A Marriage for Meghan (13 page)

“It’s no trouble, but I’m not here right now about some schoolboy with a grudge.” Strickland rubbed one shoulder as though in pain. “A call came in to my dispatcher while we were tied up at the wreck. Seems as though there was trouble at the pizza shop last night.”

Gideon’s chin snapped up “You heard about that already? None of the boys called the police.”

“Mr. Santos called us. One of my deputies stopped there before going off duty. Santos saw the fight in his back lot from a window. He called nine-one-one immediately, but by the time we could respond everybody had gone. My deputy took photos of some tire tracks in the snow. The field wasn’t plowed and salted like the parking lot.”

The bishop swallowed a mouthful of hot coffee, singeing his throat all the way down.

“It was a four-by-four with big, knobby tires.” The sheriff sipped his black coffee carefully.

Gideon gaped. “You can tell all that from tire tracks in the snow?”

“You’d be surprised what clues criminals leave behind. It’s hard to believe we have any unsolved crimes left on the books.” His lips thinned into a smile.

“So most likely they’re the ones who took down my fences too,” murmured Gideon, more statement than question.

“But I didn’t see any truck tracks around the schoolhouse. No tire tracks whatsoever.” The sheriff focused on the bishop with his calm manner.

Gideon stroked his beard like a sage. “That’s why you figured it was a student—someone who got there on foot.”

The lawman didn’t respond to that statement. “I’d like to talk to your sons, Bishop, if they can take some time from their chores. This won’t take long.” But before he got to his feet, James and John strode into the room from the back hall.

“Perfect timing, boys. Good to see you.” Strickland stretched out a hand to shake. “Although I’ve seen you both looking a tad better.”

James pumped his hand. “We spotted your cruiser from the hayloft and thought we’d spare you a trip to the barn.” He carefully settled himself into a chair while John leaned his frame against the counter.

“Does that eye feel as bad as it looks?”

“Nah. Ma gave me a couple of aspirin. I hardly remember it ’cept when I look in a mirror, but shaving will be painful.” James’ chuckle sounded good to his father’s ears.

“I take it the men who jumped you were
Englischers
. Did you recognize any of them?”

James shook his head. “It all happened too fast in the dark. They just started wailing on us. I was so busy trying to protect myself from the next punch that I couldn’t focus on details.”

“What about their truck? They were driving a pickup with big tires. You remember seeing their truck before around town?”

His older son thought for a moment. “I didn’t see any truck at all. They must have parked somewhere else. All I saw in that field were our buggies.” He looked toward his brother, as did the sheriff.

John blushed under their perusal. “Not me either. I recognized no one and saw no vehicles. But I do know they were about our size, not bigger. We could have taken them,” he paused and looked at his father. “If we had wanted to, which we didn’t,” he added hastily. “They all had on those coats to make them blend into the forest during hunting season and blue jeans. They were pretty much dressed exactly alike, the way they say we Amish do.” He and James exchanged a glance.

Sheriff Strickland lifted an eyebrow. “Did they make comments about you being Amish?”

John nodded and repeated the remark about them all looking alike. “And the one guy who kept hitting me in the gut said, ‘You Amish think you’re better than us because you’re holy-holy, but you’re not better. You’re just the same as me—a nobody.’”

Strickland looked from one young man to the other and wrote something in the spiral notebook he pulled from his breast pocket.

“Then the guy punched me here.” John gingerly touched the left side of his face. “And asked, ‘What are ya going to do now, turn the other cheek?’”

“A biblical reference?” the sheriff asked.

John glanced around at the three men staring at him. “
Jah
, I suppose so.”

Strickland turned back to James. “They say anything more to you? Is there anything else you can remember?”

“Just trash talk about ‘you Amish boys are too chicken to fight back.’” James stared at the wall before continuing. “Oh, I do remember something. They didn’t sound like the
Englischers
that live around here. They talked different.”

The sheriff gave an example of an exaggerated Southern accent and asked, “Something like that?”

“Sort of, I suppose.”

Strickland closed his notebook and tucked it back into a pocket. “Thanks, boys. That’ll do it.”

James and John nodded, and then they each grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter and headed back outdoors.

Gideon splayed his fingers across the table. “Sounds as though they’re not from around here. Maybe they are just passing through and we’ll never see the likes of them again.”

The sheriff rose to his feet and shrugged into his coat. “Maybe, but we take assault very seriously. I’ll do everything I can to bring them to justice.”

The bishop blanched. “The Lord will see to justice. You know the Amish like to settle things among themselves. We don’t like lodging complaints against other folks with either the law or the court system.”

“But you didn’t, Bishop. Mr. Santos of the pizza shop signed the formal complaint. He’s not big on his customers getting beaten up by thugs in his parking lot.” He cocked his head to the side.

Gideon stiffened with the unintended implication. “I’m not big on my sons getting beaten up for no reason, I assure you. But those men are probably long gone now. And life can get back to normal around here.”

With one hand on the doorknob, Strickland met his eye. “I hope you’re right, Bishop, but it’s my job to investigate and file a report with the Cleveland office.”

Things seemed to slip further beyond Gideon’s control. “What do you mean?”

“Sounds to me that your sons and their friends were targeted
because
they’re Amish. That puts a whole different spin on things. I’m required to notify the FBI.”

The temperature in the Yost kitchen seemed to drop several degrees despite the blazing wood-burning stove. “You’re calling in folks from the federal government to Shreve, Ohio?”

“Please don’t work yourself up, Bishop. It will be one agent for a consultation. That’s it. The town won’t be swarming with SWAT teams and helicopters by lunchtime tomorrow.”

Gideon rubbed his forehead. “What is a ‘swat team’?”

Strickland reached out and put his hand on the other’s shoulder. “Nothing you need to worry about, I assure you. I’ll be in touch within a few days.”

They shook hands and then the
Englischer
left, his wheels spinning slushy snow as he turned his car around. But Gideon didn’t feel reassured.

What have I done? Without consulting my brethren, I’ve brought the world of English law enforcement to our sleepy little town.

Despite the fact that it wasn’t yet noon, he felt a weary exhaustion that spread all the way down to his toes.

“Consider this a couple days of R & R in the country.”

The director’s words still rankled Special Agent Thomas Mast as he drove south on the interstate, leaving the industrial city of Cleveland and the residential sprawl of suburbia behind. At least it wasn’t snowing, and in February that was always a distinct possibility.

R & R, a real getaway, he could use—maybe a few days of golf in Florida or skiing in upstate New York would be nice. But investigating a religious sect that might be the target of a hate crime? That hardly sounded restful. Some Amish youths got pushed around when they left a pizza parlor and the local sheriff calls the FBI? Not that Thomas liked the idea of people being abused because of their reputation as pacifists, but unfortunately kids could be cruel and thoughtless.
Nobody
grew up without being the recipient of some kind of derision and name-calling. Too tall, too short, too fat, too thin, or skin not the same color as mine? For some, these were reasons to furl a lip. Mast didn’t like it, but until the shrinks discovered a way to change human nature, people usually reached adulthood with a far thicker skin than the one they were born with.

“Exit right, five hundred feet. Prepare to turn left.”
Thomas switched off the irritating British voice of the car’s GPS. He knew from one glance at a map that Route 83 would take him straight to Wooster without this woman warning him about every curve in the road.

This might not be a relaxing getaway, but it certainly was a pretty part of the state. Red-tailed hawks soared over rolling white fields, while sunlight reflected off snow-covered fields. He shaded his eyes to focus on a barn with an ancient clay-tile roof standing against a backdrop of frosted pines. Peaceful. That’s what it felt like on the outskirts of town—a safe place to farm or just raise a family away from big city noise and crime.

Thomas had visited the charming and historic college town of Wooster when he’d played Division III football for Wittenberg University as a defensive back. They had trounced the Wooster College team. But when the bus pulled away from the tree-lined streets with old-fashioned light poles, he’d breathed a sigh of relief. An odd sense of anxiety had followed him around that he couldn’t quite put a finger on. He’d learned from his coach that a large Amish population lived in the area, and Thomas had spotted several bonnet-clad women coming from the grocery store, headed to their buggies. Businesses had erected hitching posts with troughs and water spigots in their back lots.
Hard to imagine in the twenty-first century.
Now, returning as a federal agent three years out of the FBI Academy, it seemed not much had changed.

The idea that thugs were intruding on the nostalgic, time-stood-still world of the Amish soured his stomach. He planned to catch the bad guys, throw their ignorant butts in jail, and then return to his civilized, urban world. He preferred take-out meals from the corner deli, seeing white-sailed regattas on the lake from his condo, and watching Sunday football at a friend’s house with cold beer and spicy chili. His world—neat, orderly, controlled. He knew he would be a fish out of water in Mayberry, R.F.D. But because he was low man on the bureau totem pole, he had to pay his dues, same as every other greenhorn agent.

At least the modern Wayne County Justice Center was a pleasant surprise. And Sheriff Bob Strickland was no anachronistic Andy Taylor. Solidly built, soft spoken, and with a gaze that seemed to absorb every detail at once, the man didn’t even sport the quintessential potbelly overhanging his belt.

“How was the drive down?” asked Strickland once they were seated in his tidy office.

“Good. There was almost no traffic. Pretty countryside out here. It sure hasn’t changed much in seven years.”

“Our Amish citizens would disagree with you. The price of farmland keeps rising, even though the rest of Ohio is in recession with a glut of foreclosures. And we have heavier traffic now that the Amish have become a tourist attraction.”

Agent Mast met the sheriff’s eye. “How do they feel about that? People driving down to stare at them and spy on how they live their lives? Isn’t the whole point to keep themselves separate from the modern world to preserve their rural culture?”

Strickland leaned back in his chair. “True, but things are never that simple. They have to generate cash same as everybody else to pay taxes, medical bills, and purchase whatever they can’t grow, raise, or build themselves. And the vacationers who come buy lots of farm produce, quilts, crafts, and furniture. But each year the number of buggy-vehicle accidents increases.”

Mast frowned, hating the image his mind conjured. “I see some of your highways have been widened with a buggy lane. That’s a great idea.”

“We try to do what we can to help, as much as the Ohio Department of Transportation will pay for.”

Thomas glanced at his watch as subtly as possible. “So you think you have someone targeting your Amish community?” He wanted to direct the conversation to the case he’d been called down for.

“Could be. I want to hear what you think. We’ve had three incidents of malicious mischief and property damage, all done at night. Then two evenings ago, five Amish young men were beaten up pretty badly by creeps with a lot of nasty things to say.” Strickland’s cool blue eyes locked with his. “Pretty mean bunch. I want them caught and thrown into the stockades on the town square.”