Breaking Silence (18 page)

“A few more years and nothing will surprise her,” he says.

“That’s really jaded, Tomasetti.”

“Reality is jaded.” He shrugs, unapologetic. “One day Citizen Joe’s a born-again Christian; the next he slits his neighbor’s throat over a parking space.”

“Nice.” I’m not going to admit there’s a part of me that agrees with him.

I sip coffee as I type the serial number of the rifle into an NCIC query to see if it comes back as stolen.

“So what are you thinking?” Tomasetti asks after a moment.

“I’m thinking I don’t like this.”

“You mean Coulter as a suspect?”

“I mean any of it.”

I finish typing and look at him over my monitor. He’s wearing a charcoal shirt with a black tie beneath a nicely cut jacket. His trench coat is draped across the back of his chair. I can smell the piney-woods scent of his aftershave from where I sit. He’s a nice-looking man, but not in the traditional sense. He’s got a severe mouth, and his eyes are too intense. But the overall picture of him appeals to me in a way that no other man ever has. I don’t know why, but that scares the hell out of me.

“The kids…” I shake my head. “I felt like the bad guy, taking him in the way we did.”

“You weren’t.”

“I know, but it felt that way.” I hit
ENTER
, sending the query, and lean back in my chair. “He seemed pretty adamant about the rifle.”

“You tell a lie enough times and you start to believe it yourself.”

For an instant, I wonder if he’s talking about more than just Coulter. I’ve told my share of lies. He knows about most of them, but not all. “Anyone ever tell you you’re cynical?”

“All the time.” Leaning back in the chair, he extends his legs out in front of him and stretches. “What else is bugging you?”

I think about it a moment. “When I saw the rifle in the closet, I got this strange feeling that I’d seen it before.”

“You mean recently?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe.” I reach for the memory, but it’s not there, like a hand grasping at smoke. “I was hoping to tie up the Slabaugh case with Coulter, but I don’t think he’s our guy.”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t like him for this or the hate crimes.”

“Where’s all that hard-nosed cynicism, Tomasetti?”

“At the risk of ruining whatever image of me you’ve drawn in your head, I don’t think a cop should let cynicism override good old-fashioned instinct.”

“Now there’s a novel concept.”

“Chief?”

I glance toward the door to see Glock standing there, looking excited. “Please tell me you have good news,” I say.

“A guy out on Township Road 2 remembered seeing a dark-colored pickup truck hauling ass last night near where you found Lambright. Says he noticed because the driver blew a stop sign, just about hit him.”

“Anyone get a plate number?”

He shakes his head. “Witness says he was moving too fast.”

“What about a description of the driver?”

“Don’t know. T. J.’s talking to the guy now.”

“Any word on Lambright’s condition?” Tomasetti asks.

“Broken ribs. Broken nose. Hypothermia. Emergency doc says someone worked him over good.”

“Just for being Amish,” I mutter. “Sons of bitches.”

“Maybe the truck will pan out,” Glock says.

I’m not as optimistic. “Run all blue and black pickup trucks, Ford and Chevy, registered in Holmes and Coshocton counties,” I say to Glock. “Run the drivers through LEADS, see if we get anything interesting.”

“I’m on it,” he says, and disappears down the hall.

I feel like breaking something, but there’s nothing handy, so I look at my computer screen to see if anything has come back on the rifle. Of course, there’s nothing there yet. The database is huge and queries take time. Something about the rifle niggles at me. Some insignificant memory on the edge of my brain. Something I thought wasn’t important but is. I know I’ve seen that stock before. But where?

I’m in the process of retracing my every step from the day before when it hits me. “Holy shit.” I jump to my feet fast enough to startle Tomasetti. “I think I just remembered where I saw the rifle.”

He arches a brow. “Lay it on me.”

I look at him, my heart pounding. “The Slabaugh place. Yesterday afternoon. In the mudroom.”

“Yesterday? Are you sure?”

“No.” But I am. The more I think about it, the more certain I become. I grab my parka. “Only one way to find out.”

Standing, he reaches for his own coat and sighs. “Cynicism outstrips faith in mankind once again.”

CHAPTER 11

Rain slashes down in sheets when we step out of the station. We hightail it to the Explorer, but we’re dripping by the time we buckle in.

“If you saw the rifle at the Slabaugh place yesterday, how the hell did it get to Coulter’s house?” Tomasetti asks.

I glance at him as I back out of my parking space. “Good question.”

“Are you sure it’s the same rifle?”

“I’m not one hundred percent certain. But it’s old, similar to one my dad used to own, so it caught my attention.” The tires spin on the wet pavement when I hit the gas. “It’s too similar not to check out.”

“Where did you see it?”

“The mudroom. Salome took me into the basement yesterday and I just happened to notice it.” I tell him about the mason jar and the missing cash.

Tomasetti mulls that over. “Any idea when the money was taken?”

“No idea. I sent the jar for latents.”

The windshield wipers wage a losing battle with the deluge as I turn into the Slabaughs’ lane. I park behind a buggy I don’t recognize, and I realize Bishop Troyer has probably asked another Amish family to stay with the children. I wonder if the social worker from Children Services has been in contact yet. I wonder how it went.…

Punching off the headlights, I twist the key and kill the engine. A few yards away, the house hulks, the windows utterly dark, and a strange thread of worry goes through me.

“Kind of early for bed, isn’t it?” Tomasetti asks.

“A lot of Amish farmers are up by four
A.M.
They go to bed early.” Still, I can’t deny the uneasiness slinking up my spine. The place looks deserted.

“I’d never make it as an Amish guy.”

“Yeah, you drink too much.”

“I cuss too much.”

We smile at each other, and I reach for the door handle. “Let’s go wake them up.”

We slosh down the walk to the back porch. Opening the screen door, I rap hard with my knuckles. Around me, the farm is dark and still, imparting a semblance of isolation, as if we’re the last living people on earth.

I’m in the process of knocking a second time when the door swings open. An Amish man with red hair and a full beard thrusts a lantern at me. “Hello?” He blinks owlishly. “Is there a problem?”

I show him my badge and identify myself. “I’m sorry to bother you so late.”

He squints at Tomasetti. “Is this about Solly and Rachael?”

I nod. “Bishop Troyer left you with the children?”

“
Ja.
”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Nicholas Raber.”

“May we come in?”

“Of course.” Bowing slightly, he backs up a few steps.

I enter the mudroom. Vaguely, I’m aware of Tomasetti behind me, and of Raber shuffling toward the kitchen, probably to light another lantern. The potbellied stove is to my left. I slide a mini Maglite from my coat pocket and shine the beam toward the area where I last saw the rifle. A strand of uneasiness ripples through me when I realize it’s not there.

“The rifle’s gone,” I whisper.

“You sure?”

I turn and frown at him. “There’s nothing wrong with my eyesight or my memory.”

He smiles, and I know he’s messing with me. Rolling my eyes, I glance toward the kitchen, where the yellow glow of lantern light spills into the mudroom. Raber stands in the doorway, watching us.

Looking at him, I motion toward the corner where I last saw the gun. “Did you see the rifle that was here earlier?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

Tomasetti comes up beside me and directs his attention to the Amish man. “How long have you been here?”

“Since five o’clock. We fixed the children dinner.” His expression becomes puzzled. “Why are you asking about the gun? Is there something wrong?”

“We’re not sure yet.” I step closer to him. “Is your wife here with you?”

“
Ja.
She’s upstairs.”

“Can you check with her to see if she remembers seeing the rifle?”

He nods, his expression going from puzzled to concerned. “What’s happened?”

“I saw a rifle here earlier,” I say. “Now it’s gone. I need to know where it is.”

“I’ll wake Frannie.” He nods, keeps on nodding. “Frannie cleaned earlier. Maybe she moved it to another place.”

“Thank you.” I pull my cell from my belt and dial Bishop Troyer’s number. He’s one of the few Amish in the area who has a phone he keeps for emergencies. I figure this qualifies.

He answers on the tenth ring, and I remember the phone is in the kitchen. He had to get up and go downstairs to answer.

“
Ja,
” he says grumpily.

“Bishop Troyer, I’m sorry to wake you.”

“Yes, me, too,” he growls.

I tell him about the rifle. “I need to know if you moved it when you were here.”

“No,” he replies. “I didn’t even know it was there.”

“Did your wife move it?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I’ll wake her and ask her.”

“If she did, will you call me right back?”

“Yes,” he says. “But I’m certain she didn’t move it.”

“Thank—”

He hangs up before I can finish. Smiling, I hit
END
and glance at Tomasetti.

“Any luck?” he asks.

I recap my conversation with the bishop.

“You sure you saw the rifle, Kate?”

“I’m sure.”

Raber comes back into the kitchen. “My wife did not see any gun,” he says.

I look at Tomasetti. I can tell from his expression that he’s thinking the same thing I am. Neither of us likes Ricky Coulter for the murders. Did someone know Coulter had worked for Slabaugh and plant the rifle in Coulter’s house for us to find?

I turn my attention back to the Amish man. “Have you had any visitors today?”

He looks confused for a moment, as if the thought had never occurred to him, then slowly shakes his head. “Frannie and I arrived here around five o’clock. We’ve been busy with the children and chores. Supper and prayer and baths. We’ve had no visitors.”

I nod. There’s been a lot of traffic in and out of the house in the last day or so. Almost anyone could have come in and taken it, unnoticed. “Are the children here?”

“Of course they are.”

“Could you go get Mose for me?”

His hesitation tells me he doesn’t want to do it. The Amish are extremely protective of their young, particularly when it comes to outsiders. “Please,” I say. “I wouldn’t ask you to wake him at this hour if it wasn’t important.”

Shaking his head in resignation, Raber turns and starts toward the living room. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Outside, rain pours off the gutters and slaps the ground. It’s so quiet inside, I can hear the hiss of the lantern.

“What the hell is going on?” I whisper.

Across the room, I see Tomasetti looking at the potbellied stove. “Who had access to the house?”

“Almost anyone. A visitor.”

“I sent the rifle to the lab for latents,” he tells me. “Results should—”

Raber bursts into the kitchen. “Mose is gone!”

“Gone?” Tomasetti and I exchange looks. “Where?”

“I don’t know.” The Amish man looks upset. “He’s not in his bed.”

“Any idea where he might be?” I ask.

Raber shakes his head. “I do not know.”

“Does he have transportation?” Tomasetti asks.

“The horses.” He crosses the room, yanks a heavy wool coat off a wooden dowel set into the wall. “I will check.”

Tomasetti stops him. “We’ll take the barn. You go check the other children.”

The man looks undecided for a moment, then his eyes find mine. “Mose and his brothers and sister are my responsibility.”

“I’m sure they’re fine,” I say. “Go check on the others. Agent Tomasetti and I will check the barn.”

“
Ja.
” Jerking his head, he spins and disappears into the darkened living room.

“Let’s go.” I fly into the mudroom, jog to the door, yank it open.

Then we’re outside in the cold, sprinting through the rain. I can hear Tomasetti beside me, cursing. Without moonlight, the nights in Amish country are incredibly dark. There are no streetlamps, no porch lights or glowing windows. We splash through a deep puddle, and I’m soaked from the knees down. Fumbling for the mini Maglite in my pocket, I pull it out, turn it on.

I see the behemoth shape of the barn twenty feet ahead. Concern transforms into an edgy uneasiness when I notice that the door is ajar. We pause before entering, not sure what we might be walking into. I’m aware of Tomasetti next to me, pulling his sidearm. I do the same, keep my finger off the trigger. He goes in first, but I’m right behind him.

Entering the barn is like stepping into a long-buried casket. It’s dark and dank and dusty. I smell the earthy scents of horses and hay, punctuated by the unpleasant tang of the manure and hogs. I sweep the area with the flashlight. I see huge wooden rafters garlanded with gossamer cobwebs. The rails of the fence are dead ahead. I can see the glint of the pigs’ eyes.

“I can’t see shit,” Tomasetti whispers.

“I think the horse stalls are to the right,” I whisper.

We sidle right ten feet, twenty. I’m keenly aware of Tomasetti beside me, the gun in his hand. My own weapon is heavy and cold in mine. I start when I hear movement ahead and direct the beam forward. Two buggy horses look at us through the bars of their stall, chewing hay.

“Horses are here. Mose has got to be around somewhere,” I say.

“Unless he walked into town for a beer.”

Considering my own teenage years, I realize it’s a possibility. “Let’s check the loft.”

“Lead the way.”

I hand the Maglite to Tomasetti. Spotting the loft ladder, which consists of six short timbers nailed to the wall, I look up into the darkness. “Mose!” I shout. “It’s Kate Burkholder.”