“You’re not in any trouble.” I struggle to keep the intensity out of my voice. “I just need to know what happened. I need to know who did this.”
Mose raises his eyes to mine. He looks miserable, embarrassed and scared. “I was walking on the township road. Two guys in a truck stopped and asked me if I needed a ride. I said no.” He drops his gaze to the tabletop and shrugs. “They jumped me.”
“Do you know them?” I ask. “Do you know their names?”
He shakes his head. “I never saw them before.”
“What did they look like?
“I dunno. Englischers.”
“Can you describe them?”
“Not really. They were older than me. In their twenties, maybe. They wore blue jeans. Cursed a lot.”
“What kind of truck? What color was it?” The questions trip over themselves, coming out in a rush.
“Uh, I don’t know. Red, maybe,” he replies. “Not sure what kind.”
I stare at him, aware that my protective instincts have been roused. Not the first time that’s happened since I’ve met these kids. Wanting to protect the innocent is a noble endeavor, but not the smartest frame of mind for a cop. After a while, those kinds of emotions just get in the way.
I look at Mose. The outside corner of his left eyeball is bloodred. The cut on his lip gapes like a tiny screaming mouth. At the very least, he’s going to need stitches. I can’t even imagine the other damage he might have suffered—broken ribs, internal injuries, a concussion. That’s not to mention the psychological harm. I’m appalled and ashamed that someone could do this to a teenage boy, Amish or otherwise. I know it’s stupid, but I feel somehow responsible, as if I should have been able to stop it.
“How did you get those marks on your back?” I ask.
Mose looks everywhere except at me. “Buggy whip.”
“They whipped you?” I can’t keep the incredulity from my voice.
“Ja. It don’t hurt much.”
“Where did this happen?” I ask.
Mose stares at the tabletop. “On the road between Bishop Troyer’s house and ours.”
“How long ago?”
He lifts his shoulder. “I don’t know. An hour or two.”
Shaking my head, I hit my lapel mike and put out a BOLO for a red pickup truck. When I finish, I look at Mose. “What were you doing on the township road?”
His gaze skates away from mine. “Walking.”
“To where?” I ask the question, but I already know the answer.
“Here.”
“You know you were supposed to stay away, don’t you?”
“I know it.” When he looks at me, his expression is so filled with misery that it’s difficult for me to hold his gaze. “I had to come. This is my home. You’ve no right to keep me from it.”
I suspect his covert excursion had more to do with seeing Salome than with a sudden attack of homesickness, but I don’t press him on it. “Is there anything else you can tell me about the men who did this to you?”
Eyes fixed on the tabletop, Mose shakes his head. “They just called me names. Stuff like that.”
I nod, running it through my head. “Where did the buggy whip come from? They were in a truck.”
Mose shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe they got horses at home. Had some tack in the truck.”
A knock sounds at the door. Before I can rise, Samuel answers and two paramedics walk in.
Mose’s eyes widen when he spots them; then he turns his gaze to me. “I don’t want to go with them. I can’t. I want to stay here.”
“You’re injured. You need to get yourself checked out at the hospital.”
“I’m not hurt.”
“Mose—”
“I want to stay here!” Panic flares in his eyes. “Why can’t I just stay here?”
Grappling for patience, I squeeze his arm. “Calm down,” I say, helping him to his feet. “I need for you to be smart about this. Do you understand?”
“I want to stay here.”
“Go with the paramedics. Get yourself checked out. I’ll meet you at the hospital later. Now go.” I nod at the nearest paramedic.
He gives a small nod back, then smiles at Mose. “You ever ridden in an ambulance before, buddy?” he asks.
“No,” Mose mumbles.
“Well then, you’re in for a treat. Come with me and we’ll get you all fixed up.”
Taking a final, lingering look over his shoulder at Salome, Mose lets himself be led out the door.
* * *
I spend three hours at Pomerene Hospital in Millersburg while Mose is X-rayed, scanned, and stitched. I try squeezing him for more information about the perpetrators who beat him. He cooperates but isn’t able to offer anything helpful in the way of identifying the men. A couple of times, I sensed him holding back, but I wasn’t sure so I let it go. In the end, I chalk his reticence up to the fact that he shouldn’t have been out on that road to begin with.
By the time I get him back to Bishop Troyer’s farm, it’s after 6:00 P.M. I was supposed to hook up with Tomasetti for lunch, but somehow the afternoon blew by and we never connected. He assured me he’d call if news came back on the Skoal can, but he hasn’t. Prints are a long shot. Still, I can’t help but be hopeful.
I should go back to the station, type up my report on Mose’s assault, and add it to the growing file of hate crimes against the Amish. I should swing by the house, grab a shower and some food, and empty the trash. Of course, I’m not going to do any of those things.
It’s too early for a drink. That’s not to mention the small fact that I need to be sober if we get a break in the case. Neither of those things keeps me from pulling into the lot of McNarie’s Bar and walking inside.
The place is quiet this evening. I catch McNarie’s eye and take a seat at my usual booth. A moment later, he sets a tray in front of me. Two shots, a Killian’s, and a pack of Marlboro Lights. “You’re becoming one of my best customers, Chief.”
I pick up one of the shot glasses and tap out a cigarette, already anticipating the burn of the booze. “Do me a favor and don’t tell anyone, okay?”
“A closed mouth is one thing that separates a good bartender from a great one.”
“One of many reasons I come here.”
Grinning, he goes back to work.
I down both shots in quick succession. I want another, but I light up instead. The beer is ice-cold and goes down like a cherry slush on a hot day. Around me, the other patrons go about the business of getting drunk. A fat biker in coveralls shoots pool with a skinny guy wearing an FFA jacket. At the bar, an old man with white hair spilling from a John Deere cap sits hunched over a cup of coffee. A long brown cigarette smolders in the ashtray next to his cup. A few booths down from mine, a young couple sits on the same side of the booth, their legs entwined beneath the table, a beer sitting untouched in front of them. They have better things to do than drink.
The sight of the young couple makes me think of Mose and Salome. I still haven’t heard back from the police department in Connersville, Indiana, to verify Mose’s story about his parents. When I do, I’ll ask them to run a cell phone out to the Amish bishop to see if he can fill in any of the blanks about Mose’s adoption.
I don’t want to sit here and analyze why I’m drinking at a time when I shouldn’t be. Of course, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. That’s when I acknowledge the possibility that Tomasetti’s right: I’m too emotionally invested in these kids. I want to think it’s because they’re young and innocent and Amish. But I’ve never been very good at lying to myself. Those kinds of lies make life too easy, and some of us are destined to suffer.
I care about those kids. I think about them too often. I feel connected to them in ways I shouldn’t, because I know sooner or later those emotions are going to come back to bite me. While those feelings extend to all four children, it’s Salome who’s commandeered my heart. Maybe it’s because she reminds me of myself when I was that age—innocent,
impressionable, more vulnerable than she could know, and looking for trouble. I know what it’s like to be ravenous for a life you know you can’t ever have, to want with such fierceness that it hurts, to feel the initial slap when fate doles out that first heaping portion of disappointment.
Salome is in for some heartache, and most of it will be her own doing. Some people—and I’m at the top of that list—never learn to settle for less. It’s all or nothing. We continue butting our heads against brick walls, expecting the bricks to crumble, when most often they remain steadfast.
The Amish community as a whole is the same way—a battle-scarred wall that has withstood centuries of assault—yet their way of life has never faltered. They can be unforgiving of transgressions, but they can also be as welcoming as a mother’s embrace. When there is a fall from grace, it’s usually long and arduous, with a lot of emotional cuts and scrapes along the way. My own fall was fatal in many ways. It cost me a lot—my family, my standing in the community. It killed a part of me I’ll never be able to get back, put me on the path of no return. At the same time, it also opened doors that otherwise would have remained closed and locked down tight. I still had my dreams and hope for the future. I had the drive to achieve them. Those things sustained me when nothing else would.
I want to spare Salome the agonies of my own past, save her from making all the same mistakes I did. I want her to be happy and fulfilled. I can’t help but wonder: Will she find those things with the Amish? The question makes me realize just how much empathy I have for her. It makes me see a parallel I don’t want to see, a connection I don’t want to make.
Raising my beer, I make eye contact with McNarie. He gives me a nod, and I know another round of salvation is on the way. But it’s not going to arrive quickly enough to keep me from confronting a part of my past I haven’t yet faced, a demon taunting me with truths I can no longer avoid.
Salome is only a couple of years younger than the child I would have had if I’d decided not to have an abortion after Daniel Lapp raped me.
“Chief Burkholder.”
I’m so immersed in my thoughts, I didn’t notice the door opening. I didn’t see Sheriff Rasmussen walk in and head my way. Surprise and discomfort take turns punching me when I look up at him. It’s after hours; I have every right to be here. Still, all I can think is, I’m busted.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Sure.” I try to smile, but my cheek muscles feel paralyzed. “You know what they say about drinking alone.”
“Yeah.” Chuckling, he slides onto the seat opposite me. “It’s not nearly as fun as drinking with someone else.”
He smells like cold air and sandalwood. We’re looking at each other, two contenders sizing each other up. He looks comfortable, glad to be here, ready to wind down with a beer. I feel as if I’ve been waylaid.
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
Feeling like an idiot, I snuff out the cigarette. “I don’t.”
“Okay.” He says the word as if he understands. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t.
McNarie crosses to the booth and, without looking at me, sets two more Killian’s on the table between us, then slides a shot glass in front of me. Eyeing the shot glass, Rasmussen picks up his beer, tips it at me, and then drinks. “Bottoms up.”
Feeling only slightly self-conscious, I down the shot. On the jukebox Led Zeppelin’s “Down by the Seaside” gives way to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “That Smell.” The alcohol chooses that moment to kick in. It makes me feel like a train clattering down rickety tracks, heading toward a ravine without a bridge. That’s when I remember I didn’t eat lunch, or dinner. Undulating waves of warmth wash over my brain. I go with it, but when I look up at the television above the bar, it dips left and right.
“Been here long?” Rasmussen asks.
“Too long, probably.” I smile, hoping it’s not as crooked as it feels.
“Been there, done that.”
I doubt that, too, but I nod. “Any word on the rifle or the Skoal can?”
“Tomasetti thinks we still might hear something today. He’s been on the phone with the lab up there, pushing them pretty hard.”
“I guess that means we probably shouldn’t drink too much.”
He looks at the three spent shot glasses in front of me and chuckles. “Guess that depends on your definition of ‘too much.’”
“Good point.”
He glances at his watch, shrugs. “Getting kind of late anyway. Don’t know if those lab people up there work overtime.”
“They do,” I say. “Especially if Tomasetti is pushing for something he wants.”
“He’s good at pushing, that’s for sure.”
An awkward silence ensues. I look toward the bar. McNarie is drying glasses, frowning at me. I frown back, look down at the bottle of beer in front of me, pick it up and drain it.
“You play pool, Chief?”
I glance at Rasmussen. He’s staring at me intently, the way men do sometimes when they’re thinking there’s a possibility they might get lucky, and I think, Uh-oh. I’ve met him only half a dozen times in the year he’s been sheriff. He’s got a good reputation. Good cop. Honest. Single. He’s attractive, in a boy-next-door kind of way. When I look into his eyes, I don’t see much in the way of baggage. Not like Tomasetti anyway. It’s one of many things that binds us, makes us so compatible. Sometimes I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. It just is.
“I’m not very good at it,” I reply, enunciating each word carefully to keep from slurring them.
“You’re probably better than you think.”
“No, I really suck. Honest.”
Smiling, he nods toward the pool table at the rear. “I’ll bet you ten bucks you can beat me.”
“You could throw the game to win the bet.”
“Twenty bucks, and I promise not to cheat.”
The next thing I know, he’s pulling me from the booth. I’m aware of his hand, large and hot and damp. The crisp, musky smell of his aftershave. My head is spinning like a top. Shit. But I let him haul me to the pool table.
He shoves a cue at me, then proceeds to rack the balls. “You break, Chief.”
Having been a cop in a large metropolitan city, I’ve spent a good bit of time in bars just like this one. I’ve consumed more alcohol than I like to admit. I’ve even played a few games of pool. But it’s one pastime I never mastered. I take a moment to chalk the tip of the cue. Leaning forward, I set my hand on the felt and line up.
“Might help if you do it this way.” Rasmussen comes up beside me, nudges me aside. Bending, he demonstrates. “Like this. Keep your hand steady.”
“Okay.” He steps back, and I imitate him.
“Wait.”
He moves closer. I start to straighten to give him room, but he sets his hand on the small of my back. “Stay put.” Taking my hand, he usurps the cue, wraps his own fingers around it. “Hold it like this. See? You’ll have more control.”
Putting his arm around me, he takes my fingers and sets the cue in my hand. He’s standing too close. His hip is touching mine. I can feel his breath ruffling my hair, his shoulder pressing against mine.
He doesn’t know about Tomasetti and me. Maybe because we’re not exactly official, for a multitude of reasons. I’m debating whether to fill him in, when he whispers, “Take the shot.”
“What are we doing here?” I ask.
“Playing pool.” Mr. Innocent.
“I don’t think this has anything to do with pool.”
“Take the shot,” he repeats. “Go on.”
I thrust the cue forward. The shot feels good, solid. The balls disperse, clicking together and rolling across the felt.
“Not bad for an amateur.”
The baritone voice snaps me away from the game. I look up to see Tomasetti standing ten feet away, watching us the way a pit bull might watch some cocky terrier an instant before he tears it to shreds. I didn’t notice him walk in, and the sight of him standing there shakes
me. The shoulders of his trench coat are wet and sprinkled with melting snow. As I take in his measure, his attention shifts to me. His expression is oddly amused. But his smile is cold, his eyes hard. Baggage, I think.
“Amateur, hell.” Oblivious, Rasmussen leans forward and takes a shot. “Did you see that break? Twenty bucks says I’m about to get my ass kicked.”
“As much as I’d like to bear witness to that, I’m going to have to pass.” Tomasetti tosses the sheriff a cool look. “While you two were in here getting shit-faced, I got a name from the prints on the Skoal can.”
I nearly drop my cue. Game forgotten, I prop it against the wall and cross to him. “What’s the name?”
His expression is still amused, but it’s laced with another emotion I can’t readily identify. Something hard and a little bit cruel. “William Steele.”
I know the name. “He goes by Willie,” I say. “Troublemaker. Small-time hood. Lives in an apartment over the furniture store in town.”
Rasmussen comes up beside me, standing a little too close. “Bigot?”
Tomasetti smiles, but his expression holds not a trace of humor.
Sidling away from Rasmussen, I answer for him. “He beat the hell out of a migrant worker a few years back. Steele was a minor at the time. Seventeen, I think. Judge gave him probation.”
“Looks like Willie didn’t learn his lesson,” Tomasetti says.
“Those prints place him at the scene,” Rasmussen states. “Anything else?”
Tomasetti’s expression isn’t friendly. “CSU picked up a couple of footwear imprints. If we can match one of them to his shoes, it would help seal the deal.” He turns his stare on Rasmussen. “Why don’t you go get the warrant so we can search his place. The chief and I will go pick him up.”
I can tell by Rasmussen’s reaction that he doesn’t appreciate being given orders, especially by an outsider—and in front of me. To his credit, he doesn’t balk, just reaches for his cell phone. “I’ll give Judge Siebenthaler a call and get out there.”
Tomasetti lifts his lip in a poor imitation of a smile, then he turns and strides toward the door.
CHAPTER 15
The cold air slaps me in the face when I go through the door. Tomasetti’s a few strides ahead, and I quicken my pace to catch up with him.