Pray for Silence
Authors: Linda Castillo
SILENCE
LINDA CASTILLO
MINOTAUR BOOKS
NEW YORK
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
PRAY FOR SILENCE
Copyright © 2010 by Linda Castillo. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Castillo, Linda.
Pray for silence / Linda Castillo.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-37498-3
1. Women police chiefs—Ohio—Fiction. 2. Amish—Ohio—Fiction. 3. Families—Crimes against—Fiction. 4. Family secrets—Fiction. 5. Amish Country (Ohio)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3603.A8758P73 2009
813'.6—dc22
2009046147
First Edition: June 2010
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my husband, Ernest.
Always.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The creative side of writing a novel is only part of what it takes to get a book published. I have many publishing professionals to thank for bringing this one to fruition. First and foremost, I wish to thank my agent, Nancy Yost, who has a brilliant creative mind and unparalleled business savvy, not to mention a wicked sense of humor. All are very much appreciated.
Thank you to my New York editor, Charles Spicer, whose razor-sharp instincts and editorial genius
always
make the book better.
To my UK editor, Julie Crisp, whose insights, sharp eye for all the details I miss, and undying passion for a good, scary, thriller shine through all the way across the pond.
To Allison Caplin, for bringing your own editorial expertise to the book and helping to keep me on track (a full-time job in itself!).
Thank you to Andy Martin, for the whirlwind trip to four Ohio cities during the pre-launch tour for
Sworn to Silence.
It was great fun, and the wine was fabulous.
To Matthew Shear and Jennifer Enderlin, for taking time out of your busy schedules to have a drink with me in Washington D.C. and chat about the books—thank you.
I’d also like to extend a big thank-you to all the fine folks at Roasters Coffee and Tea Company in Amarillo; you guys have the best COD in the state of Texas and absolutely no idea how much I appreciate it.
To fellow authors and sisters-in-crime Catherine Spangler and Jennifer Miller; thank you for always being there when I need you most.
Last but not least, I’d like to thank my intrepid critique group: Jennifer Archer, April Redmon, Marcy McKay, and Anita Howard, for making Wednesday nights at Jenny’s both productive and fun as hell. You gals are the best!
Three may keep a secret,
if two of them are dead.
—Benjamin Franklin
Officer Chuck “Skid” Skidmore wished he hadn’t indulged in that last cup of coffee. If it wasn’t for the new waitress at the diner, he would have stopped at just one. But damn she was cute. So he’d sat at the counter the entirety of his dinner break and sucked down caffeine like a ten-year-old gorging on Kool-Aid. Brandy obliged by keeping his mug full, and entertaining him with her twenty-something chitchat and a full two inches of jiggling cleavage.
He’d been eating at LaDonna’s Diner every night for two months now, since the chief assigned him the graveyard shift. He hated working nights. He respected the chief, but he was going to have to have a talk with her about getting back on days.
Skid turned his cruiser onto Hogpath Road, a desolate stretch of asphalt bounded by Miller’s Woods to the north and a cornfield on the south side. The cruiser’s tires crunched over gravel as he pulled onto the shoulder. He was reaching for the pack of Marlboro Lights in the glove box when his radio crackled.
“Three-two-four. Are you 10-8?”
Mona was the third-shift dispatcher and his sole source of entertainment—after the diner closed, anyway. She’d kept him from dying of boredom many a night. “Roger that, Dispatch.”
“So did you talk to her?”
“That’s affirm.”
“You ask her out?”
Throwing open his door to keep the smell of smoke out of the cruiser, Skid lit the Marlboro. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“You’re the one who’s been talking about her for the last two months.”
“She’s too young for me.”
“Since when does that make a difference?”
“You’re tying up the radio.”
Mona laughed. “You’re chicken.”
Wishing he’d never told her about his crush on Brandy, he drew on the cigarette. “Whatever.”
“Are you
smoking
?”
He mouthed the word
shit.
“You said you were going to quit.”
“I said I was going to either quit drinking or smoking. I sure as hell ain’t going to do both in the same week.” He sucked in a mouthful of smoke. “Especially when I’m stuck working nights.”
“Maybe the chief’s still pissed about that old lady you roughed up.”
“I didn’t rough her up. That old goat was drunk out of her mind.”
“She was sixty-two years old—”
“And naked as a jaybird.”
Mona giggled. “You get all the good calls.”
“Don’t remind me. The sight of her wrinkled ass has damaged me for life.” He sighed, his bladder reminding him why he’d stopped in the first place. “I gotta take a piss.”
“Like I need to know that.” She disconnected.
Grinning, Skid got out of the cruiser. The crickets went silent as he walked around to the bar ditch. Dry cornstalks crackled in a light breeze. Beyond, a harvest moon cast yellow light onto the tall grain silo and barn roof of an Amish farm. It was so quiet, he could hear the cacophony of frogs from Wildcat Creek a quarter mile to the south. Skid relieved himself and tried not to think about the long night ahead. Yeah, he was going to have a talk with the chief. Get back on days. He’d had enough of this vampire hours shit.
He was zipping up when a distant sound snagged his attention. At first he thought maybe a calf was bawling for its cow. Or maybe a dog had been hit by a car. But when the sound came again, he realized it wasn’t either of those
things. It was a man’s scream. Looking out across the cornfield, he felt the hairs on his nape stand straight up.
Skid rested his hand on the .38 strapped to his hip. He scanned the field beyond where the corn whispered and sighed. Another scream sent a chill scraping up his spine. “What the hell?”
Yanking open the door of the cruiser, he leaned in and flicked on the strobes, then pulsed the siren a couple of times. He hit his lapel mike. “Mona, I’m out here at the Plank farm. I’ve got a 10-88.” They used the ten-code radio system at the Painters Mill PD;
10-88
was the code for suspicious activity.
“What’s going on?”
“Some crazy shit’s screaming his head off.”
“Well that’s strange.” She went silent for a moment. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know, but I think it’s coming from the house. I’m going to check it out.”
“Roger that.”
Back in his cruiser, Skid turned into the long gravel lane that would take him to the house. The Planks were Amish. Generally, the Amish were quiet and kept to themselves. Most were up before the sun and in bed before most folks finished their suppers. Skid couldn’t imagine one of them out this time of night, raising hell. Either some teenager on
rumspringa
—their “running around” time before joining the church—was drunk out of his head, or there’d been an accident.
He was midway down the lane when a figure rushed from the shadows. Skid braked hard. The cruiser slid sideways, missing a man by inches. “Holy shit!”
The man scrambled around the front of the cruiser, hands on the hood, eyes as big as baseballs. Skid didn’t recognize him, but the full beard and flat-brimmed hat told him the guy was Amish. Setting his hand on his .38, Skid rammed the shifter into Park and got out of the cruiser. “What the hell are you doing? I almost hit you.”
The man was breathing hard, shaking harder. In the moonlight, Skid saw sweat glistening on his cheeks, despite the October chill, and he wondered if the guy was high on drugs.
“Mein Gott!”
Skid didn’t understand Pennsylvania Dutch, the Amish dialect, but he
didn’t need to be fluent to know the guy was terrified. He didn’t know what he’d walked into. The one thing he was certain of was that he wasn’t going to let this cagey-looking sumbitch get any closer. As far as he knew, the guy was on crack and armed with a machete. “Stop right there, partner. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
The Amish man put his hands up. Even from ten feet away Skid could see his entire body was trembling. His chest heaved. It was tears—not sweat—that glistened on his cheeks. “What’s your name?” Skid asked.
“Reuben Zimmerman!” he choked.
The Amish man’s eyes met his. Within their depths, Skid saw fear and the sharp edge of panic. The man’s mouth worked, but no words came.
“You need to calm down, sir. Tell me what happened.”
