The Dead Will Tell (27 page)

He blinks at me, hurt and confusion twisting his features. “But if she was alive, why didn’t she come back?”

“We may never know.” I shrug. “Maybe she suffered a traumatic brain injury. Sometimes those kinds of injuries can affect memory, and in some cases, the patient’s personality. She may not have remembered who she was or even her name.”

“Blue Branson did that to her?” he asks, incredulous. “Forced her and then left her for dead?”

“Yes.”

Next to him, Hannah lowers her head and puts her face in her hands. “She is with God now. At peace. We can take comfort in that.”

The Amish man sets both elbows on the table and looks down at the untouched mug of cider in front of him. “She was alive. All this time.”

“Hoch, I know this is difficult, but there’s more.”

“There’s more than that?” He raises his gaze to mine. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Was your mother with child when she disappeared? Had she mentioned it?”

“With child? No.” He says the word with a defensiveness that tells me he knows where I’m going with this.

“I believe your mother had a child. A daughter.”

“
What?
But … When?” Making a sound of distress, he sets his fingers against his temples and massages. “I have a sister?” He raises his head. My heart twists when I see a tremulous smile on his lips.
“A sister.”

“Hoch, it’s more complicated than that. We’re looking for her. We think—”

“Looking for her? You mean the police? But why?”

“I’m sorry, but I think she may be involved with these murders.”

He goes still. “You think she
killed
those three people?” His gaze searches mine. In their depths, I see his mind digging into all the dark crevices of the past. Remembering things he’s been trying to forget. “How old is this woman who claims to be my sister?”

“She’s about thirty-five years old.”

Hannah goes to the sink and begins to wash her mug.

I see Hoch’s mind working over the time frame, and I know he’s doing the math. “So this woman … she could be my half sister.”

“It’s possible.”

“My mother endured much suffering.”

“Yes. You, too.”

From her place at the sink, Hannah looks at me over her shoulder, and I see tears on her cheeks.
“Sell is en shlimm shtoahri.” That is a terrible story.
“It breaks my heart.”

“I’m sorry.” I look at Hoch. “Can I talk to you alone?”

Wariness enters his eyes. At first I think he’s going to refuse; then he nods at his wife. “Leave us for a moment, Hannah.”

She bows her head slightly, dries her hands on a dish towel, and leaves the kitchen.

When we’re alone, I say, “In your statement, you told the police that one of the men threw the lantern down the steps and into the basement, causing the fire that killed the children.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“Blue Branson claims none of them threw the lantern. That they forced all of you into the basement without any light.”

He blinks at me, unspeaking.

That he doesn’t deny Blue’s assertion stirs a small ping of skepticism, of pain—and compassion. “Hoch, I’m not here to lay blame. You were the victim of a crime that night. I just want to make sure I have all the facts and that those facts are correct because it will have a bearing on the case. Is Blue telling the truth about the lantern? Is it possible the lantern was already in the basement and the children lit it?”

“Why does it matter?” he snaps. “They’re with God now.”

“It matters because if Blue was the cause of that fire, he’ll be charged with four additional counts of homicide.”

The Amish man lowers his face into his hands and emits a single sob. “My brothers and sisters … they were frightened of the dark. Mamm kept a lantern on the workbench where she made soap. I lit the lantern. I thought … I thought they would be all right.”

I steel myself against a rolling wave of sympathy. For him. For the children. And for the first time, I’m fully cognizant of the guilt he must have felt all these years. “It was an accident, Hoch. The kids may have panicked and somehow knocked it over.”

“It’s my fault. If I hadn’t left them … they’d still be alive. I’ve prayed for God’s forgiveness. He has given me comfort. Still, those little ones are gone because of me.”

“You couldn’t have foreseen what happened. You did your best, and that’s all any of us can do. It was an accident. God knows that, Hoch.” The words make me feel like a hypocrite; I’m the last person who has the right to talk to this man about God. Still, I believe the words. “You were trying to save your mother’s life. That was very brave.”

“The children suffered because of me.”

“Because of those men. Not you.”

Hoch hangs his head. He doesn’t make a sound, but tears stream from his eyes. He wipes his face with his shirtsleeve. “I bragged about the money. To the
Englischer.
He was a couple of years older than me, and I … wanted to impress him.” He utters a sad laugh. “I wanted to be cool. Like him. I told him we had jars full of money.”

“Who did you tell?” I ask.

“He’s a government man now. Johnston. He worked for my father for a few weeks. I think he must have told the others.” Pain flashes on his features. “But it was my fault. I was … prideful. That’s not the Amish way.”

I nod, understanding. “You were a kid. You didn’t know someone would act on that information.”

“God punished me. I deserved it.”

“The only people responsible for what happened are Blue Branson and the others.” I reach out and touch his shoulder. “Thank you for telling me what happened. I know it wasn’t easy.”

He raises his head, his cheeks wet. “I hear them sometimes,” he whispers. “When I go out there. I hear them crying for me from the basement.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing.

He blows out a shuddery breath. “What happens next?”

“I’m going to find Ruth Weaver.”

*   *   *

The weight of Hoch’s grief follows me on the drive back to the station. Guilt is always a bad thing, but it’s somehow worse when you’re Amish. It’s times like this when I need Tomasetti most. He’s been on my mind on and off all day, mostly on, despite the fact that I’m fully engaged with the case. I’ve wanted to call him a dozen times, but each time I somehow convinced myself not to. Finally, sitting in my Explorer outside the police station, knowing I’m not going to make it home anytime soon, I hit the speed dial for our home number.

He answers with his usual, “Hey, Chief.”

“Things are heating up with this case,” I tell him. “I just wanted to let you know … I’m not going to make it home tonight.”

“Everything all right?”

I recap the events of the day, and I hear him sigh on the other end of the line. I consider telling him about my plan to stake out Blue Branson’s place tonight, but I don’t want to worry him, so I don’t mention it.

“You’ve had a busy day.”

“Yeah.”

“For a moment there, I thought maybe you were avoiding me.”

“I was, but now that I’m talking to you, I can’t imagine why.”

He laughs. “I’m going to have to think about that one.”

From my place at the wheel, I watch T.J. pull up in his usual parking slot a few spaces down from where I’m sitting and walk into the station. “Tomasetti, this woman has lived off the grid her entire life. She was homeschooled. As an adult, she didn’t get a driver’s license. No credit cards in her name. There’s not a single photo of her I could find. No one knows anything about her.”

“It sounds like her mother’s death put something into motion,” he says. “Maybe before she died, the mother made some deathbed confession that set this woman off. The daughter, distraught and without a support system, took it upon herself to mete out a little payback.”

“What if Ruth Weaver is a result of the rape? What if Wanetta Hochstetler knew it and some part of her hated her daughter for it. What if, over the course of her daughter’s life, Wanetta put her on this path?”

“There is a twisted sort of logic to that.”

“Hatred can take on a lot of different faces.”

“What else do you know about her?” he asks.

“We know she’s armed. Probably bat-shit crazy. Determined.”

“If I were Blue Branson, I’d be looking over my shoulder.”

“He’s in custody.”

In the interminable silence that follows, I groan inwardly because I know he’s just figured out how I’m going to be spending the night. “So when were you going to tell me you’re going to camp out at Blue Branson’s place?”

“I was going to try to avoid that, if possible.”

“And you accused me of not being honest?”

“That’s a different kind of honesty.”

“Goddamn it, Kate.”

“Tell me you wouldn’t be doing the same thing,” I say defensively.

“Aside from that being a bad idea, you don’t have the manpower for that kind of operation.”

“We’re talking about a woman with a .22 revolver she may or may not know how to—”

“Who’s going to be there to cover your back? Pickles? T.J.?”

“Glock.”

“I guess that makes everything all right, then, doesn’t it?” Sarcasm oozes from his every word.

“Tomasetti, I can’t deal with your overreacting every time something dicey comes up with my job. I’m the chief of police. There’s a killer out there, and I know who the target is. Staking out Blue’s place is the best way to stop her, and you know it.”

“What I know is that you should involve the sheriff’s office!”

“And have five cruisers parked in front of Blue’s place? That’s pretty subtle.”

We fall silent. My own words and the anger behind them ring in my ears, and I wonder when we came to this, shouting at each other over the phone. I wonder why I’m so angry. Why I can’t tell him I’m sorry. Maybe because I know he’s right, but I’m going to do this anyway.

“Tomasetti,” I say after a moment.

“I’m here.”

“We have to stop doing this.”

“I know.”

“We need to talk—”

“We need to spend some time together,” he cuts in snappishly.

“When this case is over, I’ll take some time off. We can hang out at the farm and … grill hamburgers and drink wine and listen to the frogs.”

“And fish.”

My anger gives way to a sense of longing so powerful my chest aches. “I’m good at what I do. You’re going to have to trust me. There’s no one else.”

“Who’s going to keep you safe, Kate?”

“Glock’s a good cop. He’s former military and rock solid. We’ll be fine.”

His sigh tells me he’s not assuaged. “Do me a favor and be careful, will you?”

“I always am. I’ll see you in the morning.”

After we disconnect, I realize we didn’t talk about him or how he’s dealing with the release of Joey Ferguson.

CHAPTER 28

A little past midnight, I’m in my office with Glock and T.J. I’ve just briefed them on everything I know about the Hochstetler case and the three recent murders.

T.J. speaks first. “So you think this Ruth Weaver person is going to make a move on Blue Branson?”

I nod. “If we’re right and she’s targeting the people involved in the rape and attempted murder of her mother, she’s got at least one more target.”

“Pretty strong motive,” Glock says.

“Especially if you’re crazy,” T.J. adds.

But Glock caught the open-ended nature of my statement. “You said ‘at least’ one more target. Do you have someone else in mind?”

Rising, I go to the door and close it. Their eyes follow me as I go back to my desk and sit. “Norm Johnston was involved with this group and had previous knowledge of the crimes.”

T.J. gapes at me. “
Councilman
Johnston?”

I tell them about my conversation with Johnston. “He had previous knowledge … to a degree. I sent everything I have over to the prosecutor, and this is something he’s going to have to look at. I don’t know if he’ll bring charges.”

“Even if he didn’t know at the time,” Glock says, “he found out shortly after. He could have come forward then.”

“It’s tricky.” I tell them about the beating Johnston endured. “There was intimidation involved. He was a minor at the time. Still, under Ohio code, that could mean a complicity charge.”

T.J. shrugs. “Hard to believe he kept his mouth shut all these years.”

I look from man to man. “In any case, Johnston could also be in danger from this woman.” I turn my attention to T.J. “I want you to keep an eye on Norm Johnston’s place tonight. Park out of sight. Keep it unobtrusive. Keep your cell and radio handy. Wear your vest at all times.”

“You got it.”

“Glock and I are going to take Blue back to his place and camp out there. Keep Blue visible and see if she bites.”

“Might get kind of dicey if she takes a shot at him through the window,” T.J. says.

No one has anything to say about that.

*   *   *

Glock and I find Blue lying on his cot with his back to the cell door.

“Rise and shine,” Glock calls out as he approaches the cell.

The preacher rolls to a sitting position, a crease from the pillow marring the left side of his face.

“Do not move.” Glock unlocks the cell door and steps into the cell. “Relax and keep your hands where we can see them. All right?”

“No problem,” Blue replies.

I step into the cell, the ankle monitor in my hand. “Roll up your pants on your left leg,” I tell Blue.

Never taking his eyes from mine, he leans forward and rolls up the hem of his slacks. A meaty white calf the circumference of a telephone pole comes into view. When the hem is rolled up to just below his knee, I cross to him and kneel. “I’m placing a GPS monitoring device on your person,” I tell him.

“I see that.” Blue watches me place the monitor around his ankle. “Aren’t those things for house arrest?” he asks.

“Sure. House arrest,” Glock says from his place at the cell door. “Only you’re going to have two armed babysitters. So keep your shit cool. You got that?”

“I got it. Where are we going?”

“Your place.” I roll down the pants leg. “We believe Wanetta Hochstetler’s daughter is going to attempt to murder you.”

“Her
daughter
?” Incredulity rings in his voice.