Sworn to Silence (16 page)

“Why would he do that?”

His gaze drops. “Perhaps he could not abide by
Gelassenheit.
”

Gelassenheit
is a German word that encompasses the Amish spirit and ideals: yielding to God, putting others before yourself, and leading a content and modest life.

I don’t want to believe him; nothing would please me more than for Daniel Lapp to jump out of a closet so I could pump a round into his forehead. But my instincts tell me this man is telling the truth. Another dead end.

I knew coming here was a long shot, but my disappointment is keen. “If Daniel was in trouble, is there somewhere else he would go?” I ask. “Did he have other friends or family he trusted?”

Benjamin shakes his head, his gaze meeting mine. “Why are you asking these questions?”

“I’m following up on some information I received.”

He doesn’t believe me. I see suspicion in his eyes. There’s nothing I can do
about it. “If he shows up, Benjamin, you come get me. Day or night. It’s important.”

He nods.

I start toward the door.

“Is my brother in trouble?” he calls out.

Yanking open the door, I step onto the porch. “We’re all in trouble,” I whisper, and start toward the Explorer.

The scents of vanilla potpourri and yesterday’s garbage greet me when I arrive home. I’m not the world’s greatest housekeeper, but my place is clean and comfortable. After enduring the day from hell I’m unduly glad to be home.

Flipping on the living room light, I toe off my boots and leave them by the door. I shed my coat and toss it on the sofa as I head toward my bedroom. In the hall I unbuckle my holster, setting it and my .38 on the console table. In the bedroom, I kick off my uniform trousers and unbutton my shirt, letting both drop to the floor. The bra comes next and I fling it onto the bed as I pass.

Shrugging into my robe, I shove my feet into slippers and head toward the second bedroom, which is my office. My laptop is ancient, the dial-up painfully slow, but it will get me to OHLEG, the Ohio Law Enforcement Gateway system. Created by the Ohio attorney general, OHLEG is an information network that provides local police agencies access to nine law enforcement databases.

While the computer boots, I go to the kitchen. I should eat something, but food isn’t what I crave. I find the bottle of Absolut in the cabinet above the refrigerator and set it on the table. I toss ice into a tumbler and pour. I know better than to drink alone when my mood is so dark, but I take that first dangerous sip anyway.

The alcohol burns all the way down, but I drain the glass and pour again. The things I saw today hover in the forefront of my mind. Amanda Horner’s savaged body. The agony in her mother’s eyes. Jacob and I digging for the remains of a man I spent half of my life believing I’d killed. I know alcohol won’t solve my problems, but if I’m lucky, it will get me through the night.

Back in my office, I log in to OHLEG. I’m not familiar with the system, but I stumble around until I find what I’m looking for. The search engine is
capable of querying numerous data sources from a single interface. I type in the name: Lapp, Daniel, enter the county and hit Return. I know it’s a long shot, but if he’s been arrested, convicted, fingerprinted or added to a sexual predator list anywhere in the state, I’ll get a hit by morning.

I’m in the kitchen topping off my glass when a scratch at the window startles me. Spinning, I reach for my sidearm only to realize I left it on the console table. A laugh escapes me when I see the orange tabby on the brick sill. I’m no fan of cats, particularly scraggly-looking strays. But this particular cat has skillfully appropriated my compassion. He’s pushy, vocal and has no idea he’s the ugliest thing to hit Painters Mill since Norm Johnston’s mug shot. The cat has been coming around since Christmas. Because he was so damn skinny, I began putting out the occasional bowl of milk. That, of course, led to the occasional bowl of cat food. Tonight, with the temperature hovering around zero, I’m no doubt obligated to bring him inside.

I pad to the back door and open it. The tabby darts in with a burst of cold and looks at me as if to ask “what took you so long?”

“Don’t get used to it,” I mutter.

The cat purrs at the sound of my voice, and I wonder how he can still trust human beings when he’s evidently spent the brunt of his life being neglected and abused by them.

Bending, I pick him up. The animal makes a halfhearted attempt to bite me. I manage to avoid his teeth. Slowly, his body relaxes. He’s little more than skin and bone wrapped in a ratty coat. Making eye contact with me, he meows loudly.

“You’re going to have to settle for milk, pal.”

His ears are jagged from old fight wounds. A scar bisects his mottled nose. The whiskers are missing on one side of his face. A survivor who keeps going despite life’s tribulations. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.

I pour milk into a bowl and refill my tumbler with Absolut. Setting the cat on the floor, I raise my glass. “Here’s to getting through the night.”

Birds chatter like children outside the kitchen window. I’m lost in the chore of baking bread. Above the sink, yellow curtains billow in the breeze. Beyond, the leaves of the maple tree tremble and hiss, revealing their underside, and I know it will storm later. The smells of fresh-cut hay, kerosene from the stove, and warm yeast fill the air. I want to go outside, but as always there’s work to be done
.

I push my hands into warm dough. Bored with bread making, I wish for a radio, but
Datt
has expressly forbidden it. Instead, I hum a tune I heard in the Carriage Shop in town. A song about New York, and I wonder what the world is like beyond the cornfields and pastures of Painters Mill. They are dreams I shouldn’t have, but they are mine and they are secret
.

I sense someone behind me. When I turn, I see Daniel Lapp at the door. He wears dark trousers with suspenders and a gray work shirt. A flat-brimmed straw hat covers his head. He looks at me the way a man looks at a woman. I know I shouldn’t, but I smile
.

“God will not forgive you,” he says
.

That’s when I notice the burgeoning red stain on his shirt. Blood, I realize. I want to run, but my feet are frozen. When I look down, I’m standing in a lake of blood. I see flecks of red on the curtains. Handprints on the counter. Smears on my dress
.

Outside the window, a crow caws and takes flight. I feel Daniel’s breath against my ear. I hear vile words I do not understand
.

“Murderer,” he whispers. “Murderer
.”

I wake in a cold sweat. For an instant, I’m fourteen years old, helpless,
terrified and ashamed. Throwing off the covers, I sit up and put my feet on the floor. My breaths echo in the silence of my bedroom. Nausea climbs up my throat, but I swallow it and slowly the dream recedes.

Sitting on the side of the bed, I put my face in my hands. I hate the nightmare. I hate even more that it still wields the power to reduce me to a frightened adolescent. I breathe deeply and remind myself who I am. A grown woman. A police officer.

As the sweat cools on my body and I rise to dress, I swear to the God I have forsaken—the God who has forsaken me—I will never be helpless or ashamed again.

Farmers begin their day early in Painters Mill. At seven o’clock sharp I stand outside the double glass doors of Quality Implement and Farm Supply and think about the conversation I’m about to have with Donny Beck. The sign on the door tells me the store opens for business at seven
A.M
. Monday through Saturday. Someone is running late this morning. Peering through the glass, I tap with my keys.

A short woman wearing a red smock and a nametag that reads “Dora” smiles at me through the glass. The keys in her hand jingle as she twists the lock. “Morning,” she says. “You’re the first customer of the day.”

I flash my badge. “I need to talk to Donny Beck. Is he here?”

Her smile falters. “He’s in the break room getting coffee.”

“Where?”

“It’s at the back of the store.” She points. “Want me to take you?”

“I’ll find it.” I start toward the rear of the store. I shop here every so often. It’s a nice place to pick up yard stuff like flowers, pots, hand tools. The police department buys tires for city vehicles here. But Quality Implement mostly sells farm supplies. Plowshares. Tractor tires. Fencing. Augers.

The rubber smell of new tires fills my nostrils as I approach the back of the store. I make a left, walking between massive, floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with tires of every shape and size. Ahead, I hear laughter. A door stands open at the end of the aisle. I purposefully arrived at the start of the business day to catch Beck off guard. I want him unprepared so I can gauge his unrehearsed reactions when I ask him about Amanda Horner.

I find Donny in the break room wolfing down a breakfast sandwich from the diner. A petite blonde wearing a Quality Implement smock sits across from him, slurping Coke through a straw. Both young people look up when I enter. The sandwich stops midway to Beck’s mouth. He knows why I’m here.

I give the girl a pointed look. “Can you excuse us?”

“ ’Kay.” She grabs her Coke and leaves the room.

Closing the door behind her, I face Donny Beck.

He swallows hard. “I guess you want to talk to me about Amanda.”

I nod. “I’m Kate Burkholder, Chief of Police.”

“I know who you are. You gave my dad a speeding ticket once.” Rising, he leans over the table and extends his hand. “I’m Donny Beck. You already know that, though.”

I shake his hand. His grip is firm, but his palm is slick with sweat. He seems like a decent young man. A farm boy. Probably uses the money he earns here to fix up his muscle car and raise hell on Saturday night. “When’s the last time you saw Amanda?” I begin.

“The night we broke up. About six weeks ago.”

“How long had you two been seeing each other?”

“Seven months.”

“Was it serious?”

“I thought so.”

“Who broke up with whom?”

“She broke up with me.”

“Why’d she do that?”

“She was going back to college. She didn’t want to be tied down.” He grimaces. “She said she didn’t love me.”

“You get pissed off when she dumped you?”

“No. I mean, I was upset, but I didn’t get mad.”

“Really? Why not?”

He chokes out a sound of denial. “I’m not like that.”

“Did you love her?”

Emotion flashes in his eyes, and he looks down at his half-eaten breakfast sandwich. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

“Were you sleeping with her?”

To my surprise, his face reddens. He gives me a nod.

“She sleep around with anyone else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did you two fight?”

“No.” As if catching himself, his gaze snaps to mine. “I mean we did. Sometimes. But not often. She was pretty easygoing.” He shrugs. “I was crazy about her.”

“Did she have any enemies?”

He shakes his head. “Everyone liked Amanda. She was sweet. Fun to be with.”

“Where were you Saturday night?”

“I went to Columbus with my dad and little brother.”

“What were you doing in Columbus?”

“We went to a basketball game. Special Olympics. My brother’s handicapped.”

“You spend the night?”

“Yeah.”

“Where did you stay?”

“Holiday Inn off of Interstate 23.”

“You know I’m going to check.” I jot everything down.

“It’s okay. We were there.”

“When Amanda told you she didn’t want to be tied down, did you get jealous?”

“No. I mean, a little. Like, when I imagined her going out with other guys. But not like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d never hurt Amanda. Jesus Christ, not like that.” A quiver runs through the last word.

“Like what?”

“I heard . . . what he did to her.”

“Who’d you hear it from?”

“Waitress at the diner said he . . . you know.” Sweat beads on his forehead and upper lip. Wrapping the sandwich in a napkin, he tosses it into the trash. “Makes me sick.”

“I need you to think hard about this, Donny. Is it possible Amanda was seeing someone else?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. She wasn’t guy crazy or anything. Amanda had a level head.”

“So you think she was being straight with you?”

“She said she wanted to stay friends.” He lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “I figured that was a lot better than never seeing her again.” His eyes mist. “Doesn’t matter now. I’m never going to see her again, anyway, am I?”

I shove my notepad into my coat pocket. “Don’t leave town, okay?”

His gaze meets mine. In his eyes I see the kind of pain a twenty-two-year-old farm kid probably can’t fake, and I feel an uncharacteristic need to reassure him.