The Dead Will Tell
Read The Dead Will Tell Online
Authors: Linda Castillo
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Police Procedural
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To all of my readers who have read and loved the books.
Thank you.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m incredibly lucky to make my living doing what I love. And while writing a book is a solitary endeavor, the publishing of a book takes the talent, the passion, and the hearts of many.
I wish to thank the team of publishing professionals at Minotaur Books for always going above and beyond to help me bring the Kate Burkholder series to life: Charles Spicer. Sally Richardson. Andrew Martin. Matthew Baldacci. Jennifer Enderlin. Jeanne-Marie Hudson. Sarah Melnyk. Hector DeJean. Kerry Nordling. April Osborn. David Rotstein. Courtney Sanks. Stephanie Davis. And of course I cannot close without mentioning the late and much-loved Matthew Shear, who is greatly missed by all. My heartfelt thanks to all of you at Team Minotaur!
I’d also like to thank Trisha Jackson, my wonderful editor at Pan Macmillan, for your always brilliant suggestions and editorial expertise. And of course for the lovely tea in Glasgow! It was a true pleasure to finally meet you.
I also owe many thanks to my dear friend and agent extraordinaire, Nancy Yost. You are the voice of reason and the architect of everything brilliant. Thank you for your keen guidance, your unwavering support, and for always leaving me with a smile.
I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the group of women who are my inspiration and partners in crime. You are so much more than a critique group. You are my best friends, my writing sisters, my sounding boards and rabble-rousers, and instigators of all that is fun. I cherish each of you: Jennifer Archer, Anita Howard, Marcy McKay, Jennifer Miller, April Redmon, and Catherine Spangler.
As always, I’d like to thank my husband, Ernest, for being there from the beginning and through all the craziness that is sometimes a writer’s life. I love you.
“Let the dead Past bury its dead.”
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “A Psalm of Life”
PROLOGUE
March 8, 1979
He dreamed of pneumatic sanders flying over the finest burled wood and full-blind dovetail joints chiseled with such precision that you couldn’t see the interlocking pins and tails. He and his
datt
were working on the dry sink his
mamm
had been pining for since spotting a similar one in the antique store in Painters Mill. He couldn’t wait to see her face when they gave it to her—
Fourteen-year-old Billy Hochstetler jolted awake with a start. He wasn’t sure what had wakened him. A noise downstairs. Or maybe the rain hammering against the roof. He lay in the warm softness of his bed, trying to get back to the dream and failing because his heart was pounding and he didn’t know why. He stared into the darkness, listening. But the only sound came from the growl of thunder and the intermittent rattle of the loose spouting outside his window. One of these days he and
datt
were going to get up there with the ladder and fix it.
“Billy?”
He’d just dozed off when his little brother’s whispered voice brought him back. “Go back to sleep,” he groaned.
“I heard something.”
“You did not. Now, go back to sleep before you wake everyone.”
“There are people downstairs.
Englischers
.”
Propping himself up on an elbow, Billy frowned at his younger brother. Little Joe had just turned eight and looked so cute in his too-big nightshirt that Billy had to grin, despite his annoyance at having been wakened. “You’re just afraid of the storm. Scaredy-cat.”
“Am not!”
“Shhh.” Billy chuckled, not quite believing him. “Do you want to sleep in here?”
“Ja!”
The little boy ran to the bed and jumped as if he were diving into the creek for a swim.
As his younger brother snuggled against him, Billy heard it, too. A noise from downstairs. A thud and then the scraping of wood against wood. He looked at Little Joe. “Did you hear that?”
“I told you.”
Rolling, Billy grabbed his pocket watch off the night table and squinted at the glowing face. It was half past three in the morning. His
datt
didn’t rise for another hour. So who was downstairs?
Billy got out of bed and crossed to the window. Parting the curtains, he looked out at the gravel driveway, but there was no one there. No buggy or vehicle. No lantern light in the barn. The workshop and showroom windows were dark.
He grabbed his trousers off the chair. He was stepping into them when the faint murmur of voices floated up through the heat vent at his feet. He and his family generally spoke
Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch
at home. Whoever was downstairs was speaking English. But who would be in their house in the middle of the night?
“Where you going?” Little Joe whispered.
Billy glanced at his brother, who’d pulled the covers up to his chin. “Go back to sleep.”
“I wanna go with you.”
“Shush.” After slipping on a shirt, he opened the door and started down the stairs, already anticipating a big helping of
mamm
’s scrapple. He hadn’t yet reached the base of the stairs when the yellow slash of a flashlight beam played over the wall.
“Datt?”
he called out.
“Mamm?”
The shuffle of shoes against the wood plank floor was the only reply.
He reached the kitchen only to find himself blinded by the beam of a flashlight. He raised his hand to shield his eyes. “Who’s there?”
“Shut up!” A male voice snarled the words.
Shock sent Billy stumbling back. In the periphery of the beam, he got the impression of a man wearing a denim jacket and a knit face mask. Then rough hands gripped his arm and hauled him into the kitchen. “Get over there! On your knees!”
A hammer blow of fear slammed into him when he saw his
mamm
and
datt
kneeling on the other side of the kitchen table, their hands clasped behind their heads. On shaking legs, Billy rounded the table. Who was this Englischer? Why was he here? And what did he want?
No one spoke as he knelt beside his
mamm
. Leaning forward, he made eye contact with his father, hoping the older man could tell him what to do. Willis Hochstetler always knew what to do.
“God will take care of us.” His father whispered the words in Pennsylvania Dutch.
“Shut your mouth!” The man drew a pistol from his waistband and jabbed it at them. “Get your hands up! Behind your head!”
Billy raised his hands, but they were trembling so violently, he could barely lace his fingers.
“Where are the lights?” the man demanded.
“There’s a lantern,” Datt said. “Next to the stove.”
The man strode to the counter, snatched up the lantern, and thrust it at Billy. “Light it.”
Billy jumped to his feet and crossed to the counter. Feeling the man’s eyes on him, resolving to be brave, he pulled the matches from the drawer and lit the mantle. He thought about Little Joe upstairs and prayed to God the boy had fallen back to sleep.
“Give it to me.”
Billy passed it to the man, who yanked it so forcefully, the kerosene sloshed.
“Get back over there and be quiet.”
Billy took his place next to his
mamm,
praying they would just take what they wanted and leave.
A second man entered the kitchen, a flashlight in one hand, a pistol in the other. He was heavily built with blond hair and a bandanna over his nose and mouth. He glared at Billy’s father. “Where’s the cash?”
Billy had never seen his
datt
show fear. But he saw it now. In the way his eyes went wide at the sight of the second gunman. The way his mouth quivered. He knew the fear was not for his own safety or for the loss of the money he’d worked so hard to earn. But for the lives of his wife and children.
“There’s a jar,” his
datt
said. “In the cabinet above the stove.”
Eyes alight with a hunger Billy didn’t understand, the blond man walked to the stove and wrenched open the cabinet door. Pulling out the old peanut butter jar, he unscrewed the lid and dumped the cash on the counter.
Billy watched the money spill out—twenties and tens and fives. At least a month’s worth of sales.
“If you were in need and asked, I would have offered you work and a fair wage,” Willis Hochstetler said.
The blond man didn’t have anything to say about that.
“Mamm?”
Billy jerked his gaze to the kitchen doorway, where Little Joe stood, his legs sticking out from his nightshirt like pale little bones. Something sank inside Billy when he noticed Hannah and Amos and Baby Edna behind him.
“Die kinner.” Mamm
got to her feet.
“Die zeit fer in bett is nau.” Go to bed right now.
“What are you doing?” the blond man turned and shifted the gun to her. “Get back over there!”
But
Mamm
started toward the children. She was so focused on them, she didn’t even seem to notice that he’d spoken.
“Tell her to get down!” The man in the denim jacket shifted the gun to
Datt
. “I mean it! Tell her!”
“Wanetta,” Datt said. “Obey him.”
As if sensing the wrongness of the situation, Baby Edna began to cry. Hannah followed suit. Even Little Joe, who at eight years of age, considered himself a man and too old to cry.
Kneeling,
Mamm
gathered the children into her arms. “Shhh.”
“We’re not fucking around!” The blond man stomped to Billy’s mother and tried to separate her from the children. “Get back over there!”
“They’re babies.” She twisted away from him, put her arms around the children. “They don’t know anything.”
“Mamm!”
Billy hadn’t intended to speak, but somehow the word squeezed from his throat.
“Wanetta.” Datt lurched to his feet.
A gunshot split the air. The sound reverberated inside Billy’s head like a shock wave. Like a bullet passing through water, the concussion spreading in all directions. His
datt
wobbled, an expression of disbelief on his face.
The house went silent, as if they were all trapped inside an airtight jar.
“Datt?”
Billy had barely choked out the word when his father went down on one knee and then fell forward and lay still. Billy held his breath, praying for him to get up. But his
datt
didn’t stir.
The blond man swung around and gaped at the man in the denim jacket. “Why did you do that?” he roared.
The kitchen exploded into chaos. The two men began to scuffle, pushing and shoving. Angry shouts were punctuated by
Mamm’s
keening and the high-pitched cries of the children. A terrible discord echoed through the house like a thousand screams.
Billy didn’t remember crawling to his father. He didn’t notice the warmth of blood on his hands as he grasped his shoulder and turned him over.
“Datt?
”
Willis Hochstetler’s eyes were open, but there was no spark of life. Just pale gray skin and blue lips. “Wake up.” Billy’s hands hovered over the blood on his father’s shirt. He didn’t know what to do or how to help him. “Tell me what to do!” he cried.
But his
datt
was gone.
He looked at the man who’d shot him. “He gave you the money,” he cried. “Why did you do that?”
“Shut up!” The man snarled the words, but the eyes within his mask were wild with fear.
“Let’s get out of here!” the other man yelled.
“Put the money in a bag!”