”

“He’s still working on it. Nothing yet.” The phone jingles again. I look down and see all four lines blinking. “I’ve got to go.”

“You want to grab some lunch later?” he asks.

“I’d like that.” I end the call and hit the first blinking light. “Burkholder.”

“Katie.” It’s Bishop Troyer, and his usually unflappable voice is harried. “Mose has been injured.”

Concern steamrolls over me. “What happened?”

“One of the Slabaugh boys rode the horse over to my place. He was very upset. He says Mose has been beaten.”

“
Beaten?
” The news jolts me. “How badly is he hurt?”

“I do not know.”

“Who did it?”

“I do not know. I’m on my way there. I thought you should know.”

My mind spins through what I’ve just heard. “What was he doing at the Slabaugh place, Bishop?” I can’t keep the accusation from my voice.

“I do not know.” I can tell by the guilt in his voice that the bishop knows exactly why Mose was there. “He must have left when I was in town earlier.”

A hundred questions pound at my brain, but there’s no time to ask them now. “I’m on my way.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

CHAPTER 14

My tires send snow flying when I turn into the lane of the Slabaugh farm. The Explorer fishtails when I hit the gas, but I cut the wheel hard, and I don’t slow down until the house is in sight. As I ran out the door of the station, I asked Lois to call for an ambulance. To my dismay, it’s not here yet. Bishop Troyer’s buggy is nowhere in sight; evidently, he hasn’t arrived yet, either.

Jamming the Explorer into park, I fling open the door and hit the ground running. I sprint to the house and burst inside without knocking. Ike and Samuel meet me in the mudroom.

“Chief Katie!” Samuel cries. “Mose is hurt!”

“He’s all bloody.” Ike clings to his older brother’s shirt, crying. “He’s gonna die just like
Mamm
and
Datt.
”

“No one’s going to die,” I tell him.

“But what if he does?” Ike whines.

“Where is he?” Even as I bark out the question, I move past them into the kitchen.

Mose sits slumped in a chair, his elbows on the table. His shirt hangs like a war-torn flag on the back of his chair. I see blood, stark and red against white skin. I wince upon spotting the pink-purple stripes on his back and shoulders. He looks at me, and I steel myself against a recoil. His lip looks like a fat, purple worm that’s been nearly chopped in half by some mean kid. His left eye is swollen. There’s more blood on his chest. Someone worked him over good.

Salome stands over him, pressing a towel to his lip. She’s been crying. Her eyes are red and wet. She glances over at me, but her gaze skitters quickly away. “He needs a doctor,” she murmurs.

I cross to Mose and bend to make eye contact. “How badly are you hurt?” I ask.

He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t answer.

“Mose,” I say, pressing. “I’m here to help. How bad are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” he snaps. “Just … shook-up is all.”

“What happened?” Pulling out the chair next to him, I sink into it and lean close to him. “Come on. Talk to me.”

Mose lowers his head. I look at Salome, aware that her hand is shaking. She drops her gaze. Guilt gouges me when I realize they’re more frightened of me and what I might do than they are of whoever did this.

“You’re not in any trouble.” I struggle to keep the intensity out of my voice. “I just need to know what happened. I need to know who did this.”

Mose raises his eyes to mine. He looks miserable, embarrassed and scared. “I was walking on the township road. Two guys in a truck stopped and asked me if I needed a ride. I said no.” He drops his gaze to the tabletop and shrugs. “They jumped me.”

“Do you know them?” I ask. “Do you know their names?”

He shakes his head. “I never saw them before.”

“What did they look like?

“I dunno.
Englischers.
”

“Can you describe them?”

“Not really. They were older than me. In their twenties, maybe. They wore blue jeans. Cursed a lot.”

“What kind of truck? What color was it?” The questions trip over themselves, coming out in a rush.

“Uh, I don’t know. Red, maybe,” he replies. “Not sure what kind.”

I stare at him, aware that my protective instincts have been roused. Not the first time that’s happened since I’ve met these kids. Wanting to protect the innocent is a noble endeavor, but not the smartest frame of mind for a cop. After a while, those kinds of emotions just get in the way.

I look at Mose. The outside corner of his left eyeball is bloodred. The cut on his lip gapes like a tiny screaming mouth. At the very least, he’s going to need stitches. I can’t even imagine the other damage he might have suffered—broken ribs, internal injuries, a concussion. That’s not to mention the psychological harm. I’m appalled and ashamed that someone could do this to a teenage boy, Amish or otherwise. I know it’s stupid, but I feel somehow responsible, as if I should have been able to stop it.

“How did you get those marks on your back?” I ask.

Mose looks everywhere except at me. “Buggy whip.”

“They whipped you?” I can’t keep the incredulity from my voice.

“
Ja.
It don’t hurt much.”

“Where did this happen?” I ask.

Mose stares at the tabletop. “On the road between Bishop Troyer’s house and ours.”

“How long ago?”

He lifts his shoulder. “I don’t know. An hour or two.”

Shaking my head, I hit my lapel mike and put out a BOLO for a red pickup truck. When I finish, I look at Mose. “What were you doing on the township road?”

His gaze skates away from mine. “Walking.”

“To where?” I ask the question, but I already know the answer.

“Here.”

“You know you were supposed to stay away, don’t you?”

“I know it.” When he looks at me, his expression is so filled with misery that it’s difficult for me to hold his gaze. “I had to come. This is my home. You’ve no right to keep me from it.”

I suspect his covert excursion had more to do with seeing Salome than with a sudden attack of homesickness, but I don’t press him on it. “Is there anything else you can tell me about the men who did this to you?”

Eyes fixed on the tabletop, Mose shakes his head. “They just called me names. Stuff like that.”

I nod, running it through my head. “Where did the buggy whip come from? They were in a truck.”

Mose shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe they got horses at home. Had some tack in the truck.”

A knock sounds at the door. Before I can rise, Samuel answers and two paramedics walk in.

Mose’s eyes widen when he spots them; then he turns his gaze to me. “I don’t want to go with them. I can’t. I want to stay here.”

“You’re injured. You need to get yourself checked out at the hospital.”

“I’m not hurt.”

“Mose—”

“I want to stay here!” Panic flares in his eyes. “Why can’t I just stay here?”

Grappling for patience, I squeeze his arm. “Calm down,” I say, helping him to his feet. “I need for you to be smart about this. Do you understand?”

“I want to stay here.”

“Go with the paramedics. Get yourself checked out. I’ll meet you at the hospital later. Now go.” I nod at the nearest paramedic.

He gives a small nod back, then smiles at Mose. “You ever ridden in an ambulance before, buddy?” he asks.

“No,” Mose mumbles.

“Well then, you’re in for a treat. Come with me and we’ll get you all fixed up.”

Taking a final, lingering look over his shoulder at Salome, Mose lets himself be led out the door.

*   *   *

I spend three hours at Pomerene Hospital in Millersburg while Mose is X-rayed, scanned, and stitched. I try squeezing him for more information about the perpetrators who beat him. He cooperates but isn’t able to offer anything helpful in the way of identifying the men. A couple of times, I sensed him holding back, but I wasn’t sure so I let it go. In the end, I chalk his reticence up to the fact that he shouldn’t have been out on that road to begin with.

By the time I get him back to Bishop Troyer’s farm, it’s after 6:00
P.M.
I was supposed to hook up with Tomasetti for lunch, but somehow the afternoon blew by and we never connected. He assured me he’d call if news came back on the Skoal can, but he hasn’t. Prints are a long shot. Still, I can’t help but be hopeful.

I should go back to the station, type up my report on Mose’s assault, and add it to the growing file of hate crimes against the Amish. I should swing by the house, grab a shower and some food, and empty the trash. Of course, I’m not going to do any of those things.

It’s too early for a drink. That’s not to mention the small fact that I need to be sober if we get a break in the case. Neither of those things keeps me from pulling into the lot of McNarie’s Bar and walking inside.

The place is quiet this evening. I catch McNarie’s eye and take a seat at my usual booth. A moment later, he sets a tray in front of me. Two shots, a Killian’s, and a pack of Marlboro Lights. “You’re becoming one of my best customers, Chief.”

I pick up one of the shot glasses and tap out a cigarette, already anticipating the burn of the booze. “Do me a favor and don’t tell anyone, okay?”

“A closed mouth is one thing that separates a good bartender from a great one.”

“One of many reasons I come here.”

Grinning, he goes back to work.

I down both shots in quick succession. I want another, but I light up instead. The beer is ice-cold and goes down like a cherry slush on a hot day. Around me, the other patrons go about the business of getting drunk. A fat biker in coveralls shoots pool with a skinny guy wearing an FFA jacket. At the bar, an old man with white hair spilling from a John Deere cap sits hunched over a cup of coffee. A long brown cigarette smolders in the ashtray next to his cup. A few booths down from mine, a young couple sits on the same side of the booth, their legs entwined beneath the table, a beer sitting untouched in front of them. They have better things to do than drink.

The sight of the young couple makes me think of Mose and Salome. I still haven’t heard back from the police department in Connersville, Indiana, to verify Mose’s story about his parents. When I do, I’ll ask them to run a cell phone out to the Amish bishop to see if he can fill in any of the blanks about Mose’s adoption.

I don’t want to sit here and analyze why I’m drinking at a time when I shouldn’t be. Of course, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. That’s when I acknowledge the possibility that Tomasetti’s right: I’m too emotionally invested in these kids. I want to think it’s because they’re young and innocent and Amish. But I’ve never been very good at lying to myself. Those kinds of lies make life too easy, and some of us are destined to suffer.

I care about those kids. I think about them too often. I feel connected to them in ways I shouldn’t, because I know sooner or later those emotions are going to come back to bite me. While those feelings extend to all four children, it’s Salome who’s commandeered my heart. Maybe it’s because she reminds me of myself when I was that age—innocent, impressionable, more vulnerable than she could know, and looking for trouble. I know what it’s like to be ravenous for a life you know you can’t ever have, to want with such fierceness that it hurts, to feel the initial slap when fate doles out that first heaping portion of disappointment.

Salome is in for some heartache, and most of it will be her own doing. Some people—and I’m at the top of that list—never learn to settle for less. It’s all or nothing. We continue butting our heads against brick walls, expecting the bricks to crumble, when most often they remain steadfast.

The Amish community as a whole is the same way—a battle-scarred wall that has withstood centuries of assault—yet their way of life has never faltered. They can be unforgiving of transgressions, but they can also be as welcoming as a mother’s embrace. When there is a fall from grace, it’s usually long and arduous, with a lot of emotional cuts and scrapes along the way. My own fall was fatal in many ways. It cost me a lot—my family, my standing in the community. It killed a part of me I’ll never be able to get back, put me on the path of no return. At the same time, it also opened doors that otherwise would have remained closed and locked down tight. I still had my dreams and hope for the future. I had the drive to achieve them. Those things sustained me when nothing else would.