Pray for Silence (36 page)

“I want to set a trap. Make the killer believe Billy was a witness. To do that, I need access to your farm for a few days. So I can lure the killer here.”

Alma opens her mouth to speak, but William beats her to it. “I will not allow you to put my family in danger.”

“That is too dangerous for Billy,” Alma says simultaneously.

I level a stare at them. “None of you will be in danger.”

William sets down his fork. The look he gives me makes the hairs on my arms tingle. “We are Amish, not dumb farm animals.”

“You know I don’t think that,” I snap.

William bristles. Glancing at his children, he motions toward the living room. “Isaac and Billy, go to your room.”

Alma’s gaze darts from me to her husband. “William . . .”

“Go!” He thrusts a hand toward the door.

Isaac snatches a piece of bread from the basket, and without a word, they flee the kitchen. William gives me an accusing stare. “I will not allow you to come into my home and frighten my children.”

“William, if this wasn’t important, I wouldn’t be here. But I have a killer to catch. I have a responsibility to the people of this town to keep them safe.”

“The killer is an
Englischer,
” William growls. “This is not an Amish matter.”

“The Plank family was Amish,” I counter.

“I cannot help you.” William resumes eating, using his fork and chewing with a little too much vigor.

“If I don’t stop him, he’ll kill again.”

He chews harder, ignoring me.

Frustrated, I look at his wife. “If you’ll just listen to what I have to say.”

“I have heard enough.” The Amish man stands abruptly. “Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers; for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? And what communion hath light with darkness?”

The passage is a doctrine that forbids an Amish person from doing business with outsiders. I heard it many times in my youth. I don’t believe it now any more than I did then.

“Yes, we are two societies,” I tell him. “Amish and English. But we are one town. And this killer doesn’t differentiate between the two.”

Without looking at me, William mutters something in Pennsylvania Dutch.

Alma puts her hands on her hips. “But what of the people who are in danger, William? If it is in our power to keep them safe, perhaps this is the path God would want us to take.”

Her husband brings his hand down on the table hard enough to rattle silverware. “No!”

I’d known the plan would be a hard sell. The principle of separation from the outside world colors every aspect of an Amish person’s reality. My own parents shared a similar view. In this case, I suspect that buried somewhere inside that philosophy, is also fear for his son.

Realizing there’s nothing more I can say, I give William a final look. “The Amish are not the only children of God in this town. Think about that tonight when you’re trying to sleep.”

The level of emotion in my voice surprises me. Disgusted with them, with myself, I head for the door, yank it open, take the steps at a too fast pace to the sidewalk. I’m nearly to the Explorer when I hear my name. I turn to see William coming down the steps. Alma stands just inside the screen door, watching.

William reaches me and stops. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. Then he surprises me by saying, “I will talk to Bishop Troyer.”

I don’t know if that’s good or bad because I have no idea if the bishop will give his blessing. I want to tell him keeping people safe is bigger than this clash of cultures. Because I so desperately need his cooperation, I hold my tongue. “Thank you.”

“Gott segen eich,”
he says, then turns and walks away.

I’m standing at the window in my office, thinking about John Tomasetti when the call comes. I hadn’t expected to learn of William Zook’s decision via telephone, but Bishop Troyer is one of the few Amish who has a phone and uses it. It’s mainly for emergencies, like the time when Joe Yoder fell off the roof during a barn raising and broke his leg. But the bishop is also sort of an acting liaison between the Amish community and the English. When important calls need to be made, they are made to and from the bishop’s home.

“This is William Zook.”

“Hello, William.” Anticipation makes my heart thud dully in my chest.

“Bishop Troyer has given his blessing. I will allow you to use the farm, but that is all.”

My relief is so profound that for a moment, I fumble for words. “I appreciate that.”

“I do not want Billy to be in danger, Chief Burkholder.”

“None of you will be in danger,” I say firmly. “Two of my officers will be taking you and your family to a safe house.”

“I do not understand what that is.”

“A house where you’ll stay while we wait for the killer.”

“No English house,” he says.

I tamp down impatience while my brain scrambles for a solution. “Is there an Amish family you could stay with for a few days?”

He considers that for a moment. “Rachael and Joe Yoder. The storm blew
down some of the pens and chicken coop. It will take Joe and me a few days to make repairs.”

“All right. Two officers will be with you at all times.”

Williams sighs. “So be it.”

Half an hour later, Glock and I are in the shabby-chic warehouse offices of
The Advocate,
Painters Mill’s weekly newspaper. Filled with the smells of paper and print ink, the publisher’s office is a large room crammed full of artsy photos in stainless-steel frames, an antique desk and credenza, several tastefully battered leather chairs and dozens of stacks of newspapers that are taller than me.

Steve Ressler stands behind his desk, his hands on his hips, glancing at his watch every thirty seconds or so. He’s a small, wiry man with red hair and a ruddy complexion that glows like a bad sunburn when he’s frustrated or angry, which seems to be all the time. He’s a hard-driving, type-A personality and always looks as if he’s on the verge of having a stroke.

“I want you to run a special edition of
The Advocate,
” I begin.

“A special edition? That’s kind of expensive. Maybe I could just put something on the Web site. . . .”

“I need both,” I tell him. “A story on the Web site as well as a special edition.”

“Is there some news item I don’t know about, Chief Burkholder?”

“I’m working on something now.” I hand him the bogus press release. “Everything you need to know is there.”

Ressler skims the paper, his red brows knitting. “This is pretty explosive.”

“I’d appreciate it if you kept your source confidential,” I say.

“Of course.” Then Ressler sighs. “I hate to ask this question, Kate, but will I be compensated? Running a special edition is not cheap.”

I give him a wry smile. “As chief of police, I’ve gotten pretty good at squeezing blood out of a stone.”

“Excellent.” His cheeks flush red with excitement. “When do you want me to run it?”

“This afternoon. In time for dinner.”

“Gonna be tight.” He glances at his watch, frowns. “That only gives me a few hours.”

“Can you do it?”

“Yeah, but I’m going to have to hustle. I’ve got some ads and other stories I can use for fill.” He’s thinking aloud now. “I’m going to need to call in a few people. Ad girl. Layout guy. Typesetter. Circulation. Route people.”

I look at my own watch. Almost one
P.M.
“How soon can you get it out?”

“Going to need at least four hours. That’s pushing it.”

“We need it out by five
P.M.
Grocery stores. Bars. Convenience stores. Doctor offices. All of your subscribers.”

Heaving another sigh, Ressler looks at his watch. “Okay, okay.”

“I don’t have to tell you this is strictly confidential, do I, Steve?” I ask. “You can’t tell anyone I was your source. Not your wife. Not even your dog.”

“I don’t have a dog,” he snaps. “Who the hell has time for a damn dog?”

Glock and I hold back grins when we walk out.

Dusk at an Amish home is a special time. Sunlight slants through the windows, washing the rooms in golden light. Dust motes spiral and dance in the glowing shafts. Quiet falls and shadows lengthen. It is a time when the chores are done. The heat of the day is fading to cool comfort. Everyone’s tired and looking forward to the evening meal, conversation, prayer and rest.

It’s strange to walk the rooms of a farmhouse so much like the one I grew up in. Around me the house is so quiet I can hear the breeze hissing through the open windows, the tap of the curtain hem weights against the sills. The occasional creak of a century-old house settling. Sparrows chatter in the maple tree outside.

I’m standing in the kitchen and my memories are keeping me company. Some of those memories are good. There’s laughter. A keen sense of belonging. The kind of security I felt knowing I was part of a family unit. But some of the memories are bad, too. I was introduced to violence in a pretty country kitchen much like this one. That single event forever changed my life and set me on a path I have not veered from to this day.

Despite the peacefulness of the house, an edginess creeps over me. The
kind of dark anticipation you feel right before a storm. The thought that my plan won’t work is a cloud that has shadowed me all afternoon.

I look down at the plain dress, apron,
kapp
and stockings folded neatly in my hands. I haven’t worn traditional Amish clothing for about thirteen years, and it’s disconcerting to contemplate wearing them now. It’s the small, everyday things that take me back. Donning these clothes will be like stepping into a time machine and being thrust back to a time I’m not sure I want to revisit.

The special edition of
The Advocate
went out as scheduled two and a half hours ago. My copy was still warm from the presses when I swung by the diner and picked it up. Steve Ressler did a good job with the information I gave him.

With the apparent suicide of murder suspect Todd Long, everyone believed the Plank case was solved. But in a shocking turn of events,
The Advocate
learned from an anonymous source inside the Painters Mill Police Department that a new witness has materialized. This unidentified witness claims there was an accomplice.

A call to Chief of Police Kate Burkholder netted a stern “no comment.”
The Advocate
has since learned from a source inside the PD that an unidentified Amish boy witnessed the crimes and may be able to identify a second man responsible for the murders of the Plank family. In a videotape obtained from an anonymous source, the boy can be seen looking in a window, ostensibly at the Plank farmhouse on the night of the murders.

When confronted, Chief Burkholder verified the information, but told
The Advocate
that the Amish parents will not allow the boy to speak with the “English” police. “We believe the boy will eventually cooperate and identify an accomplice,” she said yesterday. “Because of obvious safety issues, we’re keeping his identity confidential.”

The Advocate
attempted to locate the Amish parents, but was unsuccessful.

I called dispatch a few minutes ago and was told the phone lines were lit up like Christmas tree lights. The grapevine is abuzz with the news that a killer
lurks somewhere in this peaceful little town. Alone at the Zook farmhouse, I don’t believe the situation will stay peaceful for long.

In the main bathroom, I change into Alma’s clothes. Most Amish do not use buttons or zippers, and I’d forgotten how tedious the pins are. Alma is larger than me, so I have room for the Kevlar vest. It’s uncomfortable and hot, but I know better than to let myself get caught unprepared.

Since the Amish don’t use mirrors, I have a difficult time with my hair and end up using a dozen bobby pins and tucking the loose strands beneath the
kapp
with my fingers. The feeling of déjà vu is overwhelming and strange as I walk back into the living room. I entered the bathroom as a cop; I walked out as the Amish woman I might have been.

Back in the kitchen, feeling conspicuous in the clothes, I pick up my radio. “Skid, are you in position?”

“That’s affirm, Chief. Fuckin’ stinks out here.”

The apt description makes me smile. I positioned him in the barn where he has an unencumbered view of the house, the driveway as well as the back and side yards. “Might be more tolerable in the hayloft.”

“Better vista, too. I’ll head up there now.”

“What about you, T.J.? Any movement?”

“Just me and the mosquitoes.”

Since my Explorer is the only four-wheel-drive vehicle in the fleet, I put T.J. in it and sent him to a small parking area under the Painters Creek Bridge. People go there to fish. It’s relatively close to the farm, yet out of sight from the road. The only thing I don’t like about the location is that he can’t actually see the Zook house, which means we’ll have to rely completely on our radios for communication. But if I call for backup, he’ll be able to get here quickly.

“Keep your eyes open, guys.”

“Roger that,” comes Skid’s voice.

“You think he’s going to show?” T.J. asks.

“I’d hate to have to smell these damn pigs all week.”

All of us know the livestock is the least of our problems. “Let’s hope so.”

I disconnect, and the silence presses down on me. Outside the kitchen window, birdsong is slowly giving way to the night sounds of crickets and frogs. An edgy energy runs like mercury through my veins. But impatience and a lowgrade
anxiety dog me. I’ve never been good at waiting, but I have a feeling I’ll be doing plenty in the next few days. It’s going to be hard because in the back of my mind, I know there’s a high probability my plan will fail. The killer won’t show.

That he’ll kill again . . .

A glance at my watch tells me the newspaper has been in circulation for almost three hours now. I wonder if the killer has read the story. I wonder if he’ll take the bait. If he’ll review the video and identify the face in the window. If he’ll come here to silence the only living witness . . .